The Severed Head (Part 2)
So powerless is man, he thought, trying to do anything is a pointless exercise
Did you miss part 1? You can read it below:
The prince did not acknowledge the head’s presence at first, but his indifference soon gave way to curiosity as he had never seen a severed head so close before. After thoroughly inspecting its physical features, the prince started asking the head some questions.
“Are you alive or dead?” he asked.
In a calm and clear voice, the head replied, “I am neither alive nor dead.”
“Are you an automaton then?”
“Indeed I am not, for I am not a machine. Pray tell me, can an automaton converse with you?”
“Will you live forever?”
“I shall live for at least a thousand years.”
“You do not have a body — does this mean you cannot feel joy nor sadness?”
“Human emotions such as love, hate, and anger are mere chemical responses to stimulation from the external environment. I am immune to such response as I lack most organs vital to man.”
“Ah,” said the prince. “I envy you.”
Soon they were speaking of literature, history, and astronomy. When they were done, they moved on to other topics that interested the prince. He was delighted and didn’t think there could be a better arrangement. He now need not expose himself to the outside world with its pain to know of its secrets — for the head could explain everything to him.
One day, the two were talking by the balcony when the conversation turned to the topic of death. After listening to the head explain the meaning and definition of death from a medical, religious, and philosophical points of view, the prince asked:
“Is there an afterlife?”
“That,” the head replied. “I cannot tell you. Nobody has come back from the dead to confirm or deny.”
“If there is no afterlife, what is the point of doing good or bad, or anything at all?”
“There is no meaning to life. One philosopher compared it to an empty existence without purpose.”
The prince fell silent. He felt that although one can try to fill that empty space with meaning and design, man had no more control over his destiny than a lone dandelion seed in the wind. So powerless is man, he thought, trying to do anything is a pointless exercise.
In time, though, the prince began to emerge from his self-imposed exile, just like the necromancer had predicted. Although his life slowly returned to the way it was before the queen’s passing, he still had not recovered the spark in his eyes which once brought his mother much pride and joy. Although the severed head was good at distracting the prince as he healed from grief, it could not comfort him.
The prince no longer felt the crushing heaviness in his heart, but he was equally numb to warmth or happiness. His sentiment, therefore, was in constant state of twilight, stuck somewhere within the boundaries between night and day. It was as if there was just enough light to tell one object from another, but still too dark to see anything with clarity.
One winter day, the prince was out riding alone in the forest when he came across a mob of ravens gathered on the dirt path by the stream. The ravens were so focused on something that they made no attempt to fly away when the prince, curious, approached to see what was going on. He was stunned to see that the flock was gathered around one of their own: a poor bird on its side, its beak parting in short bursts as it struggled to breathe. His comrades stood in mournful silence, and when their friend took his last breath, the flock began to circle around the body in a somber procession: some cawing, others jumping up and down in a funeral dance. This went on for a while until, one by one, the ravens departed. Within minutes, a hawk, who was scrutinizing the ritual unfold, swooped down and snatched the dead bird with its talons.
Something cracked and shattered inside the prince. The dark clouds disappeared from his brows. He turned around and returned to the castle. Upon entering his room, the prince placed the head back in the ebony chest, never to open it again.
