Unmasking Duessa

I wrote this essay as a model for my literature class after we finished Book 1 of Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Some of my students far surpassed this model. This essay also appears in Be Not Faint, the first publication of Kingfisher Books, an imprint of Petra Academy.

I was infuriated.  My lady’s honor had been laughed at by a pipsqueak scoundrel, a no-account ingrate who had spat on the kindness of the noblest of women.  The clothes she washed for him in love, he had scattered around in chaotic piles.  The food she cooked for him he insulted and spat out.  Finally, out of sheer malice he shoved my lady’s small child to the ground and laughed about it.  My anger flashed and so did my sword.  I shouted my fury at the scoundrel, ready to use force to bring his haughtiness to the ground.
I had faced real monsters before, enemies with real claws and red teeth.  I had defeated dragons of Death and serpents of Despair, exposed wizards of Deceit and witches of Delusion.  Like Merlin, I had shone the light of wisdom and virtue into the minds of younger knights.  I wasn’t about to let these insults go unanswered.
I yelled at the fiend, this three-year-old boy, who rarely heard shouting except in play and never directed at him.  I yelled at my young son, and he cried tears of frustration and confusion.

That day wasn’t supposed to be a busy one.  I cleared the morning and rose early to do some quiet reading.  But ten minutes after I settled into my easy chair, my son woke, walked out into the living room, and demanded in no uncertain terms:  “I’m hungry.  Make me pancakes.”
The noise that resulted from his unwillingness to settle for cereal woke his sister, which woke his mother.  I slammed my book on the coffee table and started breakfast.

At breakfast, I scheduled the rest of the day in my head:  weed the garden, make some soup, finish the paperwork on my desk, read the rest of the novel I was working on.  My son was not helpful in this planning.  He didn’t sit still, he didn’t use his fork.  He played with his food and stuck his finger in his milk.  He chewed with his mouth open.  Above all, he didn’t listen.  His mother corrected him.  I corrected him.  His only response was to run his hand across his plate, scattering his food in a salute of defiance:  time for discipline.
The sting of his punishment dissolved when his attention was grabbed by the piles of laundry on the coffee table.  My wife had spent all hours washing these clothes, and filled her evening with folding them into the neat, orderly piles that characterized all this woman’s work.  When she told my son to put his piles away, he walked to the table, looked her in the eyes, and tossed the piles into the airs.
Before I could arrest him for more discipline, he did something that was strictly forbidden:  he knocked his little sister down.  He loved to ram himself into things and pretend he’s crashed his car (what little boy doesn’t).  But he knows that his baby sister is not an acceptable target.  Even before the tossed clothes all hit the ground, he spied his sister gripping the edge of the coffee table to support her stout, but unsteady legs.  He took aim and fired, plowing into her so hard that she landed flat on her back instead of her padded behind.
I saw red and yelled.  I yelled louder than I ever had in that house.  I yelled so loudly that my daughter’s crying was startled into temporary silence.  My son’s eyes filled with tears, then his chest heaved and he sobbed.  These were not the fake tears of tantrum, but bitter tears of sorrow and broken fellowship.
I didn’t comfort him.  Angry at how quickly my peaceful morning of reading had turned into pandemonium, I left my son with his tears and his mother and went to the garden.  I would finish at least one task I had planned.

My anger disappeared as soon as my hand plunged into the dirt to pull weeds.  The familiar vegetal smell reminded me of all the hours I had spent with these plants.  I remembered the hard, sweaty work of clearing the ground, of breaking up sod and mixing in manure.  I remembered rolling the April soil between my thumb and forefinger to check the temperature and moisture, trying to find the right time for planting.  I thought of the weeding and cultivating, of checking for aphids on the young, tender seedlings.
I remembered all of the hard, satisfying work that had gone into making this garden the lush, fruitful haven that it was.  I reached for another weed, and my hand stopped in the air.
What a fool I am! Kneeling there in the dirt of my much-loved garden, I realized that in the last few weeks, I had spent far more time and attention cultivating these silly plants than I had spent cultivating my son.  While he wrestled with his three-year-old passions, I was off coaxing my cucumbers into existence.
My young, inexperienced son was wandering in a dangerous land, a land of responsibilities and commands, of consequences and temptations.  And he was wandering alone, without armor and without wisdom.  Not only did he not have an Una to instruct him, he didn’t even know he needed one.  Like the inexperienced Redcrosse Knight, passions ruled my son; he did things because he felt an overwhelming urge to do them.  He disobeyed passionately; he loved fiercely.  He ran over his sister one moment and doted on her the next.
All his life he had been guided by a pilgrim-knight, young in age but old around the eyes.  This was his companion, his instructor, the one who told him of the Celestial City and the Great King, of the Shalom-Prince who defeated all his enemies under the Tree spattered with His own blood.  When my son showed kindness and bravery, the pilgrim praised him.  When he showed anger or cruelty, the pilgrim upbraided him.  This relationship flourished in love and respect until one mournful day, when the pilgrim turned on my son and vented his full anger.  Then he abandoned my son to his tears.

I rushed out of the Garden, away from Fidelia’s painful lessons.  I ran to my son’s room, where he was playing with his trains.  Kneeling in front of him, I apologized for my anger, for yelling at him.  I asked for his forgiveness, and he gave it with the all the eagerness of a three-year-old.  Then, he asked me to play trains, and handed me his favorite engine.
That day, I didn’t finish any of my planned projects.  I didn’t even finish weeding the garden.  But I did cultivate my son.  I weeded his heart and watered it.  He saw his beloved Pilgrim return in humility to guide him, the Pilgrim whom Arthur had rescued from the Palace of Pride.  Seeing the misshapen and idolatrous nature of his love for his own schedule, the pilgrim-knight returned to his true calling:  to guide his son on the path of virtue and wisdom, the path that leads through valleys of dragons and deceit and up to the gate of the Celestial City.  May I never lose my way again.