Le Chevalier de la Toile Blanche

Dark Ages – dark times. He grew up with a sword in his right hand and a shield in his left. He learned to ride, to draw a bow, to throw a spear and signal a charge. It was efficient in it’s simplicity. Black and white. Life and death. His mind rarely ran fallow and boredom wasn’t a concept to him. No time for kicking rocks and skipping stones.

Years of drilling reaped their deadly rewards. He showed promise as a young knight and bested many rivals. The more victories he accrued, the deeper he slipped into a vocation he hadn’t chosen and never questioned.

Soon he owned vast lands and commanded many subjects. He was known as the White Knight – for the white armor he dawned, the white shield he wielded, the intrepid white stallion he rode, and the white death he inflicted upon those in his way.

But now that the knight was giving more orders than he was taking, he began to notice something was amiss. His unflinching obedience to regiment began to falter.

Confused by his waning motivations, the White Knight shed his armor, his weapons, his advisors, and his castle – and took to the streets as a wanderer every day for a year. His search yielded unexpected results.

Instead of a revived sense of self purpose, the White Knight discovered an implacable interest in things he’d never even thought about. What is bark on trees made out of? Why does the wind blow? What is a platypus?

The more the White Knight learned, the more his appetite grew. With every answer, the preexisting truths of his exacting world were subsequently upturned.

Still, he was fascinated by these revelations. It was like exploring vast undiscovered territories – challenging great dragons and wooing exotic princesses. Triumphs he had not know while trampling foes on the field battle.

In his ever expanding search for knowledge, he learned his subjects hated him. He also had never thought about this. So he asked why?

He realized, as the White Knight, he was a terrifying figure. Grain levels low? Farmers to the stocks. A peaceful gathering? Send in the cavalry. The Theatre? No use for such frivolities.

And while this discipline had its merits, he wondered if there was another way.

So he turned from the sword to the pen. His writing was offensively bad at first. But he didn’t care. Every blank page welcomed ink. Every person had a story to listen to. Every object held a story to be told. Each blade of grass – or the dew drop that bent it.

And slowly, his managerial tasks were overtaken by this unorthodox obsession. Poetry. Theatre. Discourse. Philosophy… Theology!?

At this time, the White Knight realized the needed actors for his plays. He needed philosophers to debate and writers to engage. So he began a series of reforms – mandatory literacy, naturally. But what about poetry! Mandatory plays! Mandatory arts! Mandatory debates! Mandatory asking why!! 

While this transformation seemed quite abrupt and ill planned, the people absolutely loved it. For the mundane became lore. The mind a churning engine of the fantastic. Paint lined the streets. Sculpture of nothing and everything emerged on rooftops and in cornfields. Music glistened off the trees and rhymes took flight from tongues.

Unfettered thought was the first step in freedom of the mind. And eventually freedom of the soul.

The gods, however, were less enthusiastic. It wasn’t that people had stopped believing – rather that their expression of belief was far less sanctimonious. In fact, it was often downright ridiculous.

So the gods went to the White Knight and told him to stop the madness. He had the power of fear at the edge of his sword. He should use it.

But the White Knight told them he'd found something greater – the power of inspiration. With it, they could create more than anyone had ever imagined.

Alas, he would not yield to the gods’ wishes. Instead, he recommended they experience his transformation themselves.

This was a mistake. For while he was one of the great knights of the mortal world, he was no match for the gods. They punished him in the most appropriate way they deemed possible and doomed him to defend the white canvas.

Thus, every time a crisp, untouched page welcomed thought, the White Knight would charge out and terrify the thinker. Every time a poet put pen to paper, the White Knight's imposing figure weakened their hands and stifled their hearts.

The White Knight became the thing he wished to destroy – the queller of questions, the murder of machinations, the crusader of clean canvas, the preventer of panache – the bane of the creativity he wished unleashed.

With every victory, his despair reached new lows. To this day, he still brandishes his sword and rears back his great white stallion, shielding blank pages everywhere from thought's first steps.

You’ve seen him. You’ve experienced his charge, cape flowing, leaping from the snowy white surface to challenge your very soul.

But after reading his tale, know this – every word to paper, every line drawn, every key stroke is a triumph over his doomed challenge.

For the Chevalier de la Toile Blanche, that is his only solace.