The Eyeball

The prince had something in his eye.

Maybe it was an eyelash or maybe it was a piece of lint. Whatever it was, he couldn’t get it out. He’d tried rinsing his eyes with warm water. He’d tried rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. He’d tried blinking his eyes — opening and closing them so rapidly that he got dizzy — and still the foreign matter remained.

“Someone has to get it out,” he said.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” his royal advisor agreed. “But wouldn’t you prefer that I fetched a mirror?”

“Not me, you idiot. I don’t want to touch my eyeball.”

The prince commanded his advisor to find the steadiest pair of hands in the kingdom — someone who could remove the foreign matter without also touching his eyeball. The first and most obvious candidate was the royal physician. Anyone who’d performed as many surgeries as he should have steady hands.

“Do you see it?” the prince asked.

“I do, Your Majesty,” the royal physician confirmed. “Perhaps if I blew very gently —”

“Never mind that, just get it off.”

The royal physician ungloved his hand. With great care he attempted to remove the foreign matter, but still he touched the royal eyeball. The prince flinched, his guards advanced, and the surgeon was put to death.

The consequences of failure became widely known.

The next candidate was the royal seamstress. Anyone who could thread the eye of a needle should have steady hands, but the royal seamstress was reluctant to volunteer. She made excuses and even suggested other candidates, though the royal advisor was deaf to her entreaties. If a person went down the list of candidates, he knew, that person would eventually find the royal advisor’s name, and he was determined to avoid the same fate.

“His Highness may not recall,” the royal seamstress said, “but I cross-stitched the royal baby blanket — the same blanket you carried with you everywhere.”

“Is that so?” the prince replied.

“Yes! I also sewed the queen’s burial shroud. She was such a wonderful person, your mother, always full of —”

“Let’s get on with it. My eye is killing me.”

The royal seamstress took a deep breath. With slow movements she attempted to remove the foreign matter, but still she touched the prince’s eyeball. Her punishment was the same as the royal physician.

The royal advisor continued his search for the steadiest pair of hands. While occupied with his task, he mentioned the prince’s dilemma to an acquaintance who was a professional consort.

“You just want it out?” the consort mused. “I can do that.”

So the royal advisor escorted his friend to the throne room. The consort didn’t seem at all intimidated, he thought, which could only improve her chances of success. She walked right up to the prince and examined his eye.

“Can you do something?” he asked.

The consort smiled and winked. “Nothing could be easier,” she said.

Unfolding a handkerchief, she removed her lipstick. Then, once she’d wiped away the last traces of color, she pressed her lips to the prince’s eye. Everyone in the throne room was too stunned to intervene — they royal advisor, the royal guards, even the prince himself. The consort sucked, forming a seal, and, after a moment, she spat on the floor.

“Who will pay me?” she asked.

“I can see again!” the prince exclaimed.

His guards rushed to his side, but he waved them away. The royal advisor exhaled. He was lucky the prince hadn’t been harmed, he thought, as was his friend, the consort. Turning to her, he quietly voiced his displeasure.

“You could’ve warned me,” he said.

“That?” she retorted. “That was nothing. Pay me double and I’ll suck his brains out.”