Now for something entirely different. Here is the first section of the first chapter of a novel of mine. I am posting this with an invite for your comments....I will only post more if there is (any) interest.
I, THE PAUPER KING
I am the Pauper King. I own nothing. I rule
all the land that I walk. I have no riches, no army, no jewels, no fear. I am
without heir, without peers, no child is mine, no lord bows before me. I am
alone with my counsel, save when asked to rule. I walk, breathing as freemen
do, chained by but duty.
I am the Pauper
king. My countrymen allow me to judge their conflicts, to carry the office of
decision. I own no things, I beg for my meals, once I ask I am willingly
served; simple duty is all the honor needed. I walk out of my shoes, I ask for
another pair; simple duty is all the honor needed. I sleep where the sun sets
me down for the night; simple duty is all the honor I need.
I awake; walk and today I tell my story:
I, the Pauper King.
I awake hard on my
bed; I fall awake, pressed down, face in the mattress. I have been walking now
for 20 years. Our last Pauper King walked for 64 years. I was chosen as he
readied for his deathbed. His time was near; he knew. He settled into the town
I was born because that was where he was at in his journey.
I ask for tea and
it is brought. I will drink, then walk and talk.
I did not ever
know my parents, like all our other earlier rulers, I am an orphan. My
countrymen raised me by giving what they had that was extra. I rule to repay
that debt in part. I was raised in a stern but ample love. All of us were
treated with high expectations, one of us may rule. I was seventeen the winter
our last King died.
We orphans studied
well: history, self-governance through the spiritual arts, economics, music and
theatre, philosophy, science and physical training. The gift of rule may yoke
us one day, we were told. Are we ready to be saddled with a country? Are you?
Word came one
early morning of my seventeenth winter: the King was walking through town, and
he looked weak. He took most of the morning to cross half the town, an easy
hour’s walk for a fit man. The lessons of the day were withheld; we were to
gather at a moments notice if our King called for us to stand for him.
As I worked in the
small dormant herb garden to fill my time, the morning grew out of its chill.
The call, the bells ringing slow overhead, came just after the lunch hour was
over. I rushed to wash up, felt myself grow calm as I walked in line to the
long town hall. I had helped polish all the wood on the interior of this
meeting place last summer; I thought it might be a good trade, working with
wood. I had approached the carpenters of my town, several said I could join
their households and apprentice when I turned eighteen next spring.
Many, many of the
town had turned out by now; we crowded around the town hall. We orphans were
allowed into the hall; those of us between fifteen and not yet eighteen
numbered about thirty. It appeared that there were more girls than boys; we
might welcome a Pauper Queen. We sat in
hard chairs on the floor before the few town elders around their table. Our
King sat in a chair to one side; he looked faded, ready to slip out of the yoke
of ruler-ship and pass it on.
His shoes were
well worn. His jeans had a small patch at one hem and a few strings on the
change-pocket showed were he kept something at hand. His eyes were sharply
seeking, measuring. A hand made sweater faded and well worn highlighted his
eyes. Chance, circumstance had brought him here to choose one of us. He had a
light jacket over the back of the chair, its shoulders sun and rain faded from
black to charcoal. I could just make out a small backpack under the chair; a
book’s outline was visible in the pocket.
I thought of my
friends here; two would make good Paupers. One quiet blond, whose birth-name
was Kirk was my companion, studied all the time and was known to wander the
small forest near here. He was humble and calm. We had grown together; love was
simple for him. The other, the girl I would ask to be my wife once I was in a
career, named Moira, was all a ruler should be: bright, educated, sturdy,
humble, insightful, willing to serve.
Either would be
the best among us. The warm sun, rare this time of winter heated the polish on
the floor under the windows. The town elders read to the dying King of our
accomplishments as the eligible class. The smell of citrus oil floor polish was
a physical remainder of our work for the town. The King accepted the list of
our names, his hands steady but so pale and thin.
His words: “Thank
you, my friends. I will seek the counsel of this eligible class, this day and
night. How may I serve you first, my fellow citizens?”
There was a murmur
of surprise from the Council of Elders; one cleared her throat and said, “We
have no disputes at this time, Our King. We have no pressing need of your
counsel today. Take rest and ask so we may provide for your needs.”
Our King rose from
his chair put on his jacket said, “May I have use of a small set of rooms, one
for the candidates to wait, one for me to review them? May I have a few meals?”
He placed the lists in his backpack and stood waiting.
The Councilwoman
spoke again, “You may use this hall and the rooms behind it. We will gladly
serve you your meals, Our King.”
The King sat as
they all left the hall.
