G'morning
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.