Assorted Shorts

Small But Perfectly Formed

The Kingdom of Skragg Valley was small, and far from perfect. Its weather was inclement, its soil infertile, its women hostile, its wine undrinkable, and its geology sharp and unstable. Even its scenery, which was undoubtedly impressive in a craggy, windswept sort of way, was best appreciated from a good distance.

With nothing to attract a marauding army or a passing tourist, the kingdom had long been left to its own devices. And, through those centuries of solitude, something quite remarkable had happened. Its many faults, while undoubtedly ubiquitous, had spent so much time in each other's company that they had merged into an miraculous amalgam. Unwittingly, and in its own imperfectly idiosyncratic way, Skragg Valley had come close to perfecting the art of imperfection.

So settled was their way of life, so interdependent was everything on everything else, that its people lived happy in the knowledge that things, quite literally, couldn't be any other way than what they were. Sadly, the kingdom being the sort of place it was, there was always going to be one exception to this otherwise perfect state of affairs.

Which brings us to the subject of politics.

Among the many things wrong with the kingdom was the fact that it wasn't a kingdom at all. The term implies a hereditary succession, whereas the current king, like every king before him, had obtained his position by assassinating his predecessor. As with many things in the valley, this was a less than ideal arrangement but it worked, and with a minimum of fuss. The only person put to any inconvenience was the previous incumbent, but since he obtained his title the same way, this was nothing more than he deserved.

Given this arrangement, it was unsurprising that the only person who had struck on the idea of national improvement was the King himself – the one person with a vested interest in political reform. And yet, whatever he tried, it did him no good. Whatever initiative he attempted, it collided immediately with the immovable object of his nation's self-satisfied inertia, leaving everything just as it always had been.

Not being the most imaginative of men, there things may well have stayed.

Until, one day, a storyteller entered the valley.

This was an unusual occurrence in itself, but then he was an unusually intrepid storyteller. Not content as a mere teller of tales, he'd wanted to live his own story, traveling the world and making his fortune. Skragg Valley was part of the world, so here he was.

The early signs were unpromising. Toiling away at their precarious existence, the locals had little time left over for his tales. More to the point, they had nothing with which to pay him but oatmeal and pigs. Perfectly acceptable for local barter, neither made for the sort of portable currency preferred by an itinerant entrepreneur.

It was inevitable then, having made his way up the valley – trading tales as he went for pork and porridge – that the storyteller soon found himself in the presence of the King, the only person with the time and wherewithal for his services. A young man, as kings in Skragg Valley were wont to be, the King was not the best of listeners, and as often as not their time together would turn instead to matters of state.

"My subjects are dolts and imbeciles," he would complain. "I instruct them on how things could be so much better, and what happens? They nod their heads and they mumble, then go straight back to doing just what they always have done. It's infuriating. They have no aspirations for perfection, no desire to improve."

A bit of a go-getter himself, the storyteller commiserated, wondering whether there was anything he could do to help. "Consultant to Kings" would look good on his resume. Pondering the predicament, he ransacked his repertoire of stories, hoping to find one that might inspire a solution. As it happened, he had many stories about kings: stories about kings victorious in battle, stories about kings slaying dragons and rescuing princesses. But, oddly, no stories about kings embarking on a program of civic reform.

Perplexed, he thought long and hard. Then suddenly it struck him: there was one story that might suit the situation perfectly.

"What you need is a rebranding campaign. Look at it from your subjects' point of view. It's no wonder they have grown blasé. For them, it's just one damned king after another. You need to relaunch your image in a way that will make them sit up and take notice, make them see you in a different light."

The King was sceptical. "A swine is still a swine even if you call it a pig," he observed, quoting a piece of local folk wisdom.

"Never mind that. What you need to do is this: you need to proclaim yourself Emperor. And what every Emperor needs most of all is new clothes."

As the storyteller explained his plan in more detail, the King became yet more dubious. But the storyteller hadn't gotten to the top of his profession without great powers of persuasion. He swore on his granny's ghost as to the quality of his wares and the slimness of his profit margin. Gradually his arguments won the day.

And so it was that on the following morning – while the storyteller headed for the border as fast as he could manage, a chunk of the national treasury in his purse – the people were called together to be present at the unveiling, so-to-speak, of their new Emperor.

Whether the event had the end result the King had been hoping for is debatable, but it was certainly true that his subjects did see him in a new light. And, everyone later agreed, it did demonstrate that there was at least one thing in the kingdom that was perfectly formed.

Albeit rather small – but then the weather in Skragg Valley was rather chilly.