Fireside Tale

I do suggest the reader pay attention to each detail, for none are negligible.

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Fireside Tale

’Twas a long time ago, and I was but a child. There was a king back then, a ruthless tyrant. It is said he was insane. Cruel, he was, exploiting his subjects. Taxes rocketed to the sky, and you would see entire families begging for a bite of something to eat.

The king’s palace towered over the destitution like a gaudy symbol of dominance. It served as a brutal message to the poor – I am supreme. I live in luxury while you suffer. Why? Because I can.

All the populace looked emaciated and weak, yet the throne’s soldiers drove them to toil until they collapsed to toil no more. No one was spared, except for the nobility. The king dined abundant, surrounded by wealth, laughing and making merry. The rich became richer, but the poor . . . they were wretched indeed.

Crime went up, as did sorrow and disease. It was widespread slavery, a slow cancer eating away at the victims’ spirits. And still the king dined in his halls.

His motives were unfathomable – he was known to be shrewd; surely he realized that the kingdom was the root of his wealth? Why, then, did he seek to alienate and impoverish it?

It started as a brief, delicious fantasy of unshackled wrists in the mind of a fourteen-year-old. It grew into a labourer’s almost imperceptible glare at the back of a soldier. Then there was dissent, a wave of quiet angry murmurs sweeping through the capital city.

At first, five people gathered to speak of it in one abandoned warehouse. This gathering swelled to fifteen, and a daring soul took them into his home. The numbers grew, bold ones carrying the message across the city. Why should they have to suffer while the king makes merry?

And then, unsure but determined, a beautiful dream was given word by their chapped lips, its light growing brighter with each repetition:

Freedom.

A dark profile scans the grey expanse with hawk-like eyes. A cold half-smile makes his features more defined. There is a curfew, and his subjects have done well to heed it. No light breaks the monotony of the city, but the sun’s warming rays are not far off on the horizon.

He is not a stupid man. He sees very well the unrest around him, even through his gold-laden stupor. He has spies, and the army is bound to the throne. He feels safe in that knowledge, but not complacent like the nobility think him. They plot against him, but he does not worry for that. He wants but one thing.

He folds his frame into a tall chair and passes a hand over his piercing yellow eyes. Swiftly, he decides on what he desires, and how he shall attain it. The people only have their unbroken spirits left. He shall break that too, and a malleable populace will be his to command. He shall rise to still greater heights.

They will see true blood flowing.

That very morning, in the pale shroud of dawn, seven were stolen from their beds, so stealthily that even their spouses did not stir. With utmost speed, they were dragged through the streets and locked away in gaol.

These seven were hard and bold people of the middle class. They were beloved for their frank speaking. The kindlers of the rebellion, their ages varied from a smiling lad just turned nineteen, to a stern matron past fifty.

That noon, people passing by the town-centre were sickened by a terrifying sight. Though they had thought the king’s callousness knew no bounds, they had not considered this in their wildest dreams.

There, gleaming under the midday sun, was a tall metal device. It had grooves along its sides, and a sharp axe hung at the top. It was of course the guillotine.

That week was one of frayed nerves and fear. People were forced to watch as their brothers and sisters were beheaded. Even children were held in the town square until the hooded executioner had dropped the axe. Their bewildered cries rose above the hushed mutterings of the crowd. The frantic question on everyone’s mind was – who was next?

The rebellion was subdued.

It was a bloody week. But oppression breeds leaders, and there were not simply seven voices in the city. Treading cautiously this time, new rebels arose to guide the majority. This time, they were not so blatant. They did not hold large gatherings, touching hearts personally instead.

When they spoke, it was not of insurgence, or even liberty. They spoke of laughter, of colour, of ease, of contentment. If the public lost faith in the capable few, freedom would flit away from them forever.

Slowly, as the guillotine wounds faded, people relaxed. They began to say, is liberty not worth it? Why should we lie down scared for him to walk over us?

Our leaders nudged the people into anger. They spoke of what was wrong, unjust. Their voices became low and resounding, igniting flames born of suffering.

Then, they took the previous ideals and put them on a pedestal. As solution, they offered a single empowerment, an absolute – Rebellion.

 The king would see the might of the commoners, and he would repent.

Every adult wanted to fight for freedom. The idea of rebellion swept through the city. Backs straightened, shoulders squared. They carried on with their labouring, but there was new zest in their work, that of one who knows the end is nigh.

The rebels did not anticipate a blood-free struggle. They soon realized the force of the standing army. At best, the fight would be three rebels to one soldier. Adding to that the army’s superior armour and weaponry, it was not the most favourable of conditions.

Nevertheless, they had spirit, and they did not falter. After all, they said, people had already died due to the king’s orders. Why not lay down their lives for freedom instead?

They sharpened their weapons under the dark cover of curfew, and waited.

Finally, the date was set. The rebels would seize back the city so rightfully theirs.

“It was a mighty fight to behold indeed,” the storyteller’s eyes were admiring. “The fiery commoners made for a sight to make you tremble. The king thought that the army was bound to serve him – but even they had had enough.”

The people around the bonfire grinned viciously. They knew the predictable end – freedom and democracy were born.

“There was no heart in the army’s rally. Some surrendered, and the rebels let them. Not to say the rebels came away unscathed. The departed were honoured, though I suppose the dead do not care much for that.” Here the old man paused. “And then the palace was taken. Its coloured stones were pulled down, the grounds razed.”

“And the king executed?” A small voice asked from the peripheries of the circle, and bright black eyes shone curiously as the bard smiled coldly. It was not a nice smile. The girl shivered.

“No, child,” he answered. “The king was not executed. He had been watching from his window, and as soon as some enterprising rebel sought him with his longbow, he melted away. A few say he had a secret tunnel constructed that led out of the city. Some say he met his death at his own hands.”

“And what do you say?” Asked the little girl with the black eyes. “Did this really happen?” One of her friends frowned.

The bard replied to him. “This is history, boy. Of course it happened. But they do not tell you about it. Too gory, they say.”

“So how does it end?” She challenged the man.

A half-smile twisted his thin lips, and he made as if to stand. His expression was darkly amused.

“It never ends. But I, I think, that the king still lives, and he is quarrying the infamy his name deserves. Immortality is rather enticing.”

So saying, the old man with the hawkish yellow eyes got to his rheumy feet and hobbled away from the firelight.

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