Beginnings... by way of an Ending - Part 1 Live on the Pulse 94.7 at 10 am!

By Brett J Cole

Once, but also perhaps on a day yet to come - for stories such as this are held in people's hearts, not held in time - there was a king. He proclaimed himself to be a great king, and there were many too fearful to argue, for he was indeed great… but only in his own fashion.

Greatly ignorant, greatly selfish, greatly evil, greatly cruel... all manner of traits that he did in fact carry with unrivalled grandeur, but all of them serving no one but himself. His "greatness" was merely a thing of making the worth of all else - of all others - less than what he, himself, truly held, of which there was truly little.

His “greatness” was also emboldened by others who’d bestow no end of praise upon him only because they lacked any true virtues themselves. They basked in the afterglow of that faintest of lights the king offered only by casting ever larger shadows across others at the king’s behest.

And those shadows… Oh, how those shadows were cast wide and far! But not as far as the king might have hoped.

Having long expanded his empire – by theft, oppression, deceit and slaughter – the king’s domain grew through every facet of the lives and lands of all that he could take hold of, stripping bare any and every territory and freedom that he could, and all for the sake of taking in itself.

And every time that he took from others, he would twist his reasoning as yet another act of his “greatness”, as though his theft was in fact benevolent by claiming he could “always take more”. His restraint, he would often declare, was a kindness just as great as all else he’d falsely lay claim to.

Even this was yet another lie that adorned his dubious crown, however, for he had not in him any nature to give, only to take what he could. And as such, even this supposed “benevolence” would inevitably pass as surely as the setting sun would, bringing forth yet another day when he simply wanted… more.

And again, as surely as the sun would set and then rise, day after day after day, the king cut a swathe through all that he could. Never for any need, but purely for his want.

From fields once abundant with crops to the humble pantries of homes, the king saw fit to claim all he could like an ever-hungry locust, never happy with what he already had, only satisfied in the craving itself with little else to his spirit.

But there was one thing that the king had not yet laid claim to, untouched by those shadows cast far and wide by himself or those acting for him.

At the outskirts of his kingdom, there stood a small cottage nestled amidst a small plot of land. The trees themselves marked this untouched terrain for the fact that they stood there at all, having been spared the axe or the plow, unlike so much else the king’s reign had touched.

No flag was flown here, no tribute was paid, no offering of flattering word had ever been made to the king. And this absolutely infuriated him.

Many a soldier and many a servant had been sent to lay claim to this small piece of land, and each had returned… lighter, less touched by the king’s shadow.

Further infuriated by such failed efforts, what angered the king more so was that anyone who returned from there spoke of something they seemed to regard as greater than any “greatness” he’d claim himself.

They spoke of kindness, of which he was lacking greatly.

They spoke of a cloaked figure who, while conceding not one bit to their demands, would nonetheless offer them water or food for their travels in returning to the king.

At first the king thought this a sign of weakness on the part of those previously sent, and so having punished them as he saw fit, he endeavoured to then send others, ensuring that they were well watered and fed for their journey both to there and from.

But again, any who returned, seemed lighter, less touched by his shadow.

They now spoke of care, of which he was lacking greatly.

They spoke of this cloaked figure who, while still not conceding one bit to their demands, would nonetheless ask of their names, if only to bid them farewell when food or water was declined.

And so the king sent more soldiers yet, ensuring that they were well watered and fed, but with no name to offer this person. They were masked, without name, only number bestowed in accordance to their rank.

Fierce, heartless and brutal soldiers, even these people returned, seeming lighter and less touched by his shadow.

They now spoke of reason. Again, of which he was lacking greatly.

When asked by the king if this cloaked figure had met them weapon to weapon, they told of no conflict at all. Rather, they claimed, the cloaked figure had spoken very softly, asking but one single question which was, ‘How heavy are those swords at your hand, and how much heavier shall they be when you finally lay them down?’

Not one of those soldiers returned with a sword in their hand, and that small cottage on that small plot of land remained separate from the king’s domain.

On and on it went. As surely as the sun would set and then rise, day after day after day, the king would send others to demand that he have this small piece of land with its small cottage wherein this cloaked figure lived.

And again and again and again, those who the king had sent forth would return seeming not only less in awe of the king, but somewhat in awe of themselves, having met with this cloaked figure who saw in them what the king had not.

They spoke of kindness. They spoke of care. They spoke of reason, compassion, empathy… all manner of traits that this person didn’t even carry with grandeur but, rather, offered to others freely so that they might see such things in themselves.

Day after day after day, until… one day, having exhausted all attempts by way of having others serve him, the king decided that he would meet this person for himself.

Travelling many days to that cottage, just as he’d had others do, the king himself was well watered and fed, while his entourage was less so. With the previous tales of generosity, the king assumed they’d be granted such gifts when returning as many others had, and he saw no sense in offering such things when another could do so for him. Likewise, the king alone rode in his carriage, with all else travelling by foot, but for the horseman who drew the king onward.

Arriving at the small plot of land, the king stood before that lush, dense curtain of trees, seeing it only as harvest, yet more land that he could strip bare. The trees themselves seemed to bristle at this, and a wind fluttered through their branches while the air beyond them was still.

Asked if he was to be escorted to the cottage, the king angrily baulked at any suggestion. He spoke of kindness. He spoke of care. He spoke of reason, compassion and empathy… all manner of traits that this person was said to carry. The king declared such things as foolish and weak. What threat could this person possibly pose, he asked.

Not one of his entourage answered and the king was greatly pleased by this, not because he believed his declaration as one without question, but because he feared that this cloaked person might challenge such a thing themself, and he desired no audience for that.

He ignored the shared glances among those who served him – those people with numbers, not names – which suggested they knew this also. He again commanded they remain where they were, this time much more furiously, and he ventured forth into the trees.

Walking into what he’d thought to be but a small plot of land, the king found himself walking for much longer than he’d expected, and still he could see no sign of the cottage he’d heard many others speak of. If anything, he found that the deeper in he walked, the taller the trees seemed about him and the denser they seemed far ahead as far as his eye could see.  

What he’d first seen only as harvest – while standing ever so surely on barren land of his own – now seemed anything but, threatening to eclipse his every intent as though he instead might nourish them. He shuddered at the thought, picturing his bones in this wilderness serving only as rich undergrowth should he venture any further.

The trees laughed with that wind of their own at this, their leaves rustling more loudly, and the king – alone in those woods – felt so very, very small. And thus, feeling so very small… the king did as he always would if this was ever the case, which was to try to outmatch any such thing with no end of petulant bluster.

He cursed aloud and even kicked at a tree as he spun about on his heels, intent on quickly returning to that more familiar barren soil. His entourage would have surely borne the brunt of his rage had his taken path even been there.

It was not.

He instead found himself facing the cottage which was suddenly just… there, as though it had been at his back with every step he’d taken. Likewise, when considering that he would knock at its door, at his back too there came a voice from where he was certain no one had stood.

‘May I help you?’ asked the voice.

To be continued...