(Given recent events, I thought I'd dust off this story I first wrote in 2018 and post it as an idea whose time may have come.)
Legend tells us the salvation of our kingdom began with a single snicker, a laugh of derision.
The avalanche that brings down a mountain can begin with the kick of a single, small rock.
The Snicker of Salvation was the rock that brought down The Worst King Ever. The man or woman who snickered is unknown but is revered in our folklore as Saint Mirth.
The avalanche began as the Boy King — the most used of all his many epithets — was delivering one of his usual long-winded, rambling, self-aggrandizing speeches, his favorite thing to do in all the world. Everyone in the kingdom was required to attend these speeches, excepting only soldiers on the frontier, sailors on the high seas, and women in labor. One could buy an indulgence — a "Get Out of Speech Free" card — if, say, one wished to attend a dying mother or harvest the few stands of one's remaining wheat before the rain. But the cards were expensive and required proof of the dying mother or rain. Most people found it easier, and safer, to show up and cheer when prompted.
The Snicker of Salvation was the rock that brought down The Worst King Ever.
Between the scripted cheers, the people would quietly groan, mumble and cry, worrying about their dying mother or stand of wheat, while their empty bellies rumbled, their overworked muscles complained, their sad hearts sighed, and their frowning mouths cursed the Boy King for being… well, for being himself.
On that bright and cloudless morning, he was pontificating about how wonderful he was, how just his rule, how the kingdom was flourishing and how happy and healthy the people were, lie after subterfuge after deceit after hyperbole after falsehood. The people had heard it all before, and knew that their kingdom was crumbling, their health and happiness gone.
They also knew from long experience that their king was a mad, wretched bully of sub-par intelligence, a coward and a cheat and a heartless charlatan of a man. After years of his rule, all were certain they were close to doom. Those attending the speech that day could barely be troubled to cheer and clap when required, even though heavily armed guards surrounding them in the castle courtyard were ready to beat a slacker for reason or simply for sadistic fun.
But on that fateful day, in that fateful hour, at that fateful moment, a new sound was heard above the chorus of sadness and despair. No one remembers today what the king was saying when it happened. It mattered little; any statement was as ridiculous as the next. The sound of a short laugh, natural and spontaneous, pierced one of the few quiet moments when the king took a breath. Whoever laughed tried to suppress it, making a quick, explosive exhalation forced back into the throat.
The sound was a snicker, or a chuckle or chortle. Opinions among experts differ to this day. Regardless, while no one could quite tell where it came from, everyone knew what it meant.
Everyone except The Boy King, that is. He was not sure what the sound meant. It couldn't be laughter, surely.
The sound was a snicker, or a chuckle or chortle. Opinions among experts differ to this day.
"What was that?" he demanded. "Did somebody say something? Did somebody cough? Sneeze? Is one of you sick? Fess up. You need a doctor? I'll send out one of the Royal Medical Corps if somebody's sick. Huh? What? C'mon people, I don't have all day! You know I care about you all very much. So, if you need help just say something. Huh?" The king cocked his hand behind his ear in a pantomime of listening.
After a few seconds of poignant silence, three more suppressed laughs rose from the crowd.
Again, no one could tell who was doing the snickering, but once heard, it didn't matter. It passed among the people like a breeze. One or two more escaped. The non-existent laughter of those who managed to keep silent still disturbed the air. By ones and twos and threes people felt the ripples of mirth reach them, land in their ears and rush to their throats, then speed on via their chests toward their bellies.
"Well?" What's this about? You all know how very patient I am. Nobody's more patient than me, believe me. But there's a limit. Somebody tell me what's going on, okay? Tell me, I care! You all know I care. Nobody cares about the people like me! What is it?"
It was too much. Every voice exploded with laughter. Every imaginable mirthful noise rose from the crowd in a great wave of guffaws, giggles, shouts, roars, snorts, chuckles, chortles, and titters. Grown men of serious demeanor were soon bent and red-faced, howling until breathless. Stately matrons giggled like schoolgirls and slapped their thighs, struggling to keep their feet. Children rolled on the ground, exulting in the release of their open-throated merriment.
It was too much. Every voice exploded with laughter.
The Boy King stood twenty feet above the crowd on a balcony, protected by a parapet of heavy stone blocks, but still the tumult rose and pushed him back on his heels. His shock quickly gave way to a furious anger that suffused his entire fat, squat body. Watching the crowd of peasants below him laughing with abandon — laughing at him — the Boy King surpassed his normal, everyday level of loathing for his subjects. It rose within him so quickly and vehemently that he reached abhorrence in seconds, swept past it, and flew on toward murderous hatred.
Seeing this emotional turmoil play out on his face fed the crowd's hysteria. They elbowed their neighbors and pointed to his florid cheeks and clenched jaw, redoubling their merriment. Some now had fallen and lay on their backs, begging for relief, holding their aching sides and fighting for breath. Others on hands and knees choked on spittle, their bodies heaving with airless laughter. Mere minutes since The Snicker, the people were reduced to incoherence and physical exhaustion.
If the king’s eyes could have done what was in his heart in that moment, every one of the wretched beings below him would have been engulfed in flames and screaming their last lungful of air in agony, down to the tiniest babe in arms.
. . .
I see by your face you find my tale odd.
As a visitor to our yearly Festival of Saint Mirth, you’ve no doubt heard what happiness and prosperity our kingdom enjoys. Have you noticed how often and how freely our people take to laughing? Yes, we laugh as we breathe. While you are here, I am sure you will find yourself exercising your lungs and facial muscles more than you ever have before.
So, as introduction to our land and people, allow me to tell the story of the Boy King, known by many names: the Pudgy Pasha, His Royal Meanness, and the Crowned Bully, to name but a few. That day, when the people laughed openly at the Boy King, marked the first Day of Saint Mirth, the day of our emancipation. The anniversary is the highlight of our festival. Learning the history will help you to understand how we came to be known as The Kingless Kingdom, Home to the Happiest People in the World.
Yes, we laugh as we breathe.
For as jovial and contented as we are today, we were equally miserable and despondent in the years that preceded The Snicker of Salvation.
. . .
You see, the people had thought poorly of the prince, later the "Boy King", from the day he could walk. He was a horrid child, cruel to animals and other children, spoiled and given to tantrums, greedy and gluttonous. As he grew to manhood he worsened. Talk of him became routine — "What is it now?" — as one outrage after another was gossiped from ear to disbelieving ear. After some years, no ear was disbelieving. Shock gave way to cynical expectation. "What is it now?" gave way to "I'm not a bit surprised."
The love and respect the people felt for the king, his father, stood in sharp contrast. From the day he was crowned to the birth of the prince, some dozen years, is still considered a golden era, for the King was kind and wise and just. The people flourished. The land was fruitful, neighbors were helpful, merchants were honest. The few quarrels, fights and petty crimes were handled fairly and swiftly by magistrates hand-picked by the King for their wisdom and sense of justice.
Shock gave way to cynical expectation. "What is it now?" gave way to "I'm not a bit surprised."
Yes, the people loved their king, but as the prince grew they began to resent him, more with every passing year. "How could he let the boy do that?" became a common question asked, soon after the "What is it now?" question was answered. It was baffling to think that such a wise and fair king could raise such an awful child. Some said he was indulgent because the Queen died in childbirth, that he could not bring himself to discipline the son who was the last link to his beloved wife. Others said the boy was just a bad seed, and no amount of fatherly guidance could change him.
No matter the opinions as to why and how and who was at fault, the growing enmity engendered by the prince's astonishing egotism, stupidity and malice tainted their affection for the king. The golden age turned to tarnished brass. The age would transform again, like reverse alchemy, into dull pot-metal, when the worst fears of the people came to pass.
The prince was nineteen years of age when the king died. Nearing fifty, he was still young in body and heart, strong and courageous, but mortal. A bad fall from a spooked horse is enough to send any man into the next world.
Despite their resentment of the king, the people were broken and crushed with grief. Demonstrations of love and loss were many and spontaneous. Farmers left their fields, merchants left their shops, sailors left their ships and gathered outside the castle bearing flowers and tears and tales of the king's exploits. In all the lands that historians have known and recorded, no kingdom has ever so grieved the loss of their sovereign.
Then, even before he was crowned, the Prince began his reign in the worst conceivable way, to no one's surprise.
He published his first edict. It demanded that all the people of the realm morn the king's death for thirty consecutive days. No one needed a command to groan and wail and lament the death of so great a monarch. But the thirty-day rule became difficult, then impossible, to obey. Once everyone had a good cry, had rent their garments until they had nothing untorn to wear, had thrown ashes on their heads until they were gritty and filthy and wanted nothing more than a good bath, it was time for life to move on. Fields needed tending. Shops needed sweeping. Ships needed sailing.
Then, even before he was crowned, the Prince began his reign in the worst conceivable way, to no one's surprise.
But when the people began to talk of anything other than the dead King, began to greet each other in the square with "Good day to you", began to smile at the blue sky and white clouds that heralded a lovely morning, the true spirit of the Boy King was made manifest. Guards, who had hitherto been like other men in the village of no great notice, men whom one would greet with a nod or a word as one passed, changed overnight into the eyes and hands of the young, black heart that occupied the throne.
It was Day Seventeen of the Great Mourning when the worm turned.
"You there!" shouted a young guard standing near the village bakery. "Stop that smiling in the Name of the King!"
"What? Me? Was I smiling?" answered the old man everyone knew as Dirty Simon.
Yes, Dirty Simon was smiling. He was watching the young women doing their laundry near the village well as he trudged along the cobbled street with his huge bundle of sticks strapped to his bent, aging back. Dirty Simon always smiled, and everyone knew why. He was harmless. He just always had a dirty thought to keep him company and make him grin. Now his grin would be made a crime, and it would disappear along with the hopes of the people.
The guard approached Simon with purposeful strides. "Yes, you were smiling, you old goat!" he shouted. "You know the King's edict! No smiling, no laughing, no pleasantries! You are to groan and wail and gnash your teeth and mourn the death of the King's Great Father!"
Now his grin would be made a crime, and it would disappear along with the hopes of the people.
Simon's smile faded, but not his wit. "Well, officer, I'll do my best, but I'm not too good in the gnashing department as I haven't enough teeth left for a decent gnashing, you see?"
Simon showed his few teeth and his many gaps in a broad smile. The twinkle in his eye lasted only until the guard drew his truncheon and slapped the back of his knee, making the old man buckle, then topple over as the weight of the heavy bundle shifted. He lay on his side, holding his leg and crying out in pain.
Every eye in the square was fixed on the guard and Simon as the ugly scene played out. The guard pointed his truncheon at Simon's grimacing face and bellowed, "You will lament the death of the King's Great Father now, or I swear I will beat you until you do!"
Simon groaned and cried, then forced himself to declaim, through tears and labored breath, "Oh, the king, the… glorious king is… dead! Hear me! Our beloved king is… dead!" He then turned his grizzled face to the cobblestones and cried for the pain in his swelling leg.
Another guard trotted to where Simon lay crying. "This old sod giving you trouble?" he asked, breathless from the short run. The two officers, like all the other guards under the new reign, were now laden with weapons they had never carried before: a heavy sword, a dirk, a dagger, a pike, a truncheon. They were clad in mail shirts and iron helmets. It made running difficult. It made just walking, or standing in the noonday sun, uncomfortable. It made them grumpy.
"Nah" sneered the first guard. "He's no trouble at all."
The people gasped again as he drew his dagger and knelt. The guard cut the ropes that held the bundle to Simon's back, then grabbed him under his arm. His partner did the same on the other side, and they lifted him to his feet. Simon howled as he put weight on the injured leg, then lifted it and hopped to gain his balance on one foot.
It made them grumpy.
"He'll be no trouble at all, spending a few weeks in the dungeon, will ya, grandad?"
"No trouble at all" repeated the other guard with a hard smile. He looked up and turned his head to sweep the square, seeing for the first time the faces frozen in shock and bewilderment. The villagers had not stirred since the first guard shouted.
"Let this be a warning to you all!" he yelled. "The King's edicts will not be ignored! See how swift and harsh the punishment for anyone who dares break the Great King's laws!"
"And a Great King he is!" added the other. "A really, really Great King! Greatest King ever, believe me! So great that his laws are… great!" The man inside the armor was losing his train of thought and some of his swagger, so he bolstered himself with harsh words. "And we'll beat any of you peasants bloody if you dare to insult our king by breaking his rules… seeing as how he's so… great!"
There was a pause as the last echoes of his words made their way down the streets that led from the square. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. A child with one of the women near the well coughed. Simon was as quiet as he could be, breathing hard against the pain.
"And a Great King he is!" added the other. "A really, really Great King! Greatest King ever, believe me! So great that his laws are… great!"
"C'mon, let's go" whispered his partner. The guards jostled Simon away, half-lifting him as he hopped and limped along, grunting with every other step as the bruise on his leg grew and the muscles knotted, and the nerves howled. They walked Simon out of the square and to the castle, where he would be locked into a dank cell and fed gruel and given no blanket for his bed and no treatment for his wound and would suffer other indignities at the hands of his captors for an indeterminate number of days.
His bundle of sticks lay where he'd fallen. After the three men were out of sight everyone in the square stared at it with an odd sense of wonder. A bundle of sticks, gathered by a man's labor to burn in his paltry hearth in his tiny, drafty home, to warm him, to cook a bit of porridge, to give him another day's life, now left on the ground, useless and forgotten.
The bundle lay where it was dropped for days until someone placed it against the wall of the apothecary's shop with a hand-written note, reading, "For Dirty Simon, When He Returns".
The bundle remains there to this day.
...
Thus, began The Reign of Oh God What Now? that would, like the guard's truncheon, hobble and threaten the people of the kingdom for the next handful of years.
The Boy King ruled by whimsical edict, ignoring his own counselors and the Gathering of Lords. While his father would consider a matter before issuing a rare proclamation, the son published decrees with every breath.
Thus, began The Reign of Oh God What Now?
"I speak!" he would shout several times a day. The First Scribe, a small, nearsighted man with a portable desk, parchment, quill, and ink was always nearby, and would spring into action to capture the Ridiculous Ruler's words. Whatever came out of that set of pouting lips would become law, no matter how unintelligible, and to misquote or dare to edit his words was to endanger one's cushy job, livelihood, and life.
"Henceforth and forevermore even, all men of the realm between the ages of, uh, twenty-seven and thirty-two, will… thirty-two's a good cutoff for that, isn't it? I mean that's, uh, what, six years? Yeah, thirty-two years of age will spend the summer months of every year — summer's what? May to October? About that. It starts getting warm in May, except that time, uh, three years ago when it was still raining in June? What's up with that? Rain in June. You gotta be kidding me. Anyway, where was I? Yeah, twenty-seven to thirty-two will spend the summer months helping the farmers in their fields with… planting? Is that what farmers do in the summer? Whatever. Whatever farmers do in their fields from June to November, all men of the realm between twenty-two and thirty-seven will leave their shops and ships and whatever petty little lives they have and help the farmers with… farm stuff. Gotta support our farmers, you know. Farming is very important. Farming is where the food comes from. I know about farming, everything about farming, the way the stuff grows up from the ground and the little pigs grow fat and into bacon I'm hungry what's for lunch are we having bacon today because I really love bacon I mean who doesn't love bacon? Right?"
The Senseless Sovereign stood in the middle of the throne room, his arms outstretched, his palms upturned, looking at the lords and ladies gathered there, waiting for someone to answer what he thought was a simple question about bacon.
I really love bacon I mean who doesn't love bacon? Right?
The First Scribe sat poised over his parchment, quill in hand, wrist aching, peering at the king over his half-glasses, waiting for the next Royal Utterance.
"Sire?" the Scribe ventured.
"What?"
"Is that… all?"
"Oh. Yeah. I have spoken!"
Everything between "I speak!" and "I have spoken!" was now royal edict and law of the land, including "What?" and "Oh. Yeah."
The First Scribe finished the dictation and handed the parchment to a runner. The runner sped away to a little room in the basement where the Second Scribe and several Apprentice Scribes waited to make copies of the Imperial Word Salad. The copies would then be sent out through all the land to be read by confused and disbelieving subjects who knew they were expected, on pain of truncheoning or worse, to carry out its instructions. That is, if anyone could discern anything resembling instructions.
So many and so capricious were the Boy King's edicts that before the first year was out, the people coined yet another title for him: "The Squirrel King". Within 24 hours, or even the next hour, a new proclamation would arrive that would seem to cancel out the previous one, add to its restrictions or requirements, or mean nothing to anyone.
The day after the farming edict another was published that said farmers between the ages of fourteen and seventy-five were ordered to help the sailors on alternate Tuesdays because "fishing is very important you know we have to have the fish even though I don't really like fish except breaded with some dill and lemon", and so on.
Later that afternoon, disbelieving men and women gathered around a posted notice that seemed to amend the previous, saying that, since the farmers would be out to sea every other Tuesday, the bakers must bake special cakes and breads, take them out to the farms and "feed them to the little pigs to make sure they become bacon, because, I mean, you know, bacon."
...fishing is very important you know we have to have the fish even though I don't really like fish except breaded with some dill and lemon...
The result of this governance, if one may stretch the term, was the breakdown of the people's ordered lives into utter chaos. By the second year, crops were failing, ships were sinking, and shops were empty. The Bejeweled Bonehead thought himself master of all things economic, social, political, or philosophical. Convinced that the kingdom had been bankrupt and disarrayed under his father, he believed that he alone could make it prosperous and efficient again.
The truth was the exact opposite. His arbitrary and erratic declarations covered every aspect of life, from farming and fishing to selling and buying, to how people should dress, when and whom they should marry or divorce, and how many times a day they should exclaim to their neighbor, "What a glorious day! We have the Great King to thank for it, believe me!" Like all his laws, the correct number of times this was to be said was unclear; being somewhere between three and nineteen, depending on which decree one referenced.
By the second year, crops were failing, ships were sinking, and shops were empty.
Every day brought new hardship, new confusion, new sadness, and new anger.
Babies went without milk, their mothers without bread and their fathers without employment. The guards were soon thankful for their armaments and powers of enforcement, as crime became more common and violent. Village women ventured into the forests in search of berries or mushrooms or grubs. Often, that was all they could find to feed their malnourished children. Some of these women did not return, killed by wild animals of the four or two-legged variety. Denied honest work, some village men became highwaymen. Many of these did not return to their wives and children, having thought themselves better thieves and fighters than they truly were.
By the end of the fourth year of the Moronic Magnate's reign, poverty and misery and seething acrimony was all the subjects of the crumbling kingdom knew. A proud, happy, and prosperous people had been reduced to starving, ill, petty, squabbling, despondent paupers. Even the guards were broken in spirit, exhausted by prosecuting myriad conflicting and draconian edicts, and burdened with the shame of enforcing laws more criminal than those who disobeyed them. The people distrusted each other, stole from one another, and reported their neighbor's inevitable crimes to the authorities for a paltry reward of a few coins. They rarely smiled, never laughed, and hated the king with every ounce of energy remaining in their pain-ridden, weakened bodies.
It was a crowd of such people that stood under the balcony and listened to the Sultan of Stupid drone on about himself on what would later be dubbed "Saint Mirth's Day". It was a crowd of such people that struck the first blow of what historians would title, "The Hilarious Rebellion".
...
The tidal wave of laughter had crashed against the headlands and was receding. Breath was being caught. Tears were being wiped and noses blown. Chuckles still rippled through the air, but they were of the exhausted kind, followed by long inhales and words mangled by aching cheeks, like, "hwo bwutha".
It was a crowd of such people that struck the first blow of what historians would title, "The Hilarious Rebellion".
Men who had been blood enemies minutes before helped each other to stand, slapping the dust from the other's clothes and man-hugging. Still tittering women smoothed their skirts, embarrassed at their display but not regretting what had been a few moments of blessed relief.
The children were bristling with energy, chasing about the courtyard and mocking the Obtuse Overlord with a game they later named "King Tag". The child tagged as king would waddle with her legs splayed, close her eyes and babble incoherently about how much she cared about her people, didn't like fish without lemon and loved bacon.
The Egomaniacal Emperor stared down at the crowd the entire time, his face red with suppressed rage, eyes bulging in their sockets, fists clenched and white at his sides. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the first sound he made formed no words. In fact, it was not recognizable as human. Witnesses interviewed later struggled to describe the sound. One suggested that it was like the soul of a man had been trapped inside the body of a lobster by witchcraft, and the man-lobster had been dropped into a cauldron of boiling water.
The long, bone-chilling sound began as a low groan that rose to a howl, then morphed as the pitch rose into a wail, ending at its highest as a screech that raised gooseflesh on all who heard it. Every man, woman, and child in the courtyard stood frozen and silent, staring up at the Boy King, now as terrified as they had been happy moments before.
They watched, transfixed, as he clenched his jaw and bared his teeth, his panting breath whistling in his mouth like high winds through a canyon. His face took the form of a rabid animal, eyes wild, teeth bared, skin flushed with blood. When he was at last able to form a thought and speak it, his command was predictable as sunrise.
"Guards!" he bellowed. "Guuaarrds! Kill them all! Kill! Kill! Death! Die dead death kill death die killll!" He paused and panted some more, waiting for his eyes to see the bloody carnage his mind was already rolling in like a dog in feces.
When he was at last able to form a thought and speak it, his command was predictable as sunrise.
The guards had stood at attention, silent and unmoving, the entire time. They formed a ring around the crowd, backs against the stone walls of the courtyard. Their captain and lieutenant stood on the balcony behind the king. To a man, they were each so afraid of the king, of their officers, of each other, that not one had succumbed to the infection of laughter. They stared in astonishment as the people laughed, unable to believe the plain evidence of their own eyes and ears.
Now that the inevitable order had been given, they remained frozen in confused shock.
The king was so caught up with the horror show in his mind he didn't notice that it was not happening. The guards began to look at each other warily; would one of them break rank and wade into the crowd, stabbing and slashing? "You?" their eyes silently asked the other, "You?"
Some looked to their officers, flanking the king. The captain and lieutenant wore faces as fearful and confused as the men. They gazed in amazement at the crowd, then scanned the faces of the guards, knowing none of them relished doing what the king ordered.
The Boy King shook his head violently, as if a spider crawled in his ear. He realized with great irritation that nobody was dying. They were all simply standing and staring, staring at him.
The only sound was that of the flags of the royal standard fluttering in a light breeze on either side of the balcony.
He glared at the guards, rage still distorting his face, as the men stared back in awe, unable to believe that as stupid and selfish and malicious as he was, he could wish for the mass murder of innocent men, women and children, let alone order his guards to carry out so evil and grisly a task.
The only sound was that of the flags of the royal standard fluttering in a light breeze on either side of the balcony.
With his next words, the Malevolent Maharajah made them all believers.
"What. Is. This? Treason? I said kill! Kill! All of you men, attack! Now! Stab 'em with the pointy ends of your… things whatever they are the sharp sticks with the long… stab them! Stick it in their guts! All of them!”
He paused a moment, believing that his word alone would make the men leap to his command like well-trained dogs. “Why are you just standing there? Get out your knives, I mean the big ones the… swords! The big swords you all have! Take them out and cut 'em with it!
Another pause, this to catch his breath and his wits, both becoming scarce. “Cut 'em and cut 'em and kill 'em with the sharp blades cut their heads off! Slash 'em until they bleed their last and… dammit! Do what I say, I'm the king! I order you to use your stabby things to stab and your slashy things to slash and slash! Slash! Kill them all! Cut 'em into bits and let me watch 'em die oh why aren't you doing it?"
As he babbled and sputtered and swore, the Unpleasant Imperator jumped up and down and pounded his fists on the parapet stones until they bled
"I am the king! I am the king you must obey me I am the king! Kill them! If you don't kill them, I order you to kill each other! How do you like that, huh? You’re all traitors if you don't do what your king says, and traitors die so kill the traitors! You have to kill each other because you're all traitors!
"Cut 'em into bits and let me watch 'em die oh why aren't you doing it?"
"You there, you! Yes, you with the beard! Kill that guy next to you. The guy on your right… no, left! The guy on your left is a traitor! Kill him! Kill him now! I know he's too close to use that long thing so throw it down and take out your… oh I dunno pick something you're the expert!”
More desperate to see blood and hear screams, his incoherence increased while his energy waned. “I! Order! You! I order all of you! Kill the man to your right… right there next to you! He's a traitor and if you let him live then you a traitor! So, kill yourself!”
This new tactic emboldened him, believing he’d found the magic that would grant his dearest wish. “All of you kill yourselves right now, every single last man! Haha! Got’cha! That’s it! C’mon traitors, kill yourselves this instant! Die! Die now!”
His flicker of hope dissipated quickly. The Boy King's vicious tirade slowed and quieted as he finished his bizarre litany. He laid his arms on the stones and lowered his head to them, continuing to mumble, “Die. Oh, god, please die. Please, I’m saying please. Please, kill, somebody. Somebody please do what I say and kill, die. I am the king. I… am the king. I am… the king."
Even the flags stopped fluttering, so silent and still it was in that courtyard. All anybody could hear was that quiet, piteous, whining voice, repeating what was arguably the one true statement he had ever uttered in his entire life. He was, in fact, The King.
A sudden clang of iron on stone startled everyone to the soles of their feet. A unified gasp followed, as birds flushed from the castle walls. Everyone looked to the source of the sound.
He was, in fact, The King.
One of the guards had dropped his pike. He held both his hands clamped over his mouth, his chest and belly convulsing as if he struggled to expel something foreign or to avoid expelling something precious.
A burst of breath escaped through his fingers. Then another. He doubled over as if to spew the contents of his stomach. Six or seven open-throated laughs passed through the gates of his hands, emptying his lungs of air. He then drew breath, still through his fingers, before dropping to his knees, leaning forward onto his hands, and guffawing.
He laughed as if forced by a will not his own. When his lungs were again empty, he inhaled deeply and repeated the pattern, ending with a series of short chokes, laughs without air, and pounded the cobbled street with his fist.
The guard's laughter worked on the others the way a spark matures into a conflagration. Some of the men closest to him began chuckling, then laughing openly and turning to their compatriots on either side, jostling them by the shoulder or punching an arm. These men in turn took to smiling, then giggling, then working their way through chortles and chuckles before giving up hope of control and haw-hawing openly.
The people themselves were too frightened, at first, to let the happy noises reach their hearts. It was a child, a young girl, who became the vector of levity that carried the infection from the soldiers to the civilians. She giggled, her eyes still on the first guard, a child's giggle that would melt the resolve of the most hard-hearted cynic.
Some of the other children joined in, counterpoint to her melody, then some women, then some men. Before long, as a single flame that finds air and fuel grows to engulf everything it touches, every human being in that courtyard was overcome with merriment, joviality, hysterics, and cheer.
She giggled, her eyes still on the first guard, a child's giggle that would melt the resolve of the most hard-hearted cynic.
Guards threw down their pikes and struggled out of their mail shirts, the better to breathe and go for another round of howling hilarity. Many of them were still on their feet, if barely, but the people were weakened from the first outburst, so most were back on the ground in various states of helplessness.
The children danced circles around the guardsmen, chortling and slapping the laughing men's bottoms in a dare they knew would draw no punishment in this special moment. Even the captain and lieutenant on the balcony were cackling, leaning against the parapet to keep from falling over, red-faced, and breathless.
When the Boy King raised his head and looked out over the courtyard, a change could be seen sweeping over his pug-like face and squat body. Some later said it was like a door swinging shut and the key turning in the lock. All emotion faded. His eyes went dull and his gaze unfocused. His mouth went slack. His shoulders drooped and his arms hung limply at his sides.
Later, doctors decided that his mind had shut out the world. Nature took pity on the man devoid of pity. Nature alleviated the pain of the man who inflicted pain at every opportunity. Nature pardoned the man who was, in the mind of everyone who ever knew him, unpardonable.
Slowly, with the gestures and gait of a wooden marionette, the Boy King turned away from the crowd and walked slowly back to the castle. The lords and ladies watching from the door, themselves laughing regally and doing all they could to avoid falling over and soiling their ornate clothes, stepped back to let him pass. He entered and walked the length of the throne room, his hands at his sides, his face a dull mask. Heaving his corpulence onto the throne and shifting his bulk a time or two to settle in, he laid his hands limply in his lap and stared into the distance.
Nature pardoned the man who was, in the mind of everyone who ever knew him, unpardonable.
From that very minute, the kingdom had no king. His Royal Uselessness didn't realize this, and never would. Within minutes he was again giving orders and making proclamations as if nothing had changed. In his mind he still was king, and a king gave orders and decreed laws. Everyone in earshot laughed at him, ignored him and walked away, or proffered some rude gesture, but he didn’t notice.
"I speak!" he shouted, only to be answered by the First Scribe, flirting with one of the courtiers, "I fart!"
...
What the people did next to rebuild the kingdom and their lives was as simple as the old ways were complex. The Boy King had no heir, thank God and All His Angels, so the people agreed to a system of sharing the role of leader by lottery.
Names of all adult men and women were written on slips of parchment. These were put in a wooden box made for the occasion, with a hole cut in the top. A child was asked to reach inside and draw a name. That person became First Citizen for a year. Another child would do the same, and another, and another, until eight more names were drawn. These became the First Citizen's Council, who would vote on propositions, the First Citizen providing the tie-breaking vote when needed.
Those who performed a year's duty were not to hold the position again. New names were added as young people came of age. The First Citizen and the Council were not to be jobs, or positions of power and wealth, in any case. The leaders met occasionally for regular business or when needed for an emergency. That is how we do things to this very day.
What you see around you today is the result of such wise rule: the people are flourishing. The land is fruitful, neighbors are helpful, merchants are honest. The few quarrels, fights and petty crimes are handled fairly and swiftly by magistrates hand-picked by the Council for their wisdom and sense of justice.
And the people laugh. They laugh at the drop of a hat. They laugh at themselves, at each other, at silly jokes and odd happenings.
As for His Majesty the Moron, he remained king of his own world. He took to wandering the halls of the castle shouting "I speak" and making proclamations that were never written down, blathering on about nothing in thousands of words. The cooks still made meals for him. He ate in his chamber, sitting on the bed with a bowl on his lap, his addled mind still devising odd statements he mumbled to himself between slurps of soup.
And the people laugh. They laugh at the drop of a hat.
One day a few months later, he disappeared. A search was organized, but to be honest, it was not given the best effort. He has not been seen since.
Now, the only time he comes to mind is on Saint Mirth's Day. That wonderful festival is our national celebration of freedom, and no one misses The Gathering for the Speech if they can manage it. Even women in active labor have been known to show up, and one or two brought her child into the world during the merriment. The first sound reaching the baby's ears was the laughter from scores of hearts.
And so, on the morning of each Saint Mirth's Day, we gather in the courtyard of the castle awaiting the main event: "King for a Day". Contestants take turns on the balcony, performing their best imitation of the Crazy Khan, to deliver a speech of their own composition. Each is judged on costume and makeup, text, and delivery. The winner is crowned Sovereign of Silliness for a day, feted and fawned over, bowed to by all, hailed as the hero of the people. The best cooks in the land then prepare and serve everyone “The King’s Supper”, breaded fish with dill, lemon, and crumbled bacon. Men and women have won the honor, and it is the high point of every year.
My costume is nearly ready.
Look for future announcements about Killing Buddhas, the second novel in my Eden Ridge series, coming this fall!
When the guru who inspired Alan Wright’s ministry comes to Eden Ridge then turns up dead, the legend of a great man begins to unravel. Branden Frank helped millions find happiness, but his private life holds secrets that shake Alan's admiration and confuse the search for truth.
Alan and The Little Red Hens race to untangle the many knotted threads and find the truth. Meanwhile, Alan is in the crosshairs of a conspiracy cult called NotAGod, who accuse Alan of killing his mentor in a Satanic ritual. With Eden Ridge already in turmoil, a teenage boy and girl go missing in a dangerous storm, and the race to find them turns into a life-or-death confrontation that solves the mystery but leaves as many questions as it answers.
While you're waiting for the sequel, read the first in the series, available now!
My first novel, Where You Will Die, is available now exclusively on Amazon in Kindle and paperback.
"This philosophical mystery will captivate readers thanks to a winning cast and setting."- Kirkus Reviews
"Quirky, engaging whodunit." - Rick George, author of Sinister Refuge
"The story is beautifully written and is compelling and gratifying." - Alma Boucher for Readers' Favorite
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