“Those are for someone like me,” the boy said.
“Aye,” the man responded. “I was your age when they were given to me.”
“By whom?” the boy asked.
The man choked up. He wanted to find the words. He was proud of the gifts he had been given throughout the course of his life and honored to have met such wonderful people. His bottom lip quivered uncontrollably. His nose stung. His face was a dam that could no longer stop the raging rapids of his heart. And so it broke, spilling tears down his cheeks.
The boy started to get up, but the man raised his hand as if to tell him that everything’s fine. The man wiped his eyes, but the tears would not be denied.
The boy knew some of the tales from his father’s epic journey. He knew how tough and strong and courageous his father was. He knew how dangerous his father had to be in order to wield the power that he did. It was a deeply humbling experience to behold such a legendary man in such a vulnerable state.
The boy’s face showed sympathy. He could not pretend to know his father’s pain. He only had his own, but that’s what made each of them the same. He opened the breast of his tunic and withdrew a handkerchief. He offered it to his father.
The man withdrew his trembling hands from his face and stared at the boy’s offering. “Do you think of me as a coward?”
“No,” the boy said calmly. “I too have wept for the past. I too have lost what I loved.”
Life tormented the man’s son just as it had tormented him. In this moment the man knew that fate had chosen them. He did not know whether it was making a game of them or if it needed them to correct all the mistakes of the past, but he knew fate had decided that it was the boy from the desert who would pick up where the boy from the forest left off.
“Sometimes,” the man responded. “When things fall apart, they may actually be falling into place. Accept and honor that which the present moment gifts you.”
The boy tried to think of all the bad things that happened in his life, that they could somehow be constructing the bridge to his future in a positive way.
“I may not,” he started, but his trembling voiced caused him to pause. “I don’t know that I can.”
The man empathized with his son. “Parts of you may die, never to be seen again.” He leaned in. “But have faith that new parts of you may be born, that you may evolve into the man you wish to be.”
“Did you become the man you wished to be?” the boy asked.
The man was quick to shake his head. “No, I couldn’t be further from it.” A pleasant expression overturned the sorrow in the man’s face. “But that has made all the difference.”
The boy felt at ease with the way the man carried himself. He admired his humility. The man didn’t seem to care about his pride or what others thought of him. Perhaps it was just a way of disarming those around him. Regardless of motive, it worked, and the boy’s eyes were drawn upon two wind instruments mounted on the wall above the fireplace. He had never seen anything like them before, but they looked like the same type of instrument that Taliesin used during the Great War. One of them was wooden and earthy in appearance, as though crafted from the forest. The other was glossy-blue and pristine, like porcelain that was crafted from the sky. The boy found it strange to speak of someone he had no way of knowing had it not been for his father’s potion.
“Did those belong to Taliesin?” he asked.
The man looked up at the xuns. His eyes were crestfallen yet they brimmed with gratitude. “It was difficult for me to understand through the brume of pain and suffering,” he replied. “But I am most grateful that those items cause me such pain now. Were it not for the pain of my yesteryears, I would not have attained the love I am graced with today.”
The boy didn’t get an answer but he hid his frustration. The man remained silent in order to allow him to discover one artifact in particular that would distract the boy and prevent him from discovering the power of the xuns. Sure enough, the object caught the boy’s eye and revealed itself near the bottom of the heap in the corner. Its allure drew the boy up from his seat. He walked over to the dark corner and knelt down. The man returned to gazing at the fire.
A wave of shock washed over the boy as he picked up the most symbolic and powerful relic in all the land. He could not believe it was buried in an old pile of junk, barely making its presence known. Were it not for the glints of silver and gold mixed with the faint reflection of light from its jewels, this item would be unnoticeable. Yet, for lifetimes it was the most recognizable regalia in all of Caliphweald. It was the King’s Crown.
“There are only two ways to enslave a nation,” the man said. He didn’t bother looking away from the hearth fire.
The silence gnawed at the boy’s soul until he couldn’t take it. “Will you tell me?”
The man was weary of answering, given boy’s bloodline’s lust for conquest, but at the same time to understand these tactics is paramount to preventing them. “One is by the sword.” He reached into his pocket and took out a silver round. He tossed the precious metal to the boy.
The boy caught the coin and examined it. Its luster reflected the hearth fire’s glow. “What’s the other way?”
The man pointed to the coin. “Debt. If you control the money supply, you control the people.”
The boy held the crown dearly. He knew that he was one untimely death from becoming the rightful heir.
“If you decide to wear that,” the man continued. “You shall spread nothing but debt and death upon your people.”
“I would make a good king,” the boy replied.
“Do not be fooled by its illusions,” the man said. “It is merely a tool for enslavement.”
“I would never enslave my people,” the boy replied.
“Your subjects are not mine,” the man said.
The boy’s fingers moved across his forehead as he chose his words. “I meant those under my rule.”
“Your decision to talk to me about being king over all other matters is disappointing,” the man responded.
“Not as disappointing as the Shadean secrets you keep to yourself,” the boy said. “You just sent me into the middle of a war. I don’t know what I’m seeing. I have questions yet you won’t answer them.”
The man could sense the silent tantrum being thrown within the boy’s mind. “A good teacher tells you where to look, be he does not tell you what to see. He lets you decide for yourself.”
“I have,” the boy responded. “Not one man you’ve shown me was fit to rule anything, including yourself.”
“Right you are,” the man replied. “You shall never find a man that is fit to rule another. There are only those who seek to.”
“I’ve found a man fit to rule,” the boy said.
“Where is he?” the man asked.
“You’re looking at him,” the boy replied.
This provoked the man to awaken from his disimpassioned posture and face the boy sternly. He took a moment to allow the boy to stare into the abyss of his gaze.
The man’s irises appeared as though they swallowed dusk. It was so intense that the boy feared the man’s glare would swallow him next. The confidence that had grown inside the boy instantly fled from him. If he had guardian angels, they too fled the room. Nothing dared be present for such scrutiny.
An awful smile broke across the man’s face. It churned the boy’s innards. “Celebrated men lay dead at my feet for that type of ambition. It gave my life a great sense of purpose to kill them.”
The boy’s palms were clammy. They were so cold that the metal in his hand felt warm. He carefully placed the crown back where it belonged. In a subtle whimper, the words fell from his mouth. “Do you know what they call you?”
His question was met by silence.
“They call you The Peddler of Death,” the boy continued. “They say the only reason you didn’t wipe out my people was because of me.”
“They’re not wrong,” the man responded. “Caliph
ians may be obsessed with your nation’s beauty, but I know better. Beauty promises everything yet delivers nothing. It’d be no shame to me if a race of desert fowl disappeared off the map.”
The boy’s tone grew indignant. “How dare you! Have you any idea what it’s like for me to have my people refer to me as The Son of The Peddler of Death? It’s a disgrace!”
“Tell me something… what does a hero look like to you?” His question was met by the boy’s concerned stare.
“I don’t know,” the boy replied.
“What about a murderer?” the man asked. “Do you know what a murderer looks like?”
The boy stared hard into the man’s eyes.
The man waited patiently for the response he was looking for. Finally, it came.
“You,” the boy said.
The man cast an awful smirk. “Good lad.” He turned his head back towards the window and stared in silence.
“My grandfather had that type of ambition,” the boy said.
The man’s posture sank back into apathy. “Aye.”
“And so you slew him?” the boy asked.
The man could not have been more at peace with himself.
“I rather enjoyed it,” he said. “I grew up parentless in a foreign land because of your grandfather.”
The boy was confused. It was a simple truth. Nevertheless, confronting it handicapped his ability to reason. “That was him in the desert, wasn’t it?”
“I woke you up before you would witness your grandfathers murdering each other,” the man said. His eyes burned with hatred.
The truth stole the boy’s breath. He felt suffocated by its weight.
The man’s stare grew distant, his tone sarcastic. “You are the fruit of a family tree that chops itself down.”
There was a long silence. The boy waited patiently. His stare eventually drew the man to look at him. The man tilted his head and assessed what the boy was thinking about. “And so you see me as a murderer.”
The boy looked down with uncertainty. In his heart, he longed to have a single reason to be proud of his father. “My mum said you did it to save our lives.”
“Ah,” the man replied. “And so she sees me as a hero.”
The boy nodded.
“So I am both,” the man continued. “Neither of which I wanted to be.”
“But you are,” the boy said.
“They are one in the same,” the man responded. “It matters not what choices you make, some will perceive you as a hero, and others as a murderer. But I suppose ‘tis better to be alive as one of those than to be dead as something else.”
“But you were alive as king,” the boy said.
The man raised his chin slightly. The look in his eyes owned up to the accusation.
“Why did you do it then?” the boy asked. “Why did you give up our wealth and power?”
“I didn’t give it up,” the man replied. “I gave it back. Our wealth was accumulated over centuries through theft, cloaked under the guise of law and justice. Our power was amassed by the unwitting consent of a population whose minds were drowned in an ocean of fear. The theft began under the Royal Family’s rule and then it continued under your grandfather’s rule. No man who lives in such a manner can be free, not even the ones on the right side of the equation.”
“Not everyone sees it that way,” the boy responded.
“Someday,” the man said. “When everything you love is gone, when the ways of life you cherished have been destroyed, you shall discover that you cannot eat wealth or power. I endured such terrible realizations. It would be wise of you to learn from my past.”
Silence filled the room again. The man approached the window. The wind outside haunted the landscape. He watched it dance with the powdered snow. “Even now, it calls us.” He glanced back and saw himself in his son for the first time. His demeanor softened. “Do you want to know a secret?”
Surprise washed over the boy’s face. The man raised his brow as if to ask the question again. The boy gave him an eager nod.
“You saw that my mother was a Nord,” the man continued. “Do you know what that means?”
The boy shook his head.
“It means you can refuse to wear the clothes that the gods wove for you,” the man boldly stated. “You can decline their invitations because nothing other than you shall decide your fate. That’s how you were able to make it here alive.”
“Because my grandmother was a Nord?” the boy asked.
“It’s in your blood. You can brave the elements,” the man replied.
His posture became dignified. His tone grew passionate. He tapped the window. “That storm is your life. You can slap nature in the face and walk out into it bare-arsed if you’d like. Sometimes the gods shall test you merely to see if you have it in you to do it.”
“Why?” the boy asked.
“Because it is in those moments that you honor your creators most,” the man replied. “You make it known that you are free, that the garments of fate shall not adorn you. In confronting the gods, you honor them with your rebellion, for they created you for it. By doing so you choose to return to them, and thus you show them that they are worthiest of your greatest declaration, the declaration of your independence. It is in this moment that you prove yourself worthy of all their efforts.”
“What if they punish me for being foolish, for knowing it’s not safe and doing it anyway?” the boy asked.
The man sat back down in his plush chair. “Life is not safe, nor was it ever meant to be. Safety is predictable. Safety is nothing more than boring theatre. It is when you discard the illusion of safety and step outside the realm of comfort that life truly begins. This is what it is to be a man.”
The boy mustered his courage. “I want to know why you left me. I don’t want to see it in a dream. I want to hear it from you.”
“But I didn’t,” the man replied. “I have you right here, along with everything I ever wanted. My wife and my beautiful children… all of them healthy. You are healthy, are you not?”
The boy nodded.
“Your mother and I had an arrangement,” the man continued. “She wanted it this way. You were insurance for her and your people, that I would not invade her kingdom because she knew I would never risk the life of my son.”
Confused silence painted a blank stare upon the boy’s face.
“She helped me kill the King,” the man continued. “Did she not show you the blood on her hands?”
The boy shook his head in shock.
“Funny how the whole truth is never convenient to one’s designs,” the man said. “The only things I left behind were a way of life that did not resonate with me and the toxic people who enabled it. Had I not done that, I would not be here with you.”
“You cannot possibly know that,” the boy said.
“I know it because it is,” the man replied. “You cannot know otherwise because what you think could have happened, did not. Right now is the truth. You and I, here, are the truth.”
The boy softened.
The man could not tell if the boy felt defeat or if forgiveness was creeping into his heart. “A power structure that spread nothing but death and debt ruled the earth. Good people yielded their minds and souls to this power structure's iniquitous illusions and false promises. They tricked us into believing that heaven was far away so that we’d forget we were actually there. They divided us with imaginary lines and imaginary beliefs.”
The man sank back into his seat. They sat in silence as the fire popped for attention. It crackled when it received glances, but hissed when it did not.
The boy felt himself about to address someone for the first time in his life with this word. “Papa?”
The man heard the boy acknowledge him with the only title that ever mattered. It caught him off guard. The boy waited for him to say something, but the man could only muster a melancholy stare.
“Are you upset with me?” the boy asked. “That I came looking for you?�
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“Do you know what evil looks like, son?” the man responded.
The boy shook his head.
“It's one thing to be aware of the evil things out there,” the man continued. “To be able to recognize them and think that because you do, you are fit to lead, or rule as you put it, is a grave mistake. At the end of the day all of our troubles start and stop with us. Evil hath no face but our own.”
“How are we the evil ones?” the boy asked.
The man pointed to the silver coin in the boy’s lap. “My father’s people helped sustain the illusion of a banking system that stopped using those. But even that was only as powerful as those who were willing to sign on to their debts. If individuals did not take their loans or their handouts, then they never would have yielded their power to them.”
“But my mum owns banks,” the boy said.
“Aye,” the man replied. “The entire western world is dependent upon them. They play a dangerous game of musical chairs. The only difference is that those left without a chair become slaves.”
“What is the solution?” the boy asked.
“If you don’t hold something, you don’t own it,” the man responded. “Before I was king, no person had allodial title to his property outside the ruling class. Enabling that right for everyone was my greatest achievement for freedom. It was instrumental that all property be allodial once it was paid for. You have freedom in Caliphweald because you do not answer to a government or its tax collectors. You answer to no man but yourself.”
The boy’s eyes drifted to the weapons on the wall.
“Those are no good either,” the man said. “They’re as dangerous as the crown.”
“But if we were to use them for good,” the boy started.
The man cut him off. “Is that what you saw in the Great War, weapons being used for good?”
The boy realized his own logic was flawed. “No.”
“Nothing is as dangerous as the blind ambition of the youth,” the man said. “Our military was only as powerful as the young men that were willing to sacrifice their lives for an ideal of freedom. It was your mother who taught me this.”
The Tale of Onora: The Boy and the Peddler of Death Page 8