The Seven Days of Wander

by Broken Walls Publishing

that brings more dread of shadow amongst all who gather, this is the fire of the less king. It's tiny flicker serves only to multiply the doubt in illuminating the eyes of all to hunger from men to panther, its dimness sees every leg from chair to cripple as a step to rebellion or escape. The lesser king is drenched in too little light to judge each one, yet there is too little darkness for his arm to hold blind. it is his dimness that gropes and judges all by their empty throats inside his grip.

  The greater king horrors, cringes not the one to one which he can clearly judge to his gazing eyes. All are tools to his purpose and in that, becomes unique as tools.

  Each man in his purpose has his physical element as his influence, as well as mind and spirit. All that he is physically, his mind and spirit use in this contest of purpose. Skin, culture, race, the size of his feet do not make him equal to other men, neither do they make him unequal. Equality is neither a number of addition or subtraction but is a judgement and the judgement is to be done in whole parts.

  for the greater king looks upon men as we look upon trees. For one tree is much greater in height, yet the shorter tree has more capacity for growth, can still be bent to a new purpose and will withstand winds better than a stiff rooted stand. Or he will look upon men as weapon. The long upon men as weapons. The long spear is neither equal or unequal to the shield and sword. Each has its own peculiar thrust in design.

  For a man thus used his skin as a sword or a stick in this contest. That one man's skin is a sword and another is perceived to be only a stick, is no salvation to the sword. For the mind and spirit whirling the stick can easily subdue the sword if that spirit is weak, as is likely in its incautious stance.

  This the greater king knows; that spirit drives destiny, not skin. That the inequalities of man to man lie in spirit only and here the king's vision judges for his purpose.

  King Hindus: Yet still, Beggar, there is less of a man in slave for had not the state of slavery been called that of the lowest spirit?

  Beggar: Yes but the caution is again to note cause breeding effect. For the slave is lowly of spirit because of the slavery not a slave because his is lowly of spirit. In the forcible containment of will, the spirit flounders, nay, it slumps since it has no exercise in a cage, gilded or not.

  King Hindus: But your claim is of the greater king as a slave to his vision. Yet you deny his spirit any crying, how so? Beggar: His slavery is chosen! He is a slave in all that he would need or desire or possess is laid sacrifice to the altar of his destiny. but it is he who would choose such worship! And those who follow him, whether man, slave, guard, beggar, lion, dog or chair will choose to do so whether in the glimpse of his vision or the whirling pool of his greatness or in the innate desire of all men to see and participate in wonders, just as mobs flock to great fires or gaze at the churn of storms.

  In a truly great vision, it is of no matter who was free and who was not, all become freely chained to the destiny.

  But should the great king close his eyes to the vision, then the momentum of history's gallop ceases instantly. And then the chaining of rattles, the chains in such a vengeful roar that the thunder scurries to other skies. For now the king robs not freedom, this was given freely but he has forfeited their will full destiny. One does not lightly steal honey from the bee or the fallen calf from the jaws of desperate packs.

  so you can see, King Hindus, that once the vision is birthed from a brow's horizon the world for a time is uprooted. All things run, gallop, limp, roll, crawl to the embrace of this scented virgin. Whether history calls it lust or purpose is no matter, the matter for the great king is whether history remembers to call it anything at all.

  In returning to our pool of stale wine, the great king may spare the entire flock and thereby turn the flutterings of sparrows into the loyalty of eagles. He may sell them cheaply as a favour to a disgruntled follower who may have felt diminished on some previous undertaking. He may indeed kill them all but the killing will be to the need of the vision, not the blame of the slave. Heads may roll but the thunder bring new rain not a splash of old murk.

  So to this example, King Hindus, have we not seen that he would be master there his slaves is left mastered by his slaves. That power unreined by will can only be flung by frightened hands, much as a boulder is let slip down a hill by week arms. That those burdened to be blind masters, guide their whips by long ears, scenting the scape of a heel, whether friend or foe, guard or slave, till in the end, they tremble upon their own footsteps. In their slavery to this slavery, any vision, any greatness quickly falls prey to this beast thy send devouring amongst all including themselves: Beware! And well they should, for men will not follow darkness, no gnashing of teeth replaces a battle form.

  If slaves are killed to kill slaves, what of it? History has no care of this. She will say: If a man kills because he has a sword, preaches because he carries an idol, commands because he wears a crown, that is nothing. For are there not dogs who growl when they have a bone and bark when they don't.

  History is blind to abuse, yet treasures full use. She will pass without a glance a king carried a litter borne by a hundred slaves but she will sing evermore the praise of a man who bore his wounded brother over three mountains!

  King Hindus: Beggar, you condemn our poor little king as blind yet he is nonetheless laden with power, like a great bull elephant stabled in a glass shop, what's to be done? With this, the King closed his eyes, folded his arms and listened with a cocked ear.

  Beggar: Few men are truly blind, King Hindus but, rather, their necks, their spirits have sagged whether in laziness or from burden. Their vision is cast downward. It is as if in the calling of a slave, a slave one puts their eyes to the ground where the will trains to this scuffle. Even if freed, even if the word slave is removed, the spirit remains to the word slave.

  Yet if by some charge or miracle or brotherhood, that vision can be lifted to a level world, a new focus will greet the man's or king's journey. His eyes will grasp new horizons and his heart beat to plunder them. Sometimes his brothers must hold his head up a long time before the neck can reline its purpose.

  There are some whom vision will never be. Their power must be removed. If the men around do not do it for this sake, then surely history will, with the grasp of a greater man, for history's sake.

  So I would plead, King Hindus, that if you kill the slaves today in the light of some great distant vision that is so far removed from mortal grasp that a beggar's cold shadow has no claim of it, then do so. History will mark it profoundly in the events to follow as only your high eagle scan can plot them.

  But if slave killings are but the stretch of a paw to show a king has a sword and the thirst to dip it, then cease.

  For all know kings have command and masters have slaves, history has no call for further demonstration.

  But the masses huddle in the long razor green and whispers at the lion's form. They know its power by huge pawed in the sun. They know its terror by its talons unsheathed in a stretch of yawn. Its speed panting lightly in a mountain of brown. Its mercy known to the whip or soft lay of a tail. Its manhood flaunted grand of a black mane. Nobility engraved on its face with a nose scenting for pleasure even in slumber. Of its ears twitching for wisdom. All this they know of a slumbering lion.

  As they sit their tiny lives and destinies bundled and cradled in their squat of laps.

  What they do not know, nay, what they crave to know, is which way will they journey when it opens its eyes.

  Will they follow its majestic stride across history or will they once again merely run from terror?

  This said, the Beggar bowed to the floor giving sign of his finish.

  King Hindus opened one eye and said: "Why should then I not have you beheaded?"To this the Beggar replied, still bowing: Because you can.

  King Hindus laughed in a ring of understanding and opened both eyes. "It has been a delight; your vagrant flowering of this garden. And as you said a king does not need step on a fl
ower just because his stride is great. You may live. As to the slaves, they must die. The Beggar glanced up.

  King Hindus raised his hand slightly:“DO NOT SPEAK OF THIS MATTER ANYMORE. If your whispers had seduced my ear another day before, they may or may not have lived.

  But this day a king's order was given life; once spoken, once of issue from the loins of a kingly mind, it must find its womb in deed. This contains the birthing of obedience. Duty to the order is absolute, debate alone crumbles destiny.

  By your own thoughts those who doubt have no place in the lead, hence a leader can allow no doubt. The king is a storm; lightning must obey thunder. Those who would plead where it strikes should not beg the spilling of rain."

  With that King Hindus snapped his fingers. "Guards, put this Beggar in a cell with food. In the morning, discard him to the streets. Now go."

  The sergeant and the Beggar were forced to crawl to the door as none could rise with the King sitting. They and the two guards went out.

  Kind Hindus turned to his scribe and spoke "What stirs your scalp of our dusty scrap?

  Scribean: I was surprised his life remained unspilled, as awful as it is.

  King Hindus: His death vision spelled uneasy to my heart. Call it the intuition of mercy but I felt his death would bring a bell tolling to my ears.