Game of Destiny, Book I: Willow

by J Seab

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  The door off the platform opens and there is a bustle outside. The crowd quiets, heads turn toward the platform. Stools are adjusted for a better view.

  A man enters carrying a set of three bongo drums mounted on a stand. He walks to the opposite end of the platform and sets up. A large backdrop of distant mountains and a sandy shoreline hangs on the back wall. A palace with a golden dome is seen nestled against the mountains in the near distance.

  Another man emerges, jumps off the platform, and walks along the front, turning on the lamps spaced along its edge. He then walks around the periphery of the common room and turns off all the lamps mounted on the walls. He steps back onto the platform and exits.

  A minute passes, then two.

  Thump—a-thump—thump beat the bongos.

  The drummer beats out a tattoo, the sound quickly rising in volume. It ends with a flourish.

  Another man, dressed in a flowing gray robe and holding a black mask with bright-red stars around the eyeholes, struts from the door and crosses to center stage. A boy immediately follows, carrying a jagged-edged, blue cardboard cutout about two meters long that is painted with ocean waves. He moves it up and down as he follows the actor.

  The actor turns toward the audience. The boy rocks the wave cutout behind him.

  Thumpaty—thumpaty—thump. The bongos beat a quiet rhythm as the actor speaks, his arm sweeping wide before him.

  “The tale I speak this ominous night is one of foreboding and dire consequence.”

  THUMP—a-thump—THUMP emphasize the bongos. A sudden breeze blows in from the open door flaring out his long, dark hair and billowing his robe.

  A hushed murmur undulates through the crowd.

  “It is a tale of defeat but not of shame.” The narrator sweeps his arm again, holding it out as he poses, his back rigid. “For it is a tale of courage born of need, a tale that wells from a heart of compassion and the strength of conviction.” He begins sidestepping toward the far side of the platform. The boy remains at center stage and continues rocking the wave cutout. The beat of the bongos slows, becomes deeper, a steady heartbeat throb pounding in the background.

  Another actor shuffles from the door dressed in a mauve robe holding a white mask set with a determined look, its eyes squinting and lips compressed. He carries a long sword and whirls it about as he approaches the center stage.

  “Behold!” the narrator says, swinging his arm toward the second actor. “The Hero comes now, sailing across the sea to meet his fate. He comes with fear but it’s the fear of courage not the fear of cowardice. While others cower beneath their cloaks, he stands tall, proud, and faces the enemies that steal the bounty from our lands, draining the blood from our bodies.” Now yelling, he thrusts his arm up, his fist clenched. “He sails to his destiny wielding the sword of truth and the anger of righteousness.”

  Tha-THUMP bangs the bongos.

  “Thunder crashes, winds rise, rains pound in,” the narrator shouts, his voice deep, throbbing with the beat of the bongos. He lowers his arm to his side. “But our Hero stands resolute against the dark forces gathering before him.” He then steps back against the wall and lowers his head.

  The boy rocks the wave cutout more vigorously. The Hero braces himself with his sword, swaying as if battling a gale. The bongo drums bang a frenzy of arrhythmic cacophony. Two other actors enter the door unobtrusively, slide along the back wall, and stop near the far end of the backdrop, their heads bowed, facing the Hero. They wear short, gold robes trimmed with sparkling glitter. Each man holds a mask in one hand with a wide, up-turned grin and big eyes. Their other hands conceal something behind their backs in the folds of their robes. Their heads are covered with caps sparkling with chips of colored glass.

  The Hero struggles toward them, pushing with his sword, his body bent forward.

  The crash of the bongos begins to recede. The boy slides toward the door, leaves the cutout standing before it, and exits.

  With a final discordant flurry, the bongos go quiet.

  The Hero boldly steps forward, turns to face the gold robes, sword planted before him. “Stand aside!” he commands.

  “We will not,” one states disdainfully.

  “You must,” the Hero responds firmly. “Our people grow hungry, our women and children fearful, our future bleak.”

  “We will not,” the other states. “Such are not our concerns.”

  “We serve the land…,” the first begins.

  “…as must you,” the other finishes.

  “If you do not, the land will provide for no one,” they conclude in unison.

  “This is not so,” the Hero says, his anger escalating. “The land provides what is demanded of it. It’s not the land that holds us in slavery to it,” he shouts, raising his sword. “It’s you!” He steps back. The bongos begin a soft, staccato beat. “You steal the choicest fruits of our labor while you rest in comfort,” he says, indicating the palace painted onto the backdrop. “You demand we follow a law tailored to serve you while claiming it just and right to do so.”

  A buxom woman, scantily clad in a short shirt torn into long, ragged strips, slides through the door and crouches behind the wave cutout. The boy, wearing a dirty-looking shirt and pants, joins her. The woman rises, sways, and clasps her hands in supplication. Her expression alternates between hope and despair as the Hero speaks. As she shifts, the ragged shirt falls open, revealing smooth, white skin, a curve of breast or hip. The boy, crouching, sobs in great silent heaves next to her.

  The spectators jostle about, their eyes jumping between the woman and the Hero.

  The Hero steps back another pace, closer to the woman and boy, and nods in their direction. “Look upon them,” he demands. “Look upon the rags they must wear, the poor food they must consume. Look upon their hunger ravaged bodies. Look into their eyes, see the suffering there.”

  The woman continues to sway and turn, her body rising and falling behind the wave cutout. The bongos beat a mournful tune in the background. A couple of men seated in the back stand, craning their necks.

  It doesn’t appear that anyone is looking into her eyes.

  “I demand again,” shouts the Hero. “Stand aside!”

  The woman and boy drop back into a low crouch behind the wave cutout, watching the Hero, hope blooming on their faces.

  The two gold robes stride forward, pulling short staffs from behind their backs. They advance on the Hero, speaking in unison. “You cannot prevail.”

  At first, the Hero crouches, holds his sword defensively before him. But then, squaring his shoulders, he stands tall, prepared for battle.

  The gold robes swing their staffs in from the side. The Hero manages to dodge one but is clipped on the head with the other. The blow is accompanied by a loud THUMP from the bongos. He staggers back, almost dropping his sword. He recovers, swings at one gold robe. The gold robe blocks the swing with his staff while the other moves in. The actors continue to battle back and forth across the platform but their motions slow, as if in parody.

  The narrator steps forward and raises his hand. “The battle lasts for many hours, the Hero standing alone against the hordes of gold robes. His heart of compassion gives him endurance, his strength of conviction gives him the power to fight on. In the end, despite heroic effort, he cannot prevail, alone and abandoned by those he counted as friends. Cut and bruised beyond measure, our Hero drops back, knowing that he must abandon this fight for now.”

  The Hero begins back stepping, edging toward the front of the platform. The boy picks up the wave cutout and returns to center stage. The woman remains crouched low.

  The Hero slides backward, stooped from exhaustion, waving his sword in defiance until he’s in front of the wave cutout. The gold robes stop, watch him depart, and shake their smiling masks up and down, laughing without voice. The bongos beat a low, slow rhythm.

  “Our Hero returns home, beaten but not defeated,” the narrator continues, as wave and Hero slowly
slide toward the door. “For he steers a course of valor and righteousness which can never be defeated!”

  The woman stands as the Hero approaches. She leaps into his arms. They kiss passionately; he clutches her firmly against him. As they slide out the door, he leans back in, raises a fist, and shouts, “I’ll be back.”