Day Nine: A Fable About the Implied Power of Monarchies
by Tom Noonan
The village below was complete with joy. The Son was of age, and his people prepared for a coronation. Foam spotted the roads in shrinking puddles; beer had been delivered for the celebration.
Up above the village, The Son sat and watched the small dots pulsing below. They moved like blood through thin veins splitting rows of houses. The Son wore the robe that had been spun while his mother held him in her womb. It had stood in his closest, untouched, till today. He looked at its threads. They were seamless, not showing any hint of what was underneath. The Complete Father joined him by the window.
“I’ve been trying to decide whether they are celebrating your birth or my death,” The Complete Father said, his voice filling all space.
“You are not dead yet, Father. They are celebrating their right to celebrate. Not you or me. They celebrate each other.”
“Before it begins, I must give you something.” The Son turned from the window to face his father, who was holding forward an object The Son didn’t recognize. It moved in waves, cresting and breaking, its peaks changing in size. It was silent.
“What is it?”
“A story. It is what you will give to the world below you; what you will tell them. It will direct them, and teach them, without their full understanding of its existence. This story will form to your words and principles. It will build the world you want. It will be their reason to follow you.”
“But it’s already yours. It moves with your words, not mine.”
“Not anymore,” The Father said, the object beginning to lose shape in his hands. “Today this story will change. It will be without form once again, and it will be up to you to shape it. The way it develops, the structure it takes, will determine what type of leader you will be. This is your power.”
“Can I hear your story?” The Son felt consumed in his robe.
“It doesn’t work like that. You need your own. It needs to come from you. Just know that every part, every word, will have an effect. None of it will be forgotten.”
And so The Son went out above the crowd, and their roar echoed across the mountains. He held the story in his hands as he spoke. And so the story moved, and grew, spreading over the village and coming to rest on its streets and in its homes. He heard the voices sing and praise and cry.
And so everyday they pulsed, flowing through the streets, and, above them, the story’s crests soared above the mountaintops.