A Monarchical Mishap: Part I

By Omar Ateyah

Creative Writer

Preface

The Island, honored with the vestment of many pseudonyms, was on the verge of collapse, that point where leaning has become far too powerful and no sturdy anchor could secure it from impending and inevitable doom, due to the track it was treading.

The island had a monarchy, the old sort of divine righted, monarchy that made the residents of the average domiciles certified amoebas. Here was the frayed and disheartening Uno Constitution:

The Sun has a glorious ring to brighten and shine the otherwise woefully dark galaxy. Now, the Sun is a beauty, a blessing that rings the Earth (or, perhaps, the Earth rings it. However, both reasonings portray glory in its utmost form). However, the glory is often too sublime in its magnitude to allow for progenies; in other words, what sort of apocalyptic mayhems would occur if there were more than one sun besmirching our lands? No, there must only be one of that particular Celestial Patriarch for it to cast its shine and a powerful shine it is if God bequeaths upon you a fit master. Shines will be most effective one at a time for too many shines will call for shielded eyes and wilted lips and unhappiness of every form!

~ Signed King James I

And, since its engenderment, only one Monarch, one Magnificent Sun, has dared to sit on the throne decimating all sorts of attempts at Parliamentary, or otherwise governmental, intrusion by the citizenship; or else the ones who tried were unheard and then forcedly silenced. NOTE: The Monarchs were allowed to marry but only one of the pair may claim universal and uncensored ruler ship. Only progeny were allowed to inherit the throne, however, if there were none, then a spouse may rise to the occasion.

The List of Monarchs:

1. King James I- deceased, most probably due to poison from a long time stirring conspiracy

2. Queen Mary I- took a stroll into the everglades in the rear of the palace and never returned

3. Queen Mary II- one night exclaimed on behalf of her dead mother, “Leslie’s the one that’s done it! She’s had it in for the throne from the start! The two-eyed blood-lusting damsel actually lives in the everglades! William, bring me my horse! I enter the everglades on my own behalf!” Unfortunately, she did not return either.

4. King Richard I- Passed an edict declaring that all widows enter, either by volition or force, for a forced and arranged marriage. Naturally, the brothers and sons of these widows responded with a bit more than impertinence. Richard did not make it another fortnight once the order was passed.

5. King Edward I- Began the Lord System giving huge plots of lands to certain wealthy masons and merchants, who traded across the other islands in the Pax Portion (the name of the northern Portion of the Pacific Ocean at the time). Several of the Parliamentary supporters captured him. Apparently, (for rumors are cracked mirrors never usually reflecting a genuine image), his last words before being slain were, “I hope my successor passes an edict to allow ducklings to sing in the court’s choir!” He was often called D.D., meaning Delirious, then Dead.

6. Queen Elizabeth I- passed an edict to prepare a Navy, but unfortunately the expense was too high for the army and the numbers of men too low. She raised taxes until it reached the juncture of superfluous and her dual intention was exposed. The citizens and Parliamentary supporters revolted and Elizabeth escaped across the Pax Portion.

7. Queen Elizabeth II- Often referred to as “The Forgotten Queen” for obvious reasons; she was in the throne for about fifty-three years but was simply unmemorable and only died of old age, an achievement in the Island.

8. Queen Elizabeth III- Sixty years of grace, but an unfortunate group of lords invaded the palace and a few weeks later the aged queen passed away in her bed, the echo of the distress having reverberated greatly within her.

9. King Peter I- husband of Elizabeth III. He tried to introduce a new religion with him at the epicenter. He attempted to install ridiculous traditions and feasts to celebrate his own grandeur. Having been in other ways a virtuous king, he faced exile rather than execution when the lords and commoners agreed to no longer tolerate his abysmal nature behind the “divine” façade.

10. King Edward II- Peter’s Son. He did intend to strike a deal to try to engender the Parliament. Unfortunately, a large group of men chose to abide by the constitution of folly that was penned at the Island’s inception. Surprisingly, these men were comprised of commoners, those with the least rights due to the order. Apparently, they wished that “order” could only be maintained if they followed that darned age-old Constitution. The fools plotted with some lords and soldiers and threw the gentle king into the Pax Portion, drowning him.

11. Queen Mary III- She was remembered as the “Quiet Queen”. She neglected any sort of reform which did amount to peace although the Parliament supporters did protest with a vengeance at this time, but she simply sat in her corner watching with her grey eyes that seemed to be constantly swirling. It is believed she went into hiding.

12. Queen Elizabeth IV- She was the first queen to attempt to transform the island to a matriarchy, not only within the judicial courts and head lordship but also within the army. She failed and was seemingly humbled because she was hardly heard from until she died at a great age.

13. King James II- He was a man of action for the most part, certainly. He strengthened the judicial system and removed the superstitious means of deciding innocence and guilt. He placed sanctions on the Lord System, divesting them of some of their land for the sake of the commoners and as pacification instead of putting the Parliament into action! He then increased women’s roles in the military and developed a small yet stable navy. Eventually, however, he inexplicably ran out of steam and his inaction suddenly grew tedious and somnolent. Sensing the disapproval, James announced his resignation and left the Island.

14. King Mugwump I- Most notable achievement: Dubbing the Island as Mugwump Island. He set courtiers to settle squabbles over Parliament, never really accomplishing anything. He left behind three children: Ramos the Unknown, Elizabeth V, and Mary Sangre IV. Upon, Mugwump’s suicide by hopping into the Pax Portion, the story’s stage is set.

I.

In accordance to a conventional law of stories, this one begins with a family. Or rather, in accordance to the usual law because over-generalization is another one of those foibles of society and it would be a large bit of folly to poke criticism at one fault while using another one as steam for the narrative.

However, the family was known to Mugwump Island as the Parl family, the patriarch being the great proponent of Parliament himself, Demos Parl. Demos had a loveably and quietly sage wife simply dubbed as Lady Parl and that’s all there was to it. Demos’s face would be tinged with livid red and his eyes would be bubbles of rage if any soul dared to ask his wife’s name.

Moreover, Demos and Lady Parl had two children, male and female, known as Oliver and Stanton, respectively. The latter was often taunted for having a name that was tinged with masculinity but, given her father’s position, the cruel game would end fairly quickly.

Also, Stanton, even at a young age, fancied herself a defender of women’s liberty. Often she would walk straight up to the lads who laughed at her name and slap them, sharply on the cheek. She would then walk away, shoulders held firmly back, with an expression of smug triumph on her face. Little Lady Parl neglected the beauty of a humble victory, which is ultimately a failure to acknowledge that her position could have been far too easily swapped; in other words, she could have been the slapped, with a tomato painted face and a heart at shame.

Oliver was a further oddity of the Parl family; his role was weapon cleaning and the making of minor utility tools. However, most of the day he would stare up at the Royal Tower with long deep sighs of despair. He would lament at peculiar times about his monarchical longing, his most favorite of which was:

The Tower stands high and bold

With its façade of silver and gold

The Tower stands shimmering and clean

If only it would be my queen!

The Tower stands sturdy with power

Like strength in a deeply rooted flower

The ending of the song varied, depending on Oliver’s state of mind at the time. Demos would often chastise his son vehemently for such magical thinking; some family friends would timidly step forth on Oliver’s behalf, stating that it was simply a severe case of youthful anguish, with Oliver being just shy of his seventeenth year.

Tetzel, of course, never took a stand on Oliver’s behalf; he was (or at least preserved the image of being) a great resolute figure in terms of support of the Parliament. Oliver’s lust for a kingship, he claimed, was the epitome of despicable and was not to be tolerated in the slightest. Of course, he was typically harshly referred to as a “filthy hypocrite” in whispers among a few stating that his real intentions were to appease Demos Parl who was obviously a superior for him among the commoners.

On the particular day, Oliver finished his work early, his duties being to wipe down scores of swords. Upon realizing he still had two hours to spend in the shack, his heart soared with joyful spirits; he could finally make his own sword. Deciding it was best to tinker, he gathered unused pieces for handles and blades and mashed this with that, that with this and he was done. He grinned proudly, holding the sword up gingerly. He then swung it on the ground and the blade held through. Swelling with superiority, he left the shack with his new sword held limply in hand.

The village was mainly composed of intersecting cul-de-sacs, filled with grey stones that were on the verge of cracking due to the steps of man and mule alike. Squat houses painted with yellow and brown dominated the sides of the road blocking out the paths to the dark everglades. There were few small trees; they had plump tops that were shaggy with fresh leaves. Oliver’s sack like shoes crunched cracked stones to grains. As he walked he tried, and subsequently failed, to crush the solid stones pressing his foot into them. He often did this, absentmindedly and when questioned about the delay of his arrival, he would pause unable to procure the proper response.

Once the sun’s blaze became a blade’s pierce on the back of his neck, he started walking slowly back to his house. He treaded a back road behind the shack that would take him further around the village to his domicile, so he would not have to encounter Tetzel along the path. As he crossed through a path of shrubbery filled waist high with insects, he wondered why Tetzel detested him. He tried to satisfy himself with imagining what he would do to Tetzel if he were monarch. He smiled at the feeling that soared from his throat to his chest when he viewed Tetzel cowering in a corner, hands over face, sweat turning his hair into a filthy rag.

“Master Oliver, all I beg is mercy,” he cried. “That’s all I wish, my king.”

Oliver would step forward, his footsteps squeaking on the crystal floor, freshly waxed. He would lift the sword in feign and watch as Tetzel screamed and Oliver would laugh, a roar that shook the room enough to drag the roof to the floor.

Oliver returned to his senses enough to offer a kind wave to his friend, Seattle, who was lazing on his front lawn. Flies encircled his head and his arms were engrossed by the grass, but Seattle still had a thoughtless smile on his face. A rather inept fellow, Seattle was simply responsible for selling fruits and vegetables at the commoners’ food market. He was quite gentle and on many occasions he had earned himself a stern chastisement or even beating for not making customers pay for their food.

“How are you, brother?” Seattle called to Oliver, sitting up suddenly with the bugs immediately evading their positions in the loop around his head. It was considered courteous and respectful to address others as “brother” or “sister”.

“I’m fine. You?” Oliver said, although he really did not care to know. He always questioned this particular facet of proper society, which only angered his father.

“Tetzel came across me giving free carrots to this young damsel. A real sweetness to the eye, she was. I only intended to be polite. But before I knew it a hand collided with my cheek and I lay on the floor, thinking about where these men could have possibly received their education to learn these lethal techniques,” Seattle related with a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

He was shaking his head in disdain and he lay back down, not intending to continue the conversation. Oliver managed a small nod in sympathy but that was all he found himself able to manage on that front. He started walking at a brisker pace for it was starting to get dark and the adrenaline of panic of one walking alone at night was beginning to take form within him. Furthermore, his father did not respond kindly to selective tardiness.

Demos was supposed to set an example for the other Parliament supporters, for he was, all things considered, the patriarch of the soon-to-be Parliament. Therefore, the Parl family lived in a little and dilapidated house with the stairway that lead to the door, fragile and creaky. The house’s paint was cracking, revealing dull wood underneath. Oliver tenderly stepped onto the stairway in front of the door then proceeded into the house.

Once inside, he saw his mother and sister bustling around the house frantically, the former shouting commands. Upon seeing Oliver, Lady Parl eyes settled on him with cold ire. She placed her hands on her hips, pressing them so hard on the curve of her waist that her knuckles were a ghostly white. Her voice cracked under the weight of her own rage, every other syllable she uttered ending in a bizarrely high pitch.

“Oliver!” she began, an introduction that always meant impending doom for him. “Where in the name of the Almighty Lord have you been? Did you forget the feast your father is hosting tonight, boy? Hush, don’t you dare speak, child! Grab the plate of fruit, now! You better be at the gathering pavilion in just one moment!”

She then stormed past him out of the door, and his stern-eyed sister followed as though latched on to her mother. Oliver breathed in and out, feeling suddenly disdainful and enraged towards his mother. He slammed the door, but not before screaming, “I’ll be in the pavilion when I’m in the darned pavilion!”

He sauntered as slowly as possible toward their dining area, perhaps the most humbled part of the whole residence. Only a single candle sat in the center of a squared and filthy wooden table. Stains of black and small bits of dust conquered the walls and floors and, most oppressively of all, the corners. In fact, Oliver would more often see rodents in that room than anything edible.

Once in the dining hall, Oliver came face-to-face with the individual who would be his greatest antagonist of all in this scenario—Demos Parl, his father. He sat with a pen and paper at the dimly lit table and looked up, upon Oliver’s entrance. His eyes were usually warm, but were now a frozen brown, and smaller than average. His hair was combed backwards, throwing his prominent face into sharp relief. Parl’s hands were clenched, each vein clearly visible.

He placed the pen down and beckoned abruptly to Oliver. Without hesitation, Oliver practically sprinted towards the table his legs numb and heavy like metal clubs.

“Where have you been?” Demos inquired in a poisonous voice that was far too quiet. It was simply a breeze emitting past his lips. His eyes locked themselves at Oliver’s side where the sword hung down to his ankle.

“I was at work…” Oliver began, his voice dry and dragging from the back of his throat.

“Where did you get that sword, then?” Demos interrupted sharply.

“After I finished work, I made it…” Oliver tried once more. He tried to keep his face impassive, but his stoic façade was beginning to wane revealing a defeated expression.

“You stayed late after work to make this sword instead of coming straight home as you were told?” Demos said, raising his voice at the last few words.

“No, I finished work early today and I just put some unused pieces together,” Oliver replied and his apathy was reinstated.

“You should have finished work early today because I lessened the amount of work you had to do, and then you were to come home. You would have known this if you cared to offer half an ear to your mother and me. But you decided to stay the extra two hours to fulfill your childish wishes.”

“Stop,” Oliver muttered at last, unable to bear the sudden onslaught of criticism. “Please stop. I apologize; I made a mistake.”

His father’s eyes were hard and he was slowly beginning to frown, his face deforming as though strings were tugging up on his eyebrows. His voice was then monotonous, as though he were speaking to an entirely different entity far off from their house.

“Grab the fruits and take them to the pavilion immediately.”

There were two large pavilions placed adjacent to one another on a small plot of land behind Tetzel’s unit. The sky was practically starless but about four dozen candles, placed at regular intervals, kept the pavilions bright and joyous. The pavilions were only large tents with white tops held up dainty metal poles; every time a pole would creak suddenly, attendees would jump slightly and look up, as if expecting the whole white cloth to glide towards the floor and suffocate them.

Oliver sat alone after he ate, his sword resting on his knees and his eyes focusing very hard on a dancing flame of one of the candles. He watched it sway back and forth indecisively like a child deciding between father and mother. He blew it out eventually and felt his own being perforate the air with the essence of victory.

A little while later, Seattle timidly took a seat next to him. He feared being a disturbance, that one. However, he was highly unaware of the fact that most viewed him as a pest, only due to that minor phobia.

“Did you make that?” Seattle asked about the sword, his voice excited, awestruck, and disbelieving. Oliver made it his life’s goal to eradicate that third element when it came to another’s perspective of him.

“Yes, I did,” Oliver said, spinning the handle between his nimble fingers. “It only took me two hours.”

“That’s amazing,” said Seattle, Oliver having decimated all the tone in his voice and regrown reverence in its place. That was perhaps the only reason why Oliver took Seattle as a friend; in a world where one was so insignificant, someone had to solidify, validate, and often stretch the magnitude of his talents.

Oliver’s eyes then settled on the Royal Tower and he changed his seating position multiple times, so the tingling would not be obvious. He earned a sweet taste in his mouth when he imagined the crown on his head, he received a pleasant surprise for his olfactory when he pictured the sword in his hand, and he saw the most gorgeous of images when he felt himself pressed and cushioned on the heavily gilded throne. He let his posture sag when he envisioned the warmth hugging him, offering him the only love in the world that he could fully appreciate and accept.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to sit on that throne and hold that position?” Oliver asked.

“No.”

Oliver turned his head sharply, his neck snapping slightly, and he glared at Seattle, who stared forward calmly.

“You don’t believe so?”

“I don’t,” Seattle confirmed patiently.

“Well, why not?”

“I think that, at first, it feels wondrous to hold the power of the sun in your palms, but eventually you simply burn to nothing.”

Oliver sneered and said, “You have clearly just revealed your ignorance and idiocy. The only reason you don’t like to consider is because you know your ineptitude will get you nowhere let alone the throne of Mugwump.”

Seattle’s muscles tightened and he sat up straight. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and tilted his head to the side as though in the midst of deep cerebration; his expression did not change but his voice was a whip, exiting his mouth fast and directly and leaving a potentially permanent physical affliction.

“I, for the very least, am not a dewy eyed bastard who resides in fantasy all his life with a glazed look in his eyes like a pathological child dreaming about phantoms. I hold my manhood not only by physical means but also in my heart in my acceptance of the situation for the time being and a spirit to change it in the near future.”

“Failures, such as you,” Oliver said, now shouting, “don’t bring about change! They sit and wait for change to happen until the only waiting their doing is for God’s final judgment!”

They had caused several eyes to settle on them uneasily. Demos stood from his table and said, “Boys, please stop the bickering. I’m about to address our guests, and you will both be leaving if you don’t silence yourselves.”

“If you ever call me a failure again, I will kill you,” Seattle said in tones quavering with rage and several women nearby gasped.

“Keep that mouth of yours shut,” Oliver said giving his voice that edge of superiority that reduces an opponent to ashes. “And go drink from hell, you failure.”

Men, including Demos, had now stood up and were walking towards them cautiously but with a sense of purpose. They were unable to take two steps before Seattle launched himself at Oliver, the former’s fists beating into that latter’s face, making Oliver’s nose steam with pain.

Seattle was no opponent for Oliver, and before long Oliver had thrown his knee into Seattle’s abdomen and then pushed him off to the side, making him groan as the back of his neck collided with one of the metal poles. The strikes had charged Oliver beyond carrying capacity; flames seemed to eject from his mind and pour out of his ears. With his face red and arms pale, he walked towards the defeated Seattle on the floor and dug his knuckles into the side of his face. He intended to launch an assault once more, despite his friend’s shrieks of anguish, but his father grabbed the back of his shoulders, screaming.

Oliver dug his feet into the ground and turned around smoothly, lifting the sword up at his father, the tip of the blade inches away from Demos’s chest.

If gasps had been ensuing before, Oliver’s latest transgression evoked shrieks. He dropped the sword to the ground instantly and his eyes opened wide with fright and anticipation. Oliver scanned the room and saw that Tetzel’s jaw was clenched so tight that it was out of place, Stanton’s mouth sagged and her black hair stood on end, and his mother had been stabbed, obviously; nothing else could explain that colorless face that had surpassed pale and the unnatural tears spilling from her eyes like a stream of blood from a deep and wide wound.

“Stand outside,” Demos said simply and Oliver turned around, running towards the entrance of the pavilions to the breezy night where he could not feel the minute tears licking his cheeks.

He began to weep loudly as his father gave his speech to the guests, making shrieking noises into the front of his shirt and odd groaning noises to the unsympathetic air. He banged balled and sore fists into his forehead and even banged one into his own eye. He decided to hurt himself still further by slamming his torso onto the ground and relentlessly hitting his temple against the ant infested grass.

He had no idea where Seattle was and eventually resolved himself to listening to the speech. He heard his own father talking about the hopes for Parliament and how their chances had improved dramatically with Mugwump’s suicide, due to the fact that his three children, Elizabeth, Mary Sangre, and Ramo had decided to split the throne amongst them, instead of a monarchical monopolization, meaning that their logic seemed to be more intact than all of their predecessors, save a select few. Thus, Demos reasoned, the fight for Parliament will finally be more of a political debate than a nuisance worthy only of illegitimating on the grounds of peace.

Then, Oliver was called back into the pavilion and he jammed the heel of his hand into his face to get rid of the tears and walked in. His eyes first scanned the crowd for Seattle but did not find him so he stood next to his father in front of the friends who had witnessed the defacement of the Parl family. Oliver’s face began to crack and he knew his crying was visible when the thought occurred to him.

“Tetzel,” Demos said in his usual genteel manner. “Please remind me what our rule is concerning impertinence and raising of arms of a child toward his or her father.”

Tetzel obliged nearly before Demos had completely phrased the request.

“The punishment,” said Tetzel promptly focusing his glare right on Oliver, “is for the offender to remain in the service of a Lord for two weeks to a month depending on the severity of the offense. In this case, in Oliver’s case that is, it would warrant precisely three weeks since he did raise a weapon but did not actually strike.”

“Thank you,” said Demos and he turned to face his son for the first time since Oliver had returned to the pavilion. “Tomorrow morning, Brother Tetzel, here, will take you to the land belonging to Master Kalb where you will serve for three weeks.”

#omarateyah #creativity101 #volume7issue5