Solomen loves playgrounds.
He can sit for hours watching children
Swing and hang and laugh and fight and cuss.
There’s a dome made of interconnected poles,
Like a metal igloo. Little boys
Climb to the top and stand shakily,
Wobbly kings, surveying their lands.
It’s warm today. The sun catches his
Eyelashes and frosts them with luminescence.
The sun rubs his cheeks with fire.
He is warm on the inside, like bonfire
In his bones. The dirty air smells clean today,
The slight odor of sun-baked skin.
He is breathing so lightly, you’d think
He was a dead man.
Back against a chain link fence.
Coffee brown eyes distant.
Hair like unruly black forest fire
Black as jungle heart,
Black as the mystery beneath a rock
Just before a little boy lifts it,
Looking for lizard, or treasure, or dream.
He closes his eyes, and the Story
Yawns and stretches
Itself in the lazy sunlight,
Out of his mouth, and takes a walk.
The Story is his treasure, stored up in the
Battered cardboard box of his body.
He has determined to let it come out
Whenever it wants, extending its wealth
To whomever it pleases.
“Once upon a time,”
The Story yawns,
“It went down like this …”
In the great, Walled City,
There was a great king.
He had fought the Decades War
Against the Ancient One,
The Midnight Dragon with sapphire eyes.
He was not able to kill the dragon,
But he was able to build
The Great Walled City
To protect his people.
The lurking dragon had not
Penetrated the wall for thirty years.
She roared her rage every night;
She blew her fire into the skies.
Inside the walls,
There had been another war.
The Tribal War, which the King waged
To unify the five tribes.
A bloody war.
We do not speak of it.
And now there was a great peace.
The king had twin sons.
Harshan and Meshan.
Harshan was the older;
He had his father's courage
And prowess in war.
Meshan was an excellent baker.
He could melt your heart with his pastries.
When the king was old,
He gathered his sons.
He named Meshan, the younger,
To be king.
Meshan moaned,
“I am no king!"
Harshan was heartbroken.
“Father, you have slit my throat
And given my blood to the dogs.
Why have you done this?
You know I am the stronger.”
He silenced them both.
“I am your king,” he said.
"Meshan, I see what you do not see.
There is a seed in your heart
That will grow into a great tree.
Harshan, son of my heart,
You have courage and
Valor and strength.
But you have not seen
What is in your brother,
Because your eye is not well.
You will not rule.
He has Falshannah.”
He said the word like it was a revelation.
They stared blankly, never having heard it.
“It is an ancient word,” he said.
“A forgotten word. A man has strange
Visitations when he is dying.
I once knew this word,
But the Tribal Wars stole it from me.
The terrible things I have done.
They heard tears in his words,
But there were none in his eyes.
He was king.
“Falshannah is treasure of soul:
It is when they cannot
Take your name from you.
Falshannah is treasure of soul:
It is when the King gives his life
For the least of his citizens.
If you have Falshannah,
Word, nor fist, nor knife
Can ever steal your name.
I was once a young king,
But now I am old.
Meshan is king. I have spoken.”
He kissed his scepter.
The Witnesses chimed,
“It is spoken!”
And it was settled forever.
This was the law.
The king died shortly thereafter.
All in the five tribes mourned him.
Over time, Meshan’s grief
Turned into resignation.
Harshan’s heartbrokenness
Became smoldering rage.
Meshan threw a great banquet
For all the people,
From richest to poorest,
As his first act as king.
Such things had never been done.
The rich were angry.
It was shameful for a king
To be in the kitchen.
But the poor loved him.
He ruled with gentleness.
The rich called him
The Soft-Headed King.
One day Meshan
Summoned his brother,
Who was General of War.
“I am going to make peace with the dragon,”
Said Meshan, without looking into his eyes.
He had grown tired of the weight of his contempt.
And he knew what was coming.
Harshan’s voice was flat.
“You know I do not enjoy jesting, brother.
If you wish to play, summon the village children.
I have work to do.”
Meshan continued with great effort.
He knew how this would sound.
“I have read an ancient book
With a recipe for Dragon Cake,
Made from the Firmanj root.
It is said that the dragonfolk
Accept such invitations to peace.”
When it dawned on Harshan
That Meshan was serious,
It is difficult to describe his reaction.
He already had unspeakable contempt
For his brother.
But now there was more.
Harshan was rocked to the core
With shame.
His breath left him for a moment.
The only thread holding his wrist
From drawing his sword
And killing his brother where he stood
Was the respect he had
For his father’s name,
And his ever-present longing
To be king.
"You want to bake a cake …
For the dragon …
That murdered thousands of us …"
Meshan could feel the blade
Of Harshan’s words
Brush against his throat.
He well knew his brother’s rage,
And the fragility of his own life.
"I would explain if I thought
You could hear me.
But we cannot survive here
Long term and you know this.
What's the harm in trying something?”
Meshan asked.
“The harm is that you are a fool
And everyone will see it.
You will not do this thing that you have said.
I will not let you give our family name to piss.”
“I have spoken,” said Meshan,
Quickly kissing his scepter,
As if Harshan would have tried to stop him.
And perhaps he would have.
The Witnesses shouted in unison:
“It is spoken.”
And it was sealed.
Harshan quenched his rage
With a thought.
Meshan had gone too far.
All of the powerful in the city
Would agree, and support Harshan,
Once they heard of this
Madness.
For the sake of the kingdom,
For the welfare of the people,
It was time for Harshan
To take over the throne.
He turned and left
Without a word,
Mind whirling.
Meshan began to summon
All the great bakers in the land,
For this was to be a very
Large and complex cake.
One that only a master-level baker
Could accomplish.
The bakers were common folk, and poor.
There was a saying in the Walled City.
Those too dim to be trash slingers
Become bakers ...
Solomen opens his eyes.
What he sees astonishes him every time.
There are seven boys standing around him.
A rugged tribe, totally silent,
Some knotty haired, some with fades, dreads.
Eyes and ears padlocked on him.
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