© 2011 by Joe F. Stierheim
Mike sat on the rock and waited. It had been a long time since Pat had gone to the castle to attend the conference with the king. Those royal conferences always seemed to be interminable. He wished he could attend one just to find out what happened but he wasn’t sure that he could stand a meeting of such length. He was probably better off to be of his lowly station and not have to worry about anything more than his daily existence. God knew that was enough to worry about these days.
He stared at the imposing castle across the dusty surface of the plain, its rock walls an intimidating symbol of majesty, power, and wisdom, a beacon for all of common station. Mike had intently kept his eyes on the castle’s large doors for a long time after Pat had gone through them. The meeting was a very important one. Surely some great wisdom, some solution to the island’s dilemma would come out of it.
He watched the castle doors, waiting impatiently for their opening to signal the meeting’s end, but his attention wandered. When he looked up, Pat was coming across the field toward him. Mike hoped to get from Pat’s manner of walking some clue as to the meeting’s results. He couldn’t. Pat’s pudgy figure glistened with sweat in the sunlight, and his slow pace gave no indication of either good or bad news.
When Pat finally came within talking distance, Mike spoke. “Well, what happened?”
Pat didn’t answer but sat down on a rock opposite Mike.
“What happened?” Mike asked again.
“We’re to leave,” Pat said.
“Leave?”
“Leave the island. Everybody.”
Mike stared at Pat. “How are we to leave?”
“In canoes.”
“We don’t have any canoes.”
“The king said we should build some.”
Mike looked over the island. From where he sat, he could see practically the entire island. Now that the trees had all been cut there was nothing to obstruct the view. He shifted his gaze back to Pat. “But we don’t have any wood,” he reminded him.
“I know,” Pat answered.
“Did you tell the king that?”
“Yes. I don’t think he understood.”
“Didn’t understand?”
“You know he doesn’t get out much—just stays in the castle where he’s comfortable.”
“All he has to do is look out the window, for God’s sake.”
Pat shrugged.
Mike looked about him. The dusty plain spoke eloquently of the dilemma that faced his people. Once it had been covered with trees, a thick forest lush with fruits, nuts and berries and harboring birds, monkeys, pigs, and many other creatures.
“The king told us to cut the trees down,” Mike said.
Pat said nothing.
“He said there would always be more,” Mike said.
Pat still said nothing.
Mike thought back to the time when the trees were still standing. The king had said they were needed for all sorts of things — housing, heating and cooking, altars, ceremonial fires. The needs were endless. And there were other advantages to cutting the trees. The monkeys and pigs and birds had fewer places to hide and could be caught easily. There were many feasts on the island during those days. But all the pigs and monkeys were gone now. So were the fruits, nuts, and berries. The last wood on the island, from houses that were left and the last few altars and monuments, had been used for heat last winter,
“I don’t think we should have cut down all the trees,” said Mike. He turned and faced Pat so Pat would have to look into his eyes. “What’s the king going to do now?” he asked.
“He’s going to leave,” said Pat.
“But how can he leave? After all, he can’t just swim away.”
“He’s going to build a canoe.”
“He can’t build a canoe. There’s no wood left on the island.”
“He’s going to use the castle doors.”
Mike considered Pat’s statement. The castle doors were the last wood on the island. They wouldn’t make a large canoe, but it would be adequate for the king. He could use the doors. They were his, after all.
“I’m going home now,” announced Pat. “It’s been an awfully long day.” He got up and with a gesture of goodbye began waddling across the plain.
Mike stayed seated on his rock. He was depressed. He had expected much more wisdom to come from the meeting. Besides, thinking of the trees that had covered the island and the pigs and other animals they had sheltered made him feel worse. The birds had been the lucky ones. They had just flown away. But the thought of pigs made him feel bad — especially the pigs. They had tasted so good at the feasts. And he was so hungry.
Mike watched Pat, who was still visible as he made his way across the treeless plain. Pat was quite fat. He wondered how much Pat weighed. Probably more than a good-sized pig.
Joe F. Stierheim of Ligonier is a retired architect using writing as a creative outlet. His poetry and stories appear in regional and national publications. His novel A Matter of Time is available at silverbeargraphics.com, Amazon.com, Kindle, Nook, and iPad.
