Maurice Broaddus - King's War

The chairs were reserved for family. Nakia and her mother. Big Momma. Lott. Wayne and Esther. Lady G. Percy. Had. Most of the neighborhood turned out. Folks from the barbershop. The Boars. Even members of the police.

"I was invited to say a few words because I knew King from when he was little. He was like a son to me. A fine boy who grew into a fine young man taken from us too soon." Pastor Winburn's black suit rippled in the slight breeze. He had performed dozens of funerals in his years. None were easy. This dedication was even more difficult for him. He paused and put his fist to his lips. A chorus of "come on now" broke out among the crowd, which strengthened him to continue. "King, like all of us, was called to a royal priesthood. He was an everyday pastor in ritual and routine. A prophet interrupted, who shook up the spiritual lives of all those he came in contact with.

"He wasn't a perfect man, but who among us is? We could all pray 'Lord help me to discover the self-deceived and self-persuaded Pharisee within myself.' Iffen we feel the need to sit in judgment. But I'll tell you what he did right. He took this command seriously: 'whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.' He walked what he believed. No one was invisible to him. Every life meant something to him. And no one, not even himself, was beyond redemption.

"We believe in an author behind the story. We believe in life everlasting. We believe that relationships are forever. We believe in resurrection. We believe in hope eternal.

"Here lies our once and future King."

There was a young boy in an old man's body and an old woman in a young girl's body who sat in the twilight, locked away in a cave of their own making. No one would ever find them, for they had imprisoned one another. She believed she had him trapped, not realizing she was bound to him. Forever intertwined. They regaled each other with stories, of kings and queens, knights and quests, monsters and fairies. There were adventures and nobility and sadness and death. But that was the point of stories.

"It is finished," Nine said.

"I know."

"The age is almost over."

"The Wheel of Fortuna turns again."

During twilight, the veil between the worlds grew thinnest and they could watch as if sitting on a lattice window gazing out into the world. From their perch they could spy into the world of man or into the world of fairy. A grand vista churned away in silence, with all of the delicate colors of life on resplendent display. In time they would be forgotten. Only the best stories endured. The sun was nearly set and it was time for mysterious creatures to scamper about.

"You're sad."

"Endings always make me sad. The end is goodbye."

The lovely Nine pursed her lips. Not wanting her good mood spoiled, she snapped her fingers. An elf returned with a golden chalice. Sprites handed Merle a chalice. "We have mead, but rather than drink that, a duke of this age gave me a delightful bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite, which was once the property of Thomas Jefferson."

"You are delightfully full of random," Merle smirked.

"I propose a toast. To family, even in their absence."

A brown and black squirrel, with a gray streak along its back, darted up a tree with drooping branches overlooking King's grave. Resting on its haunches, its head turned left and right on the watch for predatory eyes. It sniffed the air once, twice, then fiddled with an acorn.

And waited.