a
chasm down to the island kingdom’s lava flow.
One day, a young boy came before the king. His clothes were
ragged and he wore no shoes, much less a hat. The boy said, "Sire,
your reign is at a crossroads. If you choose the wrong path, you
will lose your crown."
"Treason!" the mad king cried. "Take him to the pit."
"Be wary, your highness," the boy called as the guards dragged
him away. "You stand at a precipice. Worse than fire waits below."
***
For the rest of the afternoon, the king stewed over what the
boy had said. Of course, he assured himself, the lad was a spy
sent by enemies of the state to rattle him. The punishment had
been just. Just as it had been for the turtle salesmen thrown in
the pit last week. The king’s advisors agreed those turtles
were obviously trained to steal royal secrets and report back to
their master.
But the boy’s words would not leave the king’s mind. Finally,
in the dead of night, he undertook to discern the truth. Wearing a
dressing gown and his favorite pair of wool-lined slippers, the
king padded from his royal bedchamber into the bowels of the
castle. The boy would be held in the dungeon until dawn and then
cast into the fire pit. The king enjoyed the symbolism of
executing a man at the day’s first firing.
The dungeon night guards were not the most auspicious lot. The
king walked by the room where they were dicing and drinking and
not one so much as turned his head. The king made a mental
note
though
glad not to explain his presence to the peons, he disliked
employing unruly and unscrupulous men.
The boy lounged on a straw pallet in his cell, his hands behind
his head and his feet kicked up against the cold stones.
When the king appeared on the other side of the thick iron bars,
the boy did not look surprised.
"Why did you say what you said in there today?" the king
demanded. "Tell me the truth, and I will spare your life."
The boy smiled wryly, seeming unconcerned about his fate. "I
spoke the truth, sire. A kingdom ruled by fear and madness has
hidden faults. A strong kingdom is ruled by love." The boy sat up
and put his hands on his knees. "Some of your subjects fear you so
much, they plot your downfall, and your subjects will flock to
them by the thousands, as you’ve engendered no love among the
populace."
And then the king could see it all: courtiers in purple hats
whispering behind patterned fans, leering valets and serving
girls, poison in his soup, turtles nipping at his toes.
"How can I overcome this?" the king cried. He
knew this boy held the key.
The boy stood, one hand casually in his ragged pocket. "Unlock
the door, and I’ll tell you."
A large iron key ring hung on a peg on the wall across from the
cell. The king thought a moment, then hefted the weight of those
keys in his hand. Iron flecked off on his skin as he shoved the
metal into the hole. The king was not a strong man, as he spent
most of his days in the palace judging traitors and hiding from
terrorists and spies. It took all his strength to twist the key in
the latch. The lock shunted home and the door creaked open.
The boy stepped out, a piece of straw sticking from his unkempt
hair.

"Tell me," the king begged, "where is the path off the
precipice?"
The boy leaned forward, as if to whisper in his ear, then
buried a thin shiv in the king’s stomach. The king staggered
back, blood streaking his white silk dressing gown with crimson
ribbons.
"Guards!" the king croaked, but he didn’t have enough air to
shout and the raucous guards wouldn’t hear him anyway.
As the mad king slid to the floor, the boy smiled again, this
time with triumph. "The truth is, you stepped off the precipice
long ago. I’m your fire pit."