The king who could not tell ‘tween wrong and right

Walked on the streets and saw his subject’s plight.

He duelled the wise man whose wrath he incurred

Till haunted truths melt in fire’s eerie light.

Your people are unhappy, said Mebnath to the King of Nevaeh. Your people are unhappy because they have the ids of monsters, the hearts of beasts, the souls of savages. They are the victims of Eve’s fatal temptation, of Pandora’s irreversible follies, of Freud’s chilling proclamations. But I am Prometheus with a new spark of fire, for I offer them a solution to all their problems. Exile one of them to Lleh as a manifestation of having an individual bear the responsibility of a society’s aggression and greed, and by doing so, you will have cleansed your subjects of the roots of evil. Indeed. It is a sweet deal--a quick sacrifice of one to obtain eternal bliss for all.

A streak of lightning raced through the sky, followed by the faint purring of a distant thunder. However, no rain fell from the dimming heavens. The few visible dark, malicious clouds were the pitiful remnants of an evil storm that had raged across the Earth, tossed around the moon-lit canvas by the lively wind, blinded by the ironic, amusing glow of the sparkling orbs that ornamented the vastness of space.

Dr. Tristaotel shivered as he looked out his window and thought that the beauty was unsettling. Why isn’t it raining? He wondered. There is no utopia.

But he had just seen one a month ago--the elusive Nevaeh Kingdom, whose unfathomable prosperity had rendered the notion of sorrow a bygone memory, juxtaposing the desolation of Lleh, its less fortunate neighbor. Tristaotel mused that perhaps he was the last man on Earth, for the rest of his kind had become extreme embodiments of humanity’s virtues and follies, reincarnated as angels or demons residing in Heaven and Hell.

Eternal happiness is an eerie thing, he thought as he wrote a memoir on his recent visit to Nevaeh. He knew the utopia’s residents had paid a price. His breath quickened, and he felt his hands grow clammy as they suddenly became covered in sweat; he fanned his pale face and tried to blink the wild, panicked look out of his eyes, but nothing could stop the vivid images of what he had discovered from flooding back into his head.

“The dark secret … my God … I found … oh! Oh!”

His calm surroundings and his peaceful solitude gave way to the voice of Mebnath, thunderous, ominous, cackling with evil laughter. Submerged in the terrifying realm of his imagination, he could only hear a muffled sound of the sudden rapid rapping on his door.

No rain fell from the dimming heavens, yet the man at the door was soaking wet. Dr. Tristaotel gaped as the King of Nevaeh stepped into his modest home.

They sat down face to face under the flickering lamplight, unwavering despite staring into each other’s accusing gazes. The scholar was horrified by the ruler’s heartlessness, and the ruler was disappointed by the scholar’s inflexibility. In unison, they drew rapiers made of steely words and pointed their weapons straight at their counterparts’ heart.

“You exiled an innocent citizen,” reprimanded Tristaotel.

“You wrong a desperate king,” parried the visitor.

“How could you?” The scholar pounded his table, his chest heaving, his eyes unforgiving.

“Why shouldn’t I?” The ruler wrung his hands, his visage exasperated, his tone unyielding.

There was a moment of ominous silence as the duelists’ wit were washed away in a moment when passion reigned over reason.

“Look, Tristaotel.” The king took a deep breath in an attempt to make peace. “I did not come here with the intention to argue. Mebnath, contrary to your preconception, is no demon. He cared for my people and offered me a choice. That is all. He is--”

“He is WRONG! He is EVIL! He forced you to attach a camera to your exiled subject and play real time footage of your subject’s sufferings! You may have tried to lock that damned screen and those gut-wrenching footage away from your oblivious people, but I found them. I will never forget what I saw!”

“You will also never forget what you see if you walk on the streets of my country ten years ago. Yes … perhaps we were better off than Lleh, but you would’ve still been chilled to the bone by the horrific sights: the deserted and the destitute, the victims of rape and robbery, beggars slumped against the sidewalks, dying before your eyes. And then Mebnath comes to you and gives you hope. What would you have done? Tell me, Tristaotel. Tell me!”

Tristaotel recoiled at the sudden crescendo in the king’s voice. “Your Majesty … I … but … but you shouldn't have …”

“Perhaps you shouldn't have assumed the universality, infallibility, and the permanence of your wisdom, doctor.” The king paused, and a harsh light that had begun to flash in his eyes suddenly dissolved. His tone, retaining firmness at its core, became wrapped in a coating of genuine empathy. “I am an admirer of your research, and I diligently study your exemplary moral conduct.”

The scholar opened his mouth to murmur a “thank you,” yet the king cut across this attempt.

“But I am not a blind follower like so many others, Tristaotel. I never ask my people to follow me like a flock of squeaking birds chasing a human with a crumb of bread. I think for myself. I believe that a state is governed with pragmatism, not virtue--because I believe in granting happiness to more people.”

“Except for the poor being you exiled … and everyone that person knew.” whispered Tristaotel under his breath. However, he felt himself pondering the words he heard in the back of his mind. He stared at the ground and frowned while the king responded.

“I made sure to choose someone with no familial ties and few acquaintances. But no matter who I chose, I sacrificed the happiness of two people.”

“Of two people?”

“Of my own as well.”

The scholar’s eyes snapped back up. For once, understanding of the king began to dawn, replacing the previous categorical and explicit denunciation.

The king noted his counterpart’s reaction and gave a curt nod as his lips curved into a faint, sad smile. “Every day I sit in the room you’ve stumbled into for an hour, watching the fate that I had brought upon my subject unfold. And … and I can’t help but ask myself--why do I feel like I’ve committed a terrible wrong for doing what I truly believe is the right thing?”

Tristaotel’s smile was bitter. “We’ve roamed this Earth for millennia, erecting civilizations, forging wonders, yet after all that, we still can’t tell right from wrong.”

They fell into silence once more, each looking out of the window, and the things they saw unknowingly morphed from a singular entity into starkly different worlds that stemmed from dichotomy of perception. For the scholar, he began to believe the lively symphony of the wind that he had heard, and the eerie flashing lights in the heavens looked a little more like diamonds that could be plucked. The king realized that the splashes of rain that had soaked him were gradually replaced with the splashes of moonlight. The melancholy droplets, the king thought, became savage sacrifices seeping into the Earth, breathing life into the mundane roots of happiness stirring feebly beneath.

Well over ten minutes had passed when the king spoke again.

“Dr. Tristaotel … I want to be frank with the true reason for my visit.”

“And that is?”

“That is to ask you for a favor, doctor. I think that I found a way to wipe off the remnants of darkness tainting my happy kingdom; I found a way to right the wrong I have committed through sacrifice.”

Tristaotel waited. He could tell from the way the king was wiping his brows that his companion was uncertain. The king’s next words, like a bolt of lightning slamming into a human’s fragile body, confirmed the scholar’s apprehension.

“I ask that you burn your memoir about Nevaeh.”

“WHAT!” Tristaotel stood up as his chair toppled. All of the dawning understanding was swept away, and he was seized by a sudden wave of irrational fury that blazed in his eyes, fury flavored by a mounting suspicion that the king was a tyrant in disguise.

“Doctor! Listen to me!” The king’s voice sounded desperate now, for he was pleading. “If nobody knows, did it still happen? If the secret dies with us, then did I ever make Mebnath’s sacrifice? Think about it, Tristaotel! I want my people to be happy free of cost, free of burden! Because here, ignorance destroys truth! Ignorance reshapes truth!”

There was a wild look in the scholar’s eyes as the ruler said all this. In a sudden movement, Tristaotel pulled open a drawer and threw all of its contents against the walls until only one remained--a lighter.

A feeble flame flickered to life, greedily licking the pages of monotone scribbles that Tristaotel held in his trembling hand. Like fallen leaves, the paper withered helplessly, silently, peacefully, feeding the hungry mouth of the flames until truth was truth no more.

“We don’t have to stop at the memoir, do we?” asked Tristaotel as he finished burning his writings.

“What do you mean?”

“I have a hemlock growing in my yard.” replied the scholar casually. “We could use some of it to flavor some refreshments, drink to our health, and go the same way as Socrates?”

“The undiscovered country…” the king smiled. “Let us journey together for good.”

The king who could not tell ‘tween wrong and right

Walked on the streets and saw his subject’s plight.

He duelled the wise man whose wrath he incurred

Till haunted truths melt in fire’s eerie light.