Yesterday was Christmas, so here’s a slightly late gift from my pen name, Lucy D. Ford.
Call Me King, by Lucy D. Ford
The farmhouse door slammed open, and little feet pounded down the rickety steps. A young voice yelled out, “Call me king!”
The farm wife glanced up sharply from weeding her cabbages. Nap time was always over too soon. She watched the boy run through the farm yard. A ragged blanket flapped behind him.
“Call me king!”
Chickens scattered, squawking, as the simple-minded boy slashed at them with a large tin spoon. The farm wife sighed to herself. She’d been so careful to pick up every stick from the yard. Naturally, the brat got into her kitchen drawer instead.
“Call me king!”
A spotted dog galloped after the boy, barking madly. It nimbly dodged a swipe from the spoon. The farm wife shook her head. The boy was lucky to have such a friend, but did he care?
“Call me king!”
She knelt to dig out a particularly stubborn dandelion root. The boy spotted her. He raced up, flailing the spoon at the air. Dirt flew as he skidded to a halt.
“Call me king!” He swirled his blanket, wild-eyed, wrapped in the game. When he grinned, a gap showed where one tooth was missing.
“Stop that. You’re getting dust in my eyes.”
He ignored her protest. “I am the king! Call me king!”
Slowly, firmly, she answered, “No.”
“Call me king!” he demanded yet again.
“No.” The farm wife reached out in a half-hearted attempt to reclaim her spoon. The boy pulled away, and she ended up rubbing his curly head, instead.
“I’m tired of this game,” she said. “There’s work to be done.”
The boy grabbed her wrist, his little fist sticky and tight. “You have to call me king!”
“Let go, please. What I have to do is finish the weeding.”
The boy held on tighter. A fierce, mad spark lit in his eyes. “Go to the dungeon,” he babbled. “I’ll chop your head off. I am the king!”
The farm wife lost patience. She stood up tall and stern. “Then you must call me witch!”
A cloud passed over them. The dog cowered and whined. The boy blinked, then jumped away. After a moment’s confusion, he jabbed the spoon at her.
“Aaah! There’s a witch here!”
He darted around the yard, seemingly with no aim in mind. For several minutes, the chant of “call me king” was replaced by “there’s a witch.” Barking dog and squawking chickens added to the cacophony.
The witch fumed as she turned to weeding the carrots with extra vengeance. It was a good thing none of the neighbors lived close enough to hear. They all understood that the boy was simple-minded, but you never knew when a label like witch might stick in the wrong ear.
After some time, the boy’s racing became more of a trot. He shook the tin spoon at the cow in its shed. “Go to the dungeon! I am the king!”
By then, the witch’s fury had given way to sorrow. Five years ago, she had abandoned her oath and committed a terrible crime. She had reduced an unhinged monarch to a squalling infant and stolen away with it. The sentence for her deed was this endless watch over her victim. A simple-minded child in a quiet farmyard could do little harm, even if he managed to hit you with a spoon. But a mad king was a peril to all the world.
“Call me king,” the tiny tyrant ranted. “I’ll chop your head off!”
Softly, she murmured, “And that is why I had to lay the curse upon you, King Liam.”
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