“Mr. Sark, will you come over here?”
Stumbling to find his balance, he pushes off the fence; the remains of blood become the shadow of of an unfair trial. He approaches the battered villagers who are all holding bats fixed with 3 inch stainless steel nails to make it look like the gaudiest attempt to the start of a mass murder.
His voice is singular and under scrutiny.
“Mr. Sark, we are presuming you will now renounce your love for your king”.
Only the harp of the cold midnight air breaks the costly silence. His body feels the numbing sensation of the frozen concrete beneath him. He uses his wooden staff to prop himself to a knee.
“Thirteen years ago, you all voted exile- I was to never see my motherland again. But as if that wasn’t enough, you all called us back from the Island of Trope to have us publicly shamed and executed on my mother’s soil. Your god is plastered on walls and fills its pride on being an image on marble statues. But my king travels with my people. And we too have journeyed with Him. And so here we are about to face our death. You chirp your bell as if it is time for us to renounce our king. But your bell is sweet music to our ears- there is no other verse so melodious than the one He whispers in my heart right now.”
“I love you. I love you, oh, child of mine.”