The News

The news of the assassination of the prevant hit hard on the town of Povoir. The news had almost been a week late, but still it hit them hard, like a sandbag being thrown into each of their faces. Some were openly crying, some just expressed their sorrow as if it were shame, with heads bowed. No one dared look into the heavens that morning, though the people who felt the gravity of the news seemed to commend our illustrious victim to the ruler of that realm.

In mourning the town of Povoir listened to the herald who brought the news, with both silence and a seething hatred for the assassins. Never mind that their boy was neither their ruler nor even their citizen, the prevant was born and raised in this town, took up his seat in Parliament as their representative, and brought prestige to Povoir by becoming Prime Servant of the King and People of Noftiers. Even when his placating policies finally split the nation, which had been fighting a civil war for three years, into two –ironically severing himself from his constituents – Michael Doi was Povoir’s son.

Will he be buried here? they asked. No, the herald said. The King himself has declared that Doi belongs to the North now. He cannot be buried in the South, as this will be more expensive. Doi will be buried in a cemetery in Sichame.

Murmurs against the King.

You say that it was the Unionists? one asked. Aye, said the herald. Clamors for reprisal against the rebels erupted among the townspeople.

At this point the town mayor, who had been standing behind the herald, stepped up front, raised his hands as if to stop the cries for vengeance, saying, “I shall order our Sabeurreini to conduct raids to stamp out these evildoers from our town, and even in the neighboring towns, to avenge Prevant Doi and those who have fallen in the fight for our freedom.” This earned applause from the townspeople, although they have heard this from the mayor many times and the only thing that ever came out of these raids were a few broken swords, highway bandits and bums, and documents which they claim to be proofs of Unionist conspiracy in Povoir but could simply have been old paper waiting to used as fuel for their fires.

And as if on cue, right after the applause had died down, the clouds came and blackened the sky, and the people rushed to their homes.

And all this was happening just as the herald was about to announce that a collection was to be made, to be delivered “to Prevant Doi’s family.” The herald turned to the mayor to ask him to call the people back for this important announcement, but the mayor himself had gone. The herald was left alone in the town stage.

He tried looking for a soul in the streets, but nary a soul could he find. He walked out of the town, without a  new gold coin in his pocket.

The rains came.