Books by Ian Rogers
Books by Ian Rogers
By Ian Rogers
Once upon a time, long ago, a poor peasant lived in the kingdom of good King Slabadad the Wise. He lived on a high mountain, in a clearing in the thick pine woods. In winter the snow lay in a thick blanket far down into the valleys, and even in summer there were white caps on the mountain peaks,
The peasant, whose name was John, lived in a small wooden hut which was dark and rather dirty, but was dry and easy to warm in winter. He grew fruit and vegetables in a little garden, and kept a few sheep and goats that ate the sweet grass in the clearing. Sometimes he would walk for about an hour to the nearest village and sell some cheese or other produce. He had a hard life, but usually he was reasonably happy.
One day, whilst John was hoeing his cabbages, he leant on the hoe to ease his aching back. He stared across the valley to the white-capped peaks opposite and let his thoughts wander. His mind drifted back to his childhood when he had lived with his parents in the little town of Parcival where his father had been a weaver. He had made and sold cloth, including a special range of fine, coloured material that was very popular with the ladies.
“I thought I was a big man when Dad died and I took over the business,” John thought. “Little did I know… Still, I was a good businessman and we made lots of money. I suppose it was after Mum died that riches and power took over my whole brain. The Guild of Merchants thought I was a good guy and made me their chief ‑ their Chamberlain. Then all of Parcival wanted me to look after them so they made me Alcaldé.” (Note to the reader - an Al-cal-day is like a mayor, the number one top boss.)
A desperate bleating cut through John’s daydream. A young goat, trying to reach the vegetables, had pushed his head through the garden fence. Now he was trapped by his stubby little horns and couldn’t go forwards or backwards. Still smiling at his memories, John released the kid, sternly telling him not to be greedy and never to steal things he had no right to.
When John had finished the hoeing, he got himself some lunch and sat on a sun‑warmed rock in the meadow to eat. He started daydreaming again. What had gone wrong with that lovely life?
At first he had served the community well. He put litter bins in the market square and a water‑trough where people tied‑up their horses. He liked the way people were nice to him because he was important and had influence. He controlled the planning committee which told people what colour they could paint their front doors and what new buildings they could put up.
“I actually enjoyed helping people,” he thought, “and I liked the thank-you gifts they gave me for helping them. I suppose it was wrong to accept the gifts that some people gave to me in advance so that I would help with what they wanted. And then, of course, there was that book-keeper, Scrimshaw… I never knew a man with such a nose for money. He was great at keeping my accounts, but he did have a few shady ideas and, like an idiot, I followed some of them.”
John sighed deeply, feeling little goose bumps of sorrow forming on his arms. He blinked a little and looked around the sunny meadow. The kid he had rescued was gambolling about in the grass, and John smiled wryly to himself. Reaching for things that were not rightly yours did lead to trouble!
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