This week I thought I’d share a piece of fiction. An earlier version of this story was originally published by Cipher magazine. Illustrations by Dakota Peterson.
His name was Leroy
but their language had no equivalent.
They asked him its meaning, and he told them:
Le Roi: the king
and so they called him, Our Little King
Where did you come from? They asked.
I was born in a castle in the sky
above the clouds, but below heaven
every day sunny and warm
every night cool and dark
What did you drink?
Cloud rivers flowed around the castle. We gathered them
up like marshmallows, squeezed them
and out came sweet nectarine
What did you do for food?
We collected stardust from the ground
and baked it into cakes.
What happened?
They asked, so he told them.
The castle world turned unstable. The cloud river water turned black and took on the bitter taste of rust – or was it blood? Stardust of a different sort began to fall – heavy and metallic, inedible. Soon nightly bombs, hurled upwards from the earth below, shook the castle, destroying many of its marble walls. The castle folk huddled inside, scared to venture out, unable to gather food or water. They took turns skipping meals, but even this did not prevent many from starving to death. Finally, the elders decided to forsake the castle, plunge into the world below and take their chances with the earth walkers in what their people were to call The Great Descent. Some castle-dwellers, like Leroy’s grandmother, chose to stay, refusing to leave their home even in the face of what most considered certain annihilation. And so it was that families like Leroy’s were ripped apart.
In the playground in Holland, the other children at Leroy’s new school listened spellbound to these tales. They went home and told their parents about this magical boy who had arrived at their school. Sometimes they embellished the story; other times, they left things out. Their parents explained the situation, explaining solemn things like civil war, rebels, independence and coups. But the children dismissed their parents, preferring their little king’s version of events.
Not all of the children, however, were convinced. Thijs, one of the older boys at school, challenged Leroy.
“You’re full of shit,” he said to Leroy one day in the playground. The other children had given Leroy chocolates, which he said he would save for his grandmother. “I know what you’re up to,” said Thijs.
That night at dinner, Thijs complained about Leroy to his parents. “He’s always telling lies. Making up these stupid stories about where he came from. Like from the sky, but that doesn’t make any sense. You can’t even eat clouds.”
As usual, his father spent the evening reading the paper, ignoring his wife and son. If he did have something to say to the family, he’d look up and utter something at no one in particular, like “Did you know the price of steel has dropped fifteen per cent this year?” to which either Thijs or his mother (or both) would respond. His father would then return to his paper, ignoring the conversation they were having until he had something else wholly unrelated to observe
His mother put her hand on Thijs’s. “That boy’s traumatised. It’s probably a coping mechanism,” she said.
“Why does everyone take his side? You haven’t even met him yet!” Thijs said, yanking his hand away. “He’s full of shit.”
The profanity roused his father’s attention, but only enough for him to offer, “I don’t know why the government let them come here. There’s no room.”
His mother continued, “I don’t care what you think. Be nice to that poor child. We should invite him and his parents over for dinner.”
The next day, Thijs reluctantly extended the invitation to Leroy at recess.
“Should we bring anything?” asked an excited Leroy.
“I don’t care,” said Thijs. “Just be there at six on Tuesday.”
Leroy beamed for the rest of the day. That evening, he didn’t tell his parents about the dinner. The last he wanted was for them actually to go. His parents embarrassed him. Leroy found them loud, boisterous, full of sharp edges – cutting wisecracks, deep-belly laughter and big, garrulous gestures.
Though Leroy had never met Thijs’s family or seen his house, he knew from the boy’s expensive-looking clothes and shiny bike that he was rich. He didn’t want Thijs to meet his parents or see the modest way they lived. It’d be another weapon Thijs could use against him in the playground war, despite their current truce.
Leroy didn’t even tell his sister Joy.
A week later, Thijs, his parents and Leroy sat around the table.
“My parents send their apologies; they have to work tonight,” said Leroy.
“That’s OK. We can have them over another time,” Thijs’ mother offered brightly. “Did you like the food?”
“It was all delicious,” he lied. “When I tell them about it, they’ll be sad they missed it. Next time you can come to ours. We can cook for you,” Leroy said, knowing it would never happen.
“Your food has too much spice for me,” said Thijs’s father.
“Have you ever had potatoes before, Leroy?” asked Thijs’s mother.
“Once or twice,” he replied, lying.
Better his parents weren’t here. The food was bland and tasteless, and by now, his father would have launched into a full-on speech about the potato, and not only that. Moreover, nearly everything they were now eating had originated (or, as his father would say, was stolen from) elsewhere. . Leroy’s father often ranted about how everything in this “Old World” was stolen from other places.
“Your Dutch is excellent,” said Thijs’s father.
Leroy had heard this several times since he moved here. He liked the compliment –it made him feel good. But he didn’t understand why it bothered his father so much.
“But we are Dutch,” his father would say. “They forced their language on us!”
“Why don’t you ask him about where he’s from?” Thijs said a bit too eagerly.
Everyone looked at Leroy, mouths agape in expectation. Unsure of what this audience required, he tried to read them. He knew where Thijs stood, but his parents were different, unfamiliar. Leroy moved his mouth to speak, but a cough escaped instead.
“Oh, honey. You don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to.” She pushed more cake towards him.
“Thijs, why don’t you take Leroy upstairs and play for a bit,” commanded his father. Thijs groaned in response. “And remember what I told you. Be nice.”
Thijs walked begrudgingly upstairs, with Leroy following. The house was much larger than it had looked from the outside. Thijs’s room was as large as Leroy’s family’s entire apartment. “Is this room just for you?” Leroy asked.
Thijs looked at him, bewildered. “Who else?”
Thijs showed Leroy his model train and car racing set. “Here,” Thijs said as he thrust a broken car into Leroy’s hand.
“What’s this?”
“A toy, you fucking idiot.” Thijs rolled his eyes. “Jesus, don’t you know anything? My mother said I had to give you something. She didn’t say it had to be nice,” he laughed.
Leroy took it nonetheless. He ran his fingers over the bent plastic. It had been a police car, an old-time model. The sirens and windows had been flattened. But the wheels still worked.
“What happened to it?” Leroy asked.
“Dad ran over it with his car,” said Thijs.
Leroy surveyed the piles of clothes on the floor, the books haphazardly stacked in a corner, the dusty stereo and the walls covered with posters of pop stars and comic book heroes. He couldn’t understand why someone who had so much was so miserable.
On the way home, Leroy decided to take a longer route to cycle along the canal – he could always say he got lost if his parents asked why he was late. The neighbourhood was relaxed at this twilight hour. He heard the sound of an approaching bicycle behind him. He moved to the left to let the rider pass. The rider rang the bell furiously, nonetheless.
“That’s not how it works!” the cyclist yelled.
Ting-ting-ting!
Leroy veered to the right to let the bike pass, but the cyclist kept ringing the bell. He looked leftward and back to see what was happening. A boy a few years older than Thijs but with bright red hair gave him the middle finger. The cyclist bared his crooked, lupine teeth. Leroy turned forward to watch the road. The front wheel of the cyclist’s bike grazed against Leroy’s leg, and then he braked, causing Leroy to swerve again. The cyclist sped up and cut him off. Leroy braked hard and lost control of the bike, falling over onto the path. A crow watched from the top of a street lamp, blinked its eyes once the scene was over, and flew away.
Leroy’s trousers were ripped, his knees skinned, and his wrist was twisted. Stunned, he looked ahead at the cyclist, who turned around to let out a red-faced, throaty laugh. “Go back to your own country if you can’t figure out how to ride a bike!”
Leroy told his parents what had happened later that night. His father smashed a plate and stormed off to the small balcony to smoke a cigarette.
The following week, Leroy was in the middle of his lunchtime sessions with an audience of rapt classmates when Thijs came up to him.
“Stop this ridiculousness,” Thijs demanded.
Then, fists clenched like miniature cannons ready to fire, Thijs stood over the much smaller Leroy. His eyes widened in fury. He looked ready to strike.
“What do you want?”
“Admit you’re lying.”
“But I’m not.”
“He’s not!” The other children protested on Leroy’s behalf.
“Prove it then. Every event has some proof it happened.”
Leroy turned his back on Thijs as he addressed the gathered group.
During the Great Descent, not everyone landed safely, he explained. Many were hurt, including Leroy. As his family jumped, Leroy tried to hold his father’s hand tight, but their grip loosened, and Leroy fell from the heavens, hard, to the ground. He pulled up the leg of his trousers to show the scratches.
“And my grandmother gave me this before I left. It was crushed when I fell.” He produced the toy car Thijs had given him.
“I gave him that car! He got it at my house,” Thijs said. He jumped up and started ranting. But he had already lost – the other children were not interested in his protestations. They pulled Leroy over to them and walked him to a picnic table. Before him, they laid out what they had been able to spare from their lunches or surreptitiously steal from home. Leroy surveyed the array of orange juice, chocolate chip cookies, cheese sandwiches and apples laid out before him – stacks of food piled higher than he was tall – and it was thus he realised where a king’s true power lay.
As they sat, a little bearded reedling hopped onto the pavement near the picnic tables. Leroy recalled how he had told the other children of his grandmother languishing on the other side of the atmosphere with no way to reach him except through the deployment of trained birds.
He watched the reedling and threw a bit of bread at it. It sang something in response. A teacher gathered the kids to go back into class. The bird flew up to the picnic table and hopped toward Leroy. It continued chirping, but now faster and with determination. It tweeted and chirped, straining its voice to reach a louder volume. Leroy tossed more bread, but it ignored the food and continued toward him.
“Now, please, Leroy!” called the teacher. Leroy stood up and headed towards the door.
The bird remained – its chirps now a histrionic screeching. It jumped furiously up and down on the table.
“You shouldn’t feed the birds,” the teacher admonished.
Leroy looked back at the bird, jumping furiously beside itself, almost screaming – it was as if its own or someone else’s life depended on delivering a message that he didn’t, couldn’t understand.
Our little king
I don’t know why this hasn’t got more traction here. This is an amazing story!