A Story
About Little Kings, Little Men, and Lesser Magic
There was once a little boy who was born with a strange magic. Unlike the other children in his town, he wasn’t able to fly or heal or even change rocks into bread. His magic didn’t help people at all—it did something different, something the people had never seen before.
(The elder witch whose cottage sat at the edge of the village *had* seen the magic before, actually, but when she warned of it, the townsfolk laughed. “Old woman, what conspiracy! What foolishness! That kind of magic doesn’t exist—quit stirring up panic where there’s none.”)
The little boy practiced his magic in front of the town. They were awestruck—it was so powerful and alluring. His parents paraded him around, and everywhere he went, they all ignored the cries of the children his magic harmed.
Eventually, the little boy grew up into a little man, who was ushered on stage after stage, performing strange magic for bigger and bigger crowds. The little man gathered followers and advisors—some amazed by his magic, and some drawn by the places his magic opened to them.
All the children who were hurt cried out, “Help! For this man is not good and his magic is not special. It will hurt you forever and you won’t be able to live as you were.”
But the magic was bright and loud and made such pretty colors, that the bodies dead below it paled in comparison to the illusions he made.
Soon, the whole land called on the little man to lead them. The “lesser magics” (as they had been named by the man and his followers) were banned. “It’s dangerous to fly!” he said, and “Don’t turn rocks into bread, you’ll choke!” he commanded, and the people, entranced and enamored, agreed.
They found the lesser magicians and their lesser magics and bound them away. For was the little man’s magic really strange, or had it just been repressed by the children who wanted to heal instead of rule?
The little man said, “Now listen, great kingdom, great people, great land! I and my magic will make things better for you—all you must do is bow down.”
(The elder witch cried, and wove warnings into the wind, but no one heard, because no one was listening.)
The people, hungry for magic, but not for bread, for power, but not for healing, for conquering, but not for flying, said, “Oh King Man, you are wise and good and your magic will make us immortal.”
So the little King settled among his followers and advisors and subjects and began to rule. And as the little king wielded more of his strange magic, it began to grow. More and more people were born with the same kind of magic, and the cries of the children choking on the smoke and ash that magic created were drowned out by cheers.
(The elder witch died, her home abandoned and forgotten. But she left a book behind, buried in the walls, of all she knew.)
Eventually, the world forgot it was magic at all, and believed that the little King had been touched by the gods. They adjusted to the changes he made, praising his ingenuity and blessing his power. It went on and on and on, until one day, when one of his subjects walked through the woods, they came upon the old witch’s house, abandoned and forgotten, just waiting to be found.
Something stirred, long buried and bound, and that’s where our story really begins…
