When politics turns into theatre, and theatre turns into prayer, sometimes the only honest thing left to write is a fairy tale.
This one begins with gold and ends with ash.
Once upon a time, there was a rich man who loved nothing so much as gold. He had a wife who was quiet and kind, and a son called Donald. The wife would often say, “Be good, my child, for goodness is worth more than riches.” But the rich man would laugh and answer, “Nonsense! Gold shines brighter than virtue.”
When the mother grew sick and felt her end drawing near, she called her little boy to her bedside and said, “Dear Donny, remember to be honest and kind, and you will never be poor in heart.” Then she closed her eyes and died.
But the father whispered to the boy, “Be grand, little one. Be loud, and the world will bow to you.”
And the boy listened to him, for his words sounded easier than his mother’s. He forgot the grave under the tree and learned to count gold bars instead of prayers.
When Donald became a man — or at least taller — he built high towers with his name written on them in golden letters so that no one might forget him. The rooms inside were empty, but he said, “All is splendid.” He liked to stand before mirrors and practise his smile, his scowl, and his pointing finger.
He gathered around him men who praised him day and night. They said he was the cleverest, the strongest, and the richest. He believed them all, for flattery was the only song he ever liked to hear.
There was a golden window that cast his image across the land, and through it he spoke to the people. Thus, the Little Prince of Gold became famous in all the land. He shouted, “You are fired!” and they cheered, not knowing they were clapping for their own dismissal.
Now it came to pass that the country grew tired. The people worked hard but lived poorly. Bread grew dear, the fields lay dry, and no one on the high hills cared for them.
Then Donald stood upon a golden stair and cried, “The kingdom is ruined, but I alone can make it great again!”
The crowd believed him, for his words were easy and his promises bright. They crowned him king, and he took the throne with great delight.
At first, the court was full of many voices — some wise, some foolish. Some counsellors loved the kingdom more than the crown, and though they could not tame the king, they kept his temper from burning the country down.
But the king did not love them. “They are weak,” he said, “for they tell me what I do not wish to hear.”
In those days, the king loved to speak of deals and triumphs. He promised to make the kingdom richer by setting clever tolls on goods that came from faraway lands. At first, the people cheered, for they liked the sound of winning.
But the bargains were strange things. Prices rose, ships turned away from the ports, and merchants grumbled that the king had taxed their fortune into hiding. The farmers waited for gold that never came, and the smiths complained that iron cost more than silver.
Still, the king clapped his hands and called it victory, for he cared more for applause than for balance.
He ruled through a restless net of light that carried his every word from palace to hut, turning whispers into thunder. He kept promising the people that everything would be great again. Some believed him, for his voice was loud and his words were easy. Others shook their heads and said, “A king who loves his mirror will never see his kingdom.”
When the first reign ended, the people thought the spell was broken. But spells of vanity seldom die; they merely wait.
In the years between his reigns, a great spellbook was written by a House called Heritage. It was filled with rules for ruling — how to make servants out of citizens, and silence out of speech. It waited on a high shelf, bound in velvet and pride, until the day it would be opened.
When the king returned and cried, “They stole my crown!” The people, heavy in spirit once more, believed him. So he was crowned a second time.
Now he ruled without the wise, for he wanted no one who might tell him no. Around him gathered only the loyal — men who praised him louder than they prayed, and women who smiled when justice burned.
He placed over the courts Lady Bondi, whose smile was bright and whose justice was blind in only one eye — the other watched the king’s reflection. He called new ministers from the markets and the temples, men who loved profit and purity in equal measure.
Together, they opened the great spellbook and said, “At last, we shall make the kingdom pure.”
Then began the true undoing. The farmers struggled under his new tolls, which were spells meant to make gold return to the castle, but instead it fled abroad. The healers complained they could not tend the sick, for their halls were empty of coins. Teachers found their books rewritten or banned, with prayers in place of science. Artists were told what to paint, and poets what to praise.
And all the while, the king stood before his golden window, smiling down at the people and crying, “You are free!”
But the people were not free. They were only quiet.
Outside the Golden House, the kingdom dimmed. Poets ceased their songs. Painters painted only the smiling king. The scholars who once argued about truth now argued only about how to keep their jobs.
The rich dined on gold plates. The poor said, “At least the eggs are cheap,” though no hen had laid an egg in years.
The king declared, “The people are happy,” and no one dared to correct him.
For in a land of mirrors, truth itself must bow.
One winter night, the king gave a great feast to celebrate his glory. The Golden House shone like a furnace. There were fireworks shaped like crowns, and roasted doves on silver plates.
“We have ended decline!” cried the king, raising his golden cup. The courtiers clapped until their hands bled.
Outside, the wind rose. The fields were bare, the schools empty, the guards disheartened. The storm came closer, flashing and roaring.
A bolt of lightning struck the tallest of the king’s towers — the one bearing his name. It burned from roof to root, and the mirrors inside shattered. Some say the king perished there; others that he still stands among the glass, arguing with his reflection.
When morning came, the people crept from their homes. They found the Golden House blackened, the golden letters melted, and the crown lying in the mud.
They planted seeds where the statues had been and washed the soot from their walls. They began to speak again, first in whispers, then in songs.
And they taught their children: “Beware the man who promises greatness, for he will make you small first. Beware of gold, for it blinds more surely than darkness.”
And so the kingdom learned to live without mirrors.
Moral
Not every tale ends with a wedding or a crown.
Some end when the people wake.