by Tom Baugh
The Two Councilmen considered The Widow's plight and discussed her situation between them as they walked the dusty roads of the tribe. They gradually came to realize that The Widow was only one of a special class of tribesmen who might serve their purposes well. Other elderly widows throughout the tribe were equally deserving of assistance, as well as elderly couples who were reaching infirmity.
It mattered not that the social more of the tribe was that even the elderly, except for the few cases of mental impairment, were capable of providing the essential wisdom of a tribe. This wisdom the elderly traditionally imparted by teaching and tending for the little ones as the intervening generations worked. No, the pair rationalized between them, these elderly citizens needed the dignity of resting after a life hard worked. And, to rest without the chains of familial obligation that had passed the wisdom of Og and Pok and all the rest down to successive generations.
And so, to ease the burden of these The Two Councilmen encouraged the council to exempt the infirm elderly from the burden of taxation. At first the council resisted, but the pair soon found an able ally in the form of a shaman. This particular shaman, Luth, had recently arrived in the valley and represented a sect of the organized shamans mentioned previously.
As a Lamist, the peaceful nature of Luth's beliefs at first seemed handin-hand with the peaceful trading values of the tribe. And so, the shaman had easily blended with the tribesmen for weeks, practicing a more advanced form of the "help your neighbor" reconnaissance.
The Lamists had learned that an overtly militant position, as practiced by their forebears, was ultimately a risky proposition once they themselves held power. And so, their softer approach had proven itself over the centuries to stand the test of time. Only the sacrament of the Lam Toast revealed their bloodthirsty origins. Yet, even this was veiled behind soft words, attractive robes, and confusing rituals. The rituals themselves seemed to have no purpose other than veiling an allegory that the novice was careful to never question, and the elect knew to never disturb.
Luth was as skilled at this Lamist tradition as any of his generation. "Gentlemen, forgive me, but I understand you are troubled about helping your deserving fellows," Luth said to them as the pair approached.
Surprised, the pair didn't reply at first, to some degree taken aback at the presumptuousness of this stranger to intrude upon their delicate matters of state. The shaman was not deterred, he having read the pair and understood their cause more than they could possibly appreciate. After all, his kind had been well trained for this delicate dance.
The Lamists even feigned schisms between the various organized sects for centuries to delude the faithful into believing that they had any real choice among them. This skill they had developed long before this naive little tribe had chosen their form of peaceful self-government. "Well, they would learn, wouldn't they?" Luth thought to himself as he easily fell into the prepared litany.
"I am Luth, a humble servant of God, who was sent here to bring His message to your flock," the shaman said as way of introduction. Luth was careful to invoke a feeling of possession among his marks.
"And what message might that be?" the first councilman asked, warily. His companion was still basking in the idea of "his flock", a concept which had drifted around his mind for years without reaching conscious manifestation until just now.
"A message which you yourselves have been struggling to present, that we should tend to the needs of our brothers," Luth replied. He paused momentarily, as the first councilman's mind reached out to this stranger's understanding of his desires and relaxed his wariness.
Luth smiled to himself as he saw the bait grasped, and continued, "For centuries, our philosophy has been to assist the leaders of men to fulfill their noble purpose. We believe that God's bounty is placed in your hands to be used for His will, and that you are His stewards." And so, deftly, the government which had been started by the early tribesmen, not as their leadership, but as their servant to protect them from force or fraud, revolted silently. At that moment the government cast off its chains and clamped them upon the necks of the governed.
A moment's pause here, Luth thought, but not too long to let the consequences of that responsibility sink in too deeply. And then, diverting, "But so few appreciate the struggles that you face in this noble work of yours. Any man can gather wood, any man can till the fields, any man can manage accounts, any man can study philosophy." He meekly touched his own breast as he said this last, eyes cast down, head bowing slightly as if to his masters. "The fools," he thought to himself, as this act had moved armies under the command of men of far greater intellect than these simpletons.
"But you," as he reached out to them abruptly, touching their arms, "you represent the best of men. You are those who lead and prepare the way and bear all the criticism and none of the regard, as others prosper from your work." The pair nodded at the wisdom of this foolishness.
"And now, you consider the plight of The Widow, who came to you in desperation, you who are her last hope and salvation," he continued.
"The challenge that you face is how to balance the needs of so many, against those who oppose your best nature. You are not alone in this struggle, many kings and emperors before you have faced this very challenge. And yet these men lived to be lifted up as the pride of the people as they overcame the greed of the individual, proving themselves as rightful leaders," he added. And cemented their unspoken and hardly admitted power-lust.
"But this is merely the rantings of a simple philosopher. Who am I to lecture you, forgive me for my presumption," he begged of them.
"No, think nothing of it," the second assured him as he worked the hook farther down his own throat, drifting momentarily out of his reverie.
"If I may, then?" Luth asked of the pair who simply no longer had any choice at this point, reaching into his satchel.
"See these grapes?" Luth asked of them. "These are the bounty of God. But without your protection and blessing, men would fight over them like animals," he theorized.
Luth deliberately neglected to mention that hardly an hour before he had plucked them, uninvited, from the fields of a farmer. A farmer who had struggled against animals to cultivate them, and whose great-grandparents had applied Tithing to guide them into their succulent fullness. This work of generations ripened the fruit into fullness so tempting that those greatgrandparents had sided with the other tribesmen to install, as protection against force or fraud, the forebears of the two councilmen. Two councilmen who would soon cast the die to one day take it all away by both force and fraud.
"I could pretend, as many do, that I own these," he said, almost absently as he divided the bunch into three, one small and two large. As he spoke, he handed the two largest of the three divisions to the councilmen, taking care that these two were of equal size to not arouse a division among them. "But I own nothing, I merely hold them until they make their way to the hands that need them the most. I am not in a position to know to whom to give them, but you are. And so, I keep only what I need for my own subsistence, and give the rest to you to do as you will, nourishing yourself or those who need them, as God moves you."
"So many of your flock," refreshing that particular barb again, "pretend that they own the bounty of the valley." At this, he turned, sweeping his arms across the horizons, and then turning back toward the tribal center. Luth began gently walking toward the village as his sheep obediently and subconsciously followed him. They had been returning to the village, hadn't they? "But we know that, like the grapes, the tribe and its future is in your hands."
"Your message is important to the tribe," he assured them, they nodding assent. "But busy men such as yourself can't afford to reach each tribesman one-to-one. As it turns out, a number of tribesmen have asked me to speak the word of God to them next Tuesday evening. I would be honored if you would visit and, if so moved, speak to the crowd yourself," he offered. Yet, Luth knew that the sort of man drawn to their position, as if called, would be
inexorably drawn to any public gathering.
"We have to check our schedules, of course, but we shall see if we can squeeze that in," the first said, pretending as if his soul was not laid bare.
"Of course," the shaman said, graciously. The sale closed, he left them at the next turn in the road, apologizing for his departure, and nodded his head to each in a formal bow. Each councilman remained silent as they strode into the village, surveying their flock busy at their tasks. "Their needs are so many," one thought silently. "They need me so much," concurred the other to himself.
Barely two dozen tribesmen were at that first Tuesday evening, but that was sufficient. Carefully present were The Widow and a handful of other destitute tribesmen for whom the prosperity available to all had escaped. Also present were The Two Councilmen, as well as a majority of the council. Although these others had been more successful at their private lives, all recognized the value of a collective mass of votes, and so chose to attend. A couple of other councilmen, holdouts who saw their service as temporary rather than ordained, had chosen to stay at their lands to tend to their own work.
Luth mixed easily among the assembled tribesmen, inquiring as to the health of each, and showing interest in the answers. Given that the simple miseries common to most was the font from which his place in society sprang, this interest was hardly feigned as he assured them that God hears their prayers. More than one councilman noted his skill at working the crowd, and reserved judgement as to whether this shaman represented a threat or an asset. This judgement would soon be resolved.
The show began as Luth mounted a low rise before them. The crowd was carefully arranged to look past him at the valley and the hills beyond. The hills were majestic in the waning evening sun, as Luth borrowed God's majesty for himself. The crowd fell silent, each imagining that his earlier inquiries established a personal rapport, each invested in his words.
Luth raised his hands to the heavens, and waited a moment to ensure that he held their attention. "Children of God," he began, holding his arms high, and then bringing his hands to a clasp in front of them. "It warms my soul that God moved you to come here this evening in fellowship," painting his invitations over the past few days with the will of God. And introducing, ever so softly, the power of the collective. And further introducing them to themselves as children, a title he would deftly confer to his spiritual paternity soon by impassioned repetition.
"Children, I am new in this village, and yet you have taken me in as a welcome traveler," Luth said softly. He looked at each one of them in turn, most of whom had done little but whine to him about their troubles. As he paused and lingered his gaze on each, he granted them reward for nothing exchanged but complaints, complaints which were the easily minted currency of his trade.
"God hears your prayers," he assured them, suddenly louder, implicitly associating his arrival with an answer from God.
"He hears all our prayers," pausing. "Sometimes we wonder why we suffer," he pandered to this crowd specifically chosen for their skill at suffering. This aspect of their lives was a selective process which resembled a softer version of that employed by shamans ages past.
"Children, God makes us suffer so that we will listen to Him," he slandered. In truth, however, God had granted each of them the power to fend for themselves, and to think for themselves. But even The Widow, who could have swept the floor for Ploison, but chose not to in her pride and sense of entitlement, felt the stirring of purpose in her soul at that outburst.
"But what is it that God is telling us?" Luth asked, knowing that none would say the only possible rational answer, which is to stop doing that which pains them. Even an animal which is burned once knows to avoid the fire again, but the collective must find someone to blame for their troubles, never looking inward.
"He is telling us," pausing for effect, "to look outside ourselves." Another pause as this twist of reason curved around their rusty minds.
"He is telling us," pausing again, "to stop being selfish." Another pause, some uneasy shufflings.
"He is telling us," yet another pause to establish the rhythm of expectation as he led them down the path, "to consider the pain of our fellow tribesmen." Hope began to bubble up again, he sweeping his arms out to them. He paused again, to allow them to savor the expectation.
"The pain of The Widow as she mourns and is turned away from the doorstep," Luth said rhythmically with careful meter, his right hand sweeping to point at her, palm up. Her heart sprang to life, and tears welled in her eyes. "Yesss!" her mind hissed to herself. The others felt a pang of jealousy at her recognition, mingled with an excitement that they, too, might be special. Luth didn't disappoint them.
"The pain of Ek as he stumbles and is turned away from the doorstep," Luth said rhythmically with equal meter. As he spoke these words his left hand swept to point, palm up, at a man who had suffered a snake bite months ago.
"The pain of Isha as she suffers with child and is turned away from the doorstep," Luth chattered. His right hand now indicated a woman who believed that only she suffered with heavy pregnancy.
To the left, to the right and back again, on and on he singled out those who had been drawn to that hilltop by his words over the weeks prior. Each felt a thrill rise in them as they were noticed for their suffering, and imagined that an unidentified someone had done them wrong. What exactly had been done to them, other than a vague and ridiculous claim of having been turned away from some mysterious doorstep, was a mystery best left unsaid. The effect was stronger without the interjection of facts.
Their suffering became a source of reward in the recognition, as if God Himself were speaking to them. They clung to a promise that someone, somewhere, somehow owed them. The collective, which had been challenged generations ago by the establishment of that first government to curb soft theft and fraud of shame, began to stir once again.
"Children, it is our sins that cause your pain," he diverted, being careful to not associate your pain with your sin. Instead, he allowed only a vague collective our sins which shifts responsibility from the cricket to include the ant.
"When we reach for that almighty credit, we sin in the eyes of God. When we think instead of pray, we sin in the eyes of God. When we choose works over faith, we sin in the eyes of God," he rhythmically chanted, wiping tears from his eyes. These tears he had learned from long practice to summon as he allowed his voice to waver. And confirmed for them what they had been unable to articulate. And hid the fact that of all of God's creation on this planet, we are the only ones to whom He gave the gift of thinking and the capacity for work. And who He created as miniature creators in our own right, in His image.
"Children, God wants you to prove your love for Him, by prostrating yourself helpless before Him," he whispered. In his blasphemy he equated God to a jealous, petty thing. And yet again, he fed this particular crowd the nectar they so desperately needed to salvage their self-esteem, as they leaned forward to better hear him.
"And by letting Him provide for your needs," he continued, louder, raising his hands and eyes skyward at the reference to God, and downward to the crowd at "your needs", evoking a theological pinata.
As the crowd devolved before him, few had minds left to argue, or the will to do so. Had they, one might have said, "But He does, by the gift of your mind and your capacity to work and provide for yourself," but no one spoke. No one ever does, as that would be impolite.
Luth realized that now this crowd was ready for a story to be implanted in them. This would be the first story of many he would tell to lead them where they were already rushing on their own.
"In the beginning, man was at peace. He lived as a creature of nature, drinking the cool water of the stream, taking from the forest only what he needed, fearing no animal."
And yet that man understood no disease which felled or crippled him early, freezing and starving in the winter. That man feared not only animals, but his fellow, violent man the most. Luth declined to say these inconvenient thi
ngs. Instead, he let them enjoy this pleasant, peaceful fantasy for a moment, smiling wistfully himself.
"But then man sinned against God!" he shouted, suddenly, pausing before answering how.
"Man dared to think!", a softer shout as he clarified for them.
"Man ate from the Tree of Knowledge, which God had forbidden," he whispered, conspiratorially. And yet, he failed to address why God would tease man with a powerful mind, only to tell him not to use it, thus wasting that precious, unique gift. Luth would fill in these details later, but this was enough for now.
"To pay for his sins, man was cast out of the garden, and condemned to bend his back in labor," he said, equating work with punishment. "And some men became greedy, and thought that they owned the forest, and the stream, and the animals," he lamented, pausing slightly.
"They said, THIS IS MINE!" he shouted, feigning his most evil, snarling face and grabbing to his breast in frantic clutching motions, like some insane man-child grabbing at toys.
"And so man turned against man. The farmer and the hunter envied one another's lives, and fought one another, and killed one another," he told them. And sidestepped the economic benefit that the farmer, and the hunter, and the woodman gained by trading their goods with each other, as Og and Pok and the rest had discovered. And that each man had chosen his vocation to most benefit himself.
"Children, God has given us rules to live by. These rules are simple, really," he said, not mentioning the complex and contradictory veils of ritual he would wrap them in.
"'I am your God,' He said. Do not make anything your god above Him, and do not worship it instead of Him," he said, confirming what they already knew. Later, he would introduce the tribal credit as a god worshiped by the successful among them. This introduction would associate success with sin, rather than rejoice in trade as a creation of God discovered by man for his benefit.
