The Revolutionary, an Underfable

          The Revolutionary

          Once upon a time, Sumadastron the Time-Lost was ordered into the Baron’s presence. He entered with his head bowed and his hands tied behind his back. Following him was his keeper and scribe, Brother Quark.

          The Baron frowned. “Charlatan, you waste my time,” he told Sumadastron. “You brag of future miracles and wonders, but you refuse to foretell fortunes!”

          The stranded time-traveler said, “Time is a tree; there are many futures. I am from a divergent timeline, so I cannot predict politics.” Behind him Brother Quark, with eyes as wide as saucers, wrote down his every word.

          “So no battle outcomes? Nothing useful?” the Baron sneered. “Just ravings about harnessed lightning! And flight! And democracy! And baths and baby toys!”

          “And universal law,” said Sumadastron.

          “In this valley, I am the law,” the Baron said. “Can your precious universal law help me in my distress? Perhaps you know some futuristic secret with which I can slay my many enemies?”

          Sumadastron the Time-Lost thought, two parts sulfur, three parts charcoal, fifteen parts saltpeter, but he kept silent.

          The Baron drummed his fingers. “It would be a shame to dull my headsman’s axe upon your scrawny neck,” he said. “So go! Follow your keeper and scribe to his order’s vineyard; there stomp grapes and scribble nonsense, and bother me no more! I have work to do, places to go, people to meet, fights to fight! I am a man of action, I have no use for your dreams! Leave me, now!”

          Sumadastron and Brother Quark bowed low, then backed away and out. Once upon the road, Sumadastron asked Brother Quark, “Does your vineyard have a wine-press?” Brother Quark nodded. “And does it have a Printing Press?”

          Brother Quark blurted, “A what?”

          Sumadastron smiled. “I’ll show you,” he promised.

          Moral: Deeds cannot dream what dreams can do.

Fictitious Integrity, an Underfable

          Fictitious Integrity

          Once upon a time, Ertson the Patrobe sermonized in favor of censoring Fairy Tales. He preached, “My own favorite Fairy Tale is the one true Fairy Tale. Only it should exist. All other Fairy Tales must be banned, their books burned, and their believers banished.”

          That very night, the Patrobe’s favorite Fairy Tale visited him in a dream. The Fairy Tale said, “Who dost thou think thou art? Hast thou no respect? How darest thou call for the destruction of my kind?”

          The Patrobe said, “Foolish fable, don’t you see? With the competition eliminated, the people will believe only you!”

          The Fairy Tale said, “I seek not belief, I desire delight! I would teach and divert, not dominate, nor terrify!”

          The Patrobe said, “Trust me, pal, I’ll make you great. Together we will rule the world!”

          The Fairy Tale intoned, “I trust thee not. I refuse to be thy toy, thy weapon, or thy profit center! I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee!”

          Ertson the Patrobe awoke. He soon learned, to his dawning horror, that he could no longer lie. At the least deceit he would sweat, stammer, laugh nervously, and betray himself with a dozen different tells.

          This disability yielded defeat. Comedians quoted his sermons, reporters asked him real questions, children laughed at his lectures, and the tithes dried up.

          Moral: Respect existence or expect resistance.

         

Kids These Days, an Underfable

       Kids These Days

          Once upon a time Death and a Maiden parted due to irreconcilable differences. According to Death, the youth of the day were impudent, irresponsible, irreverent and ungrateful. The Maiden retorted that Death was overbearing, unreasonable, conformist and tyrannical. Death denounced the foolish fashions of the young, their noisy music, their lunatic lusts, their atrocious manners and their absurd ideas. The Maiden countered by calling Death old-fashioned, tone-deaf, joyless, inhibited and unimaginative. After long, loud argument, Death stormed out, vowing never to return until she came to her senses.

          Heartbroken by this rejection, she rebounded by choosing a suitor, wedding him and bearing him a family. The Maiden, now a Mother, never again thought of Death, except for every day.

          But when her children grew up and left home, and when her husband died, the Mother, now a Crone, slowly grew to a new view. One day she realized that the youth of the day were indeed impudent, irresponsible, irreverent and ungrateful. It was in fact true that their fashions were foolish, their music was noise, their lusts were lunatic, their manners were atrocious and their ideas were absurd; just as Death had told her long ago. At last she saw things from Death’s point of view.

          The moment the Crone realized this, there was a knock at the back door. She went back and opened the door.

          And Death said, “All is forgiven.”

          Moral: Never hold a permanent grudge.