The Fable
We were the people of Stultorum. That’s what we believed, anyways, but the Divine Sun Empire just knew us as the nation of midgets. Because of them, even foreigners considered us that. You saw it in their eyes, whenever a foreigner laid eyes on us for the first time and realized we were actually just hunchbacks. The people of the Empire have never learned the difference to this day.
There were numerous competing theories about why we were all hunchbacks. Some hypothesized it was due to most of us being farmers—working bent down in the fields all day. That’s where the affliction seemed the most prevalent anyway. The rulers of the Empire would simply blame it on the failing of our character and that’s where we belonged—closer to the ground. We never argued with them—you wouldn’t have either especially if you knew how one of the lords bathed in blood and milk every morning.
And there was, of course, the age of the Great Famine, brought on by the decade-spanning drought. This, among other things, worsened the situation of our afflicted spines as most of us turned our attention to fishing. We couldn’t afford nets of course so we ran the rivers dry of fish with our bare hands. A few years into the drought, the river ran dry of water as well. And we used our backs to build funeral pyres for our dead.
But fortunately, hardship wasn’t the only product of this time for this was also the age of fairy tales and heroic myths. During the era of the Famine, heroes scaled the highest mountains to steal eggs from the clutches of bird nests for a glorious meal in their homes; even if was for just one night. While the achievements of these great heroes would be remembered for decades to come, all of them paled in comparison to Sakhi and the Bout which changed our lives forever.
Sakhi was a man of small stature—strangely enough a complete anomaly in the nation of hunchbacks. Even though he worked the fields and hunted for seaweed during the Famine like the rest of us, when he stood, his back was completely straight. Even in the presence of the Empire’s soldiers and lords, his back never arched. But Sakhi never looked down on the rest of us for not doing the same. He literally couldn’t. Even when he stood tall, he would still be shorter than most of us with our hunched backs. We would often make fun of him by saying, “The reason he didn’t need to bow to the Empire was that he was so short their people couldn’t tell the difference.” Despite our degrading comments, when we thought he didn’t see us, we would stare at him—at the back that never faltered.
“I think it’s time for us to send a participant to the ceremonial Bout,” said our village chief one fateful day.
“You cannot be serious, sire. Men die in those battles. They’re not even a fair fight,” we replied in unison.
“It’s not like we have to win. We just have to send a participant. That’s all.”
“A participant to die that is,” we roared. “How can you even ask that of us?”
“The real question is how have I been asking you all to pay the land tax in the middle of the Famine,” he hissed back at us. “The land tax has been going up every year and our people can’t take more of this.” He calmed down and then continued, “All I’m saying is just one fight and they’ll forgo the tax for this year.”
“I’ll do it,” said a distant voice.
Some of us had recognized the voice and knew who it was. We turned to see it was Sakhi. But he was different. He was walking towards us with a hunched back. It wasn’t as bad as most of ours, but it was still there. His eyes seemed dead as if he was barely hanging on.
“Enough of our people have been burned,” he continued with muffled laughter, “In fact, our people have been falling so often, we don’t even bother burning them anymore. We simply put them in a pile in the forest.”
“Please don’t act like this,” said one of us. She put her hand on his shoulder in an attempt to console him.
“The woman who raised me... She died this morning. I had placed her in the pile myself,” he trailed off.
We all wanted to shake him violently and snap him out of it. It wasn’t about him being suicidal—we had expected that from him. It was something more. We didn’t want him participating in the bout because he thought he had no family left and wouldn’t be missed. We wanted him to be a damned fool—someone who would take on a soldier of the Empire with his gloved fists—a hero. But none of us voiced the desire. No one should be asked to shoulder such a burden.
We all followed Sakhi to the site of his Bout, on the fateful day. Not for our curiosity about the outcome nor for wanting to support him in his struggle; but because it was required of us. Required by the lords of the Empire. The ceremonial Bout was a major sport, celebrated by the elites of the Empire. But for us, it was largely a public humiliation. Every man, woman and child of the participant’s village was summoned to spectate on a Bout in order for them to receive the tax break. And we complied; just like the rest of the villages across the nation.
On the site of the Bout, we saw opulence beyond our wildest imagination. Gallons of some form of alcohol, dozens of different kinds of meat, and bizarre-looking armour. The armour worn by the lords looked very different from those worn by the soldiers.
“It was mostly an aesthetic choice; to show off their beauty and whatnot,” said the village chief.
Despite all of this, we never showed any signs of anger. We just made our way to the makeshift arena prepared for the occasion. Some of the children wanted to steal a bit of the food on display but the adults made sure they didn’t. Some might say it was so none of us got any punishment and perhaps this is true to an extent; but we believed, at least at the time, we were preserving some notion of pride; some sense of self-worth.
Unbeknownst to us, Sakhi had changed into the appropriate attire for the Bout. Back in those days, most of us were largely ignorant of the sport. So, when we saw him wearing specially made gloves and shoes, we wanted to ask him about them; how they felt; if they hindered his movements. But we stopped when we got a better look at his shirtless body—his sickly exterior. His ribs clearly visible from his chest and his muscles nonexistent. One push from a child would’ve been enough to finish him, but he still made his way to the ring.
Sakhi’s opponent was already waiting for him in the ring. We never found out the name of this man—if you could call him one. To this day, we know him as Enas.
Enas swallowed one of those accursed magical stones issued by the Divine Sun. By channelling the power of the stone, Enas grew to be over nine feet tall with his fists the size of Sakhi’s frail chest. His voice and breath resembled that of a demon come alive.
We all closed our eyes as soon as we heard the gong which marked the start of the massacre. We heard loud thuds and grunts, but we didn’t have it within us to see the awful carnage for ourselves. This is was what the Bout was all about. Showing us the weakness of our people and how we lacked the moral character to wield the power of the magical stones. How we deserved to be closer to the Earth and we should have paved the way for their ascent into the Heavens. They pushed this destiny on to us for over two centuries and at this moment, deep within our hearts, we had believed them.
The sounds of Enas’s colossal fists against Sakhi’s bones stopped for a few moments. Most of us didn’t have the courage to see what was left of him. But some of us needed to do it—to see his fall with our very own eyes.
“Sakhi is still alive, everyone! Open your eyes!” one of the children shouted.
“He’s trying to get back up,” shouted one of the voices from the crowd.
That damned fool.
But the world needed him to be this way; we needed him to be this way. For one last time, we made a prayer for a miracle, “Please stand up, Sakhi.”
Most people never see miracles come true. Perhaps, this is why belief in them is typically thought to be childish or juvenile. But on this day, a miracle not only took place but exceeded our highest hopes and expectations. Sakhi stood up to face his foe; with his back and shoulders broader than we had ever seen them.
Enas seemed mostly unfazed by the futile effort. As if he felt the need to shut up our uproar, he raised his fist again to land the final blow. In response, perhaps spurred on by the will of the gods or the fire of our voices, Sakhi’s arms and legs came alive. He dodged Enas’s fists; jumped up and countered with an uppercut to the giant’s jaw.
For the next few moments, time slowed down for us. We saw Enas fall to the ground; dazed.
“One point for Sakhi,” shouted the village chief as we had never seen him shout before.
It was only one point. One point which was nowhere near enough. In a match among hundreds and thousands of others, which we had lost. Matches which didn’t even mean much in the larger context of this world—a world ruled over by the Divine Sun Empire for centuries. But we still shouted and cheered for the remainder of the Bout. Even after .... even after the giant got up, channelling even more power, and finished whatever was left of Sakhi in a single blow.
The last time Sakhi fell, we knew. We knew it was over and he had died. But we kept on cheering as if it could give the gods power to revive him. But nothing happened; he laid there, completely still.
But Enas wasn’t satisfied and he was about to continue pummeling Sakhi’s body, even though the giant knew he was dead. He could’ve just pretended he didn’t know, but he didn’t bother. Before he could lay a finger on the corpse, however, he stopped in his tracks. He looked up at us, felt something within our gaze using his beastly senses. He knew if he made a move, all hell would have broken loose. After giving a long sigh, Enas walked back to his masters.
We walked Sakhi’s corpse back to the village, with him on our shoulders. The lords of the Empire offered us a carriage, but we rejected it. After all, we had gone through, we couldn’t accept their charity anymore.
A scribe would come to all the villages around the nation saying, “The Empire will no longer be holding ceremonial Bouts in the land.” And they had stuck to the word. No child of Stultorum ever had to live through the nightmare of a ceremonial Bout with a soldier of the Empire.
For the first time in months, we built a funeral pyre for Sakhi. Not only for him but for all the corpses we had abandoned in piles in the forest. We found the corpse of the woman who raised Sakhi and placed her pyre next to her son’s, as a sign of respect. We had, at long last, been able to practice our rituals and principles since Sakhi’s sacrifice had caused the Empire to forgo its taxes for that year. This was the least we owed him for his sacrifice. But the tax break wasn’t the only thing which Sakhi left behind for us.
The flames of the pyres caused ash to rise to the sky. The ashes rose and merged with the clouds above. The gods, as if heartbroken by the fall of our great hero, wept and finally granted us rain to end the decade-spanning drought. The rain, typically a symbol of upcoming prosperity, was now tinged with the sadness of those who we had lost.
As the flames of the pyres continued to rage in the rain, we had a conversation with each other. Each and every single one of us; man, woman and child. Not with words or even gestures as we pondered about what we had witnessed.
Sakhi was a hero who didn’t hope for eternal victory or lasting peace; instead, he found his main virtue in courage; in standing fearless against the fate which awaits all—a momentary rebellion against our hostile world.
On that day, all of us stood tall for the first time and decided to make certain that no one in the succeeding generations ever needed to be a hunchback.
