The Tale of Onora: The Boy and the Peddler of Death by Dylan Saccoccio Page A

gaze.
    The man’s irises appeared as though they swallowed dusk. It was so intense that the boy feared the man’s glare would swallow him next. The confidence that had grown inside the boy instantly fled from him. If he had guardian angels, they too fled the room. Nothing dared be present for such scrutiny.
    An awful smile broke across the man’s face. It churned the boy’s innards. “Celebrated men lay dead at my feet for that type of ambition. It gave my life a great sense of purpose to kill them.”
    The boy’s palms were clammy. They were so cold that the metal in his hand felt warm. He carefully placed the crown back where it belonged. In a subtle whimper, the words fell from his mouth. “Do you know what they call you?”
    His question was met by silence.
    “They call you The Peddler of Death,” the boy continued. “They say the only reason you didn’t wipe out my people was because of me.”
    “They’re not wrong,” the man responded. “Caliphians may be obsessed with your nation’s beauty, but I know better. Beauty promises everything yet delivers nothing. It’d be no shame to me if a race of desert fowl disappeared off the map.”
    The boy’s tone grew indignant. “How dare you! Have you any idea what it’s like for me to have my people refer to me as The Son of The Peddler of Death? It’s a disgrace!”
    “Tell me something… what does a hero look like to you?” His question was met by the boy’s concerned stare.
    “I don’t know,” the boy replied.
    “What about a murderer?” the man asked. “Do you know what a murderer looks like?”
    The boy stared hard into the man’s eyes.
    The man waited patiently for the response he was looking for. Finally, it came.
    “You,” the boy said.
    The man cast an awful smirk. “Good lad.” He turned his head back towards the window and stared in silence.
    “My grandfather had that type of ambition,” the boy said.
    The man’s posture sank back into apathy. “Aye.”
    “And so you slew him?” the boy asked.
    The man could not have been more at peace with himself.
    “I rather enjoyed it,” he said. “I grew up parentless in a foreign land because of your grandfather.”
    The boy was confused. It was a simple truth. Nevertheless, confronting it handicapped his ability to reason. “That was him in the desert, wasn’t it?”
    “I woke you up before you would witness your grandfathers murdering each other,” the man said. His eyes burned with hatred.
    The truth stole the boy’s breath. He felt suffocated by its weight.
    The man’s stare grew distant, his tone sarcastic. “You are the fruit of a family tree that chops itself down.”
    There was a long silence. The boy waited patiently. His stare eventually drew the man to look at him. The man tilted his head and assessed what the boy was thinking about. “And so you see me as a murderer.”
    The boy looked down with uncertainty. In his heart, he longed to have a single reason to be proud of his father. “My mum said you did it to save our lives.”
    “Ah,” the man replied. “And so she sees me as a hero.”
    The boy nodded.
    “So I am both,” the man continued. “Neither of which I wanted to be.”
    “But you are,” the boy said.
    “They are one in the same,” the man responded. “It matters not what choices you make, some will perceive you as a hero, and others as a murderer. But I suppose ‘tis better to be alive as one of those than to be dead as something else.”
    “But you were alive as king,” the boy said.
    The man raised his chin slightly. The look in his eyes owned up to the accusation.
    “Why did you do it then?” the boy asked. “Why did you give up our wealth and power?”
    “I didn’t give it up,” the man replied. “I gave it back. Our wealth was accumulated over centuries through theft, cloaked under the guise of law and justice. Our power was amassed by the unwitting consent of a population whose minds were drowned in an ocean of fear. The theft