4.1 Boys and Dolls

“He who is not allowed to sit begins to understand the weight of every step.”
— The Great Pmurttii

1951, New York, Brooklyn

A cramped back office, full of papers, files, and rent books. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, dust, and the dry heat of a boiler somewhere deep in the building.

A wooden desk sat against the wall. Victor Kane’s father was on the phone.

Young Victor Kane sat cross-legged on the floor, pushing a toy soldier toward a ragged doll dressed in scraps of red cloth.

“I’m a king,” he announced proudly, lifting the soldier above his head. “Look, Daddy. I’m a king.”

“Look, Daddy,” he shouted louder. “I’m a king.”

For a moment, his father did not respond.

Kane waited, still smiling.

Then his father looked up from the desk, ended the call mid-sentence, and crossed the room.

He snatched the doll from the boy’s hands and threw it aside.

“Kings are born to greatness,” he said. “You’re not. And boys don’t play with dolls.”

“You’ll never be a king.”

The room fell silent. Kane stared at the discarded doll, his lower lip trembling.

“Never,” his father repeated.

Then he returned to the phone call, picking it up exactly where he had left off.

 4.2 Appointment at the Monastery

Katarina Kane watched her husband, Victor, through the dark tint of her sunglasses. It struck her that this was the longest time they had been in the same space in years. The realization sat heavy in her stomach.

Normally they lived entirely separate lives, communicating only by telephone or appearing together for cameras when publicity demanded it.

Something about this place was wrong. She could not define it, only feel it. Still, she was certain of one thing: they were no longer on Earth.

She thought of their son in New York. That was the only place in her mind that still felt real. She hoped he was safe.

Victor Kane raised a brass telescope to his eye. Ambrose Wren had handed it to him moments earlier, and in truth he did not need it. Katarina suspected it was for show. Victor had always preferred an audience.

The landscape was small, contained, almost staged. Through the lens, a palace-like structure rose on a distant hill.

“I want that building,” Kane snapped. “Make it happen.”

“That building is not available,” the guide replied.

“I paid millions for this village,” Kane said. “Everything here is negotiable.”

“That is the Ain Parliament building.”

“We can turn it into a hotel,” Kane said. “The greatest hotel in the region. Think of the jobs.”

“It is not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale for the right price.”

The guide looked at him as if he had spoken a different language.

Kane lowered the telescope slightly and pointed toward a tower beneath them.

“This thing. Tear the top off it. White stone columns. Domes. Bigger statues. Class the place up.”

“The Ain are enemies of this village,” the guide said.

Kane waved a hand.

“Nobody cares about that after a few years.”

“They have hated each other for centuries.”

“Even better. Give it history. Tourists love history.”

Silence followed.

Kane lifted the telescope again.

“I don’t see any cars or airplanes.”

“What is a car? You mean a cart? We have horses and carts.”

Kane frowned.

“Horses are fine. Outdated, but fine.”

He lowered the telescope.

“What about airplanes?”

The guide hesitated.

“Aer-o-planes?”

“You know,” Kane said, already impatient. “Metal tube with wings. People sit inside it. Very impressive technology.”

“No. We do not have those. Though it is rumoured, in the East near Longport, they fly on dragons.”

Kane paused, calculating whether he was being mocked.

Kane looked back through the telescope and pointed it at a steep hill to the left. On the top were a series of red-roofed buildings.

“What is that?” asked Kane.

“Ah, good timing. That is the Monastery, which is our next stop.”

Ambrose Wren looked at his clipboard and turned to Kane.

“We need to start making our way to our appointment.”

“Appointment?” said Kane, looking at his assistant, Harris. “You know anything about an appointment?”

“No, sir,” Harris said.

Wren replied:

“We have an…”

Kane stared at him.

“…A monastery,” Kane interjected with surprise.

“Yes.”

“With monks,” said Kane.

“Yes. If you want to be considered a claimant for the Kingdom, then we must go to the Monastery.”

“And this is where the final authority sits?” interjected the assistant.

“Yes,” said Wren.

“At present.”

Katarina finally spoke.

“And who do the monks answer to?”

Wren looked uncomfortable again.

“A child,” he said. “At least, that is the current working arrangement.”

4.3 Running Up That Hill

Kane lay slumped in the back of the horse and cart like a sack of potatoes, having declared that walking was beneath a man of his importance. Refusing to let anyone else into the cart, he rode ahead in comfort while the others were forced to walk to the monastery on foot. Every few minutes he would lean over the side and remind the others that leadership was a burden.

The road wound through an avenue of stone statues in various kingly and regal poses. As the group passed between them, Katarina stopped and frowned at a solitary empty plinth.

She pointed towards it.

“And what happened here?”

Its stone base was not as old as the others; it was almost new. Not as weather-worn or beaten with age as the others.

Ambrose Wren said, “There was an unfortunate accident with the statue.”

“What sort of accident?”

“The sort that leaves you needing a new plinth.”

She stared at him for a moment.

“And how long has this kingdom been here?” she asked.

The guide answered without turning around.

“Long enough,” he said, “that we don’t talk about everything that’s happened in it.”

He gave a small nod, more to the idea of the answer than to them.

“Missing statue?” called Kane from the cart. “And if it’s a former king, I want to be very clear, I’m the obvious choice. Nobody does statue replacement better than me. Especially in gold. That’s just how it is.”

4.4 The Unmovable Chair

A thousand years of tradition, five minutes of Victor Kane.

Victor Kane stood looking up at the very long set of steps stretching upwards before him.

“And you expect me to climb that?”

“It’s the only way to get to the Monastery,” said Wren.

“You're telling me that monks don't have lifts?”

“No,” Wren replied.

“Escalators?”

“No.”

“Then how do they get to the top?”

“Very slowly,” replied Wren.

Kane looked up at the twisting serpentine path of steps. At least it wasn't straight up, and then he looked at his wife for advice, but she, as usual, was unreadable behind her sunglasses.

Before they started the climb, Wren said:

“Pilgrims are supposed to climb the five hundred stone steps in a single breath.”

Victor considered this for several seconds. He took one step, then two steps. Then stopped.

“Also, I would like it officially recorded as King that this is fundamentally un-American.”

By the time he wheezed his way to the summit anyway, his lungs were burning. That’s when Kane spotted it: an ornate chair that was a roped-off chair surrounded by a silent circle of tired-looking monks in red robes, all leaning on staffs for support

Panting, he hurried toward it, entirely intent on sitting down before he could collapse.

One of the monks moved forward and blocked Victor’s path.

“Don’t sit in the chair.”

“Why not?”

“It is forbidden. That is the chair of the Great Pmurttii; nobody may sit in it.”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s a chair. What else is it for?”

“It has been the tradition for many thousands of years.”

Victor nodded slowly.

“Ah. So, nobody knows why anymore!”

The monk remained silent.

Victor looked around at the other monks.

“You’re telling me you’ve spent a thousand years protecting a chair nobody can use?”

“Yes.”

“Honestly, I respect the commitment. The logic is questionable.”

Wren approached.

“The monks of this order are forbidden from sitting down at all and particularly not in chairs.”

Victor looked at the monks.

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

Victor looked back at the chair.

“So, this is basically the most valuable chair in the world because nobody has ruined it by using it.”

Kane reflected for a moment.

“The only thing that is more beautiful than my wife is something valuable. I gotta own it.”

The monks said nothing.

Victor stepped closer to the rope.

“I have to admit, this is fascinating. A chair that has survived a thousand years because everyone agreed not to do the one thing chairs were designed for.”

He glanced at Wren.

“I never understood the point of tradition.” Then he continued talking. “I want that chair moved. For a chair that's supposed to be so valuable, why is it in a position where nobody can see it?”

“You can't move it,” said Wren.

Then, before anyone could stop him, Victor reached towards the rope and shoved the chair a few inches to the left with his foot.

“See, done...”

There was silence in the courtyard for a moment.

The monks moved as one as they fell to their knees.

For the first time in centuries, they looked genuinely alarmed.

“He moved it,” shouted the monks.

“The chair,” said the monks. “The sacred chair.”

Kane shrugged. He didn't care.

“Yeah, it was in the way. So what?”

“You can't just move the chair,” said the monk. “It has been in that exact position since the time of the Great Pmurttii.”

“It’s just a bloody chair; it was in the way, and now it isn't.”

“You moved the sacred chair; you don't understand what you have done.”

The courtyard remained silent.

The chair had been in the same position for so long that nobody had actually written what would happen if it was moved.

He made it worse by then sitting in the chair.

“You can't sit in the chair.”

“Why? It’s a chair, that's what they are for. It’s not even a particularly well-made chair. Look at it, it’s falling apart.”

“But nobody is allowed to sit in that chair... Nobody.”

“Feels fine to me. Let me ask you something: has anything tested any of this? Or is this just a long European tradition where nobody wants to be the guy who checks? No, that's what I thought.”

The monk looked close to tears.

“Something should have happened.”

“It’s a very comfortable chair,” said Kane.

Nothing happened.

The world did not end.

For a moment, it looked like the monks had been wrong.

Then every monk in the courtyard spoke at once, perfectly in unison:

“That is not possible.”

“Can we get on with this? I've got a kingdom to rule,” shouted a frustrated Kane. “Also, the lower back support on this thing is non-existent.”

The monks exchanged horrified glances.

Victor Kane had moved the Chair, sat in it, insulted it, and remained completely unharmed.

For the first time in centuries, the Monks began to suspect their religion had a serious flaw. The chair had remained unmoved for thousands of years; it was assumed disaster would strike if it was occupied. Nobody had ever considered the possibility that it was simply a chair.

One of the monks threw his staff to the ground. It rolled into a gutter, and nobody moved to pick it up.

“For a thousand years,” he muttered, “my ancestors have stood, my grandfather stood, my father stood in front of this chair.”

He started to take his robe off.

“Wait, what?” Kane asked.

“We gave up garlic,” another monk wept, tearing at his robes. “The Great Pmurttii said garlic was the sweat of demons! But it wasn't, was it? It’s just a vegetable. It’s all just... vegetables and chairs.”

“Fuck this,” said the monk. “I’m going to the beach to have an ice cream.”

He started to march straight for the five hundred steps without looking back.

Then another monk followed and another, until the courtyard that had been busy moments before was now empty, and the courtyard was filled with red robes and staffs.

“They do this often?” said Kane to the guide.

“No,” he replied.

Katarina Kane realised, with horror, that Victor had no idea what he had just done.

Kane stood up and nudged the sacred chair a few inches to the left.

He looked around at the empty courtyard.

“There,” he said. “That looks better.”

END OF CHAPTER.