Long ago, a kingdom between two others fell upon hard times. The people grumbled, the surly underlings who outnumbered their king and his soldiers, although each soldier could probably slaughter a thousand before he fell. "This king has let us suffer, while he lives well," they snarled. The priest -- who had only one King in some place called Heaven, rumored to be just over the next mountain range -- had to agree. Kings, he felt, caused men to suffer, and wasn't there enough suffering in life, as it is?

The king heard from the ear of kindly merchant, Mosai, who told him of the grumblings. "They're not going to hold much longer!" he said. "My shop, my life, is in danger. You have to do something."

The king faced three options -- he could send in the soldiers and nip this in the bud; he could give the people the palace reserves and the seed wheat; he could do nothing and hope it would pass. Mosai would be happiest with the first, the people happiest with the second, and the soldiers happiest with the third. As debate in the king's chambers reached fever pitch, he left, to the grumbling of even his subordinates. "Doesn't he take this seriously?"

Bareheaded, he went into his garden. This is a role I play, he reminded himself. There is the King, and there is the man. The man might want to hop on a horse and head over the mountains. The King might want to smite the interlopers. There being no gods except in stories -- the King was a pragmatic man, which is how he got to be King -- what higher force is there?

As he wandered lonely, the din of bloviation inside fading into the distance, he stopped by a tree where a starling sang. The tree, old and gnarled, had long ago tipped and now just waited to die. "Entropy," thought the King. "Everything must pass, and maybe it is our time to pass." But he stopped for the starling song.

This was no poetic bird. Missing an eye, several toes, and many of its feathers, it had clearly seen enough of the world to be tired of it, as the King now felt. Still it sang, as the wind rose over the trees and whipped parts of its song out, as it tired, as if daring the darkness to come in. And then it stopped. The King looked up.

A serpent, coils black with obsidian night, coiled down from the branches, above the bird, ready to strike. The King had seen this before, knowing that birds in panic rise, and so a serpent above a bird is guaranteed a strike.

Winking his one good eye at the King, the bird cocked his head, ruffled his wings as if ready to fly -- and then stepped off the branch and fell to the ground. The snake struck empty air; the King clapped his hands; the snake recoiled and the starling flew free, leaving a twitter of notes in a curlicue of north wind.

Walking back, the King made up his mind. He dispatched the debaters; he asked Mosai for the name of the three top agitators; he sent his servants to make a sacrifice of the intestines of pigs to his favorite
donkey, who should wear a crown. In the town, grumbling turned to puzzlement, then sleepiness, and the new day dawned early.

The three agitators and priest woke up to summons from the king, with messengers waiting in fine livery, taking them by the high road in coaches that were left smeared with the dirt of the field, the foundry
and the vestry. "Greetings, good friends," said the King. "You must dine with me!" He drew back his arm and they saw tables laid out with the finest food of the kingdom.

"It's a trap," whispered one of the agitators. "He's trying to buy us out."

"He's trying to make us look stupid," said another. "Does he think we can't see through this trick?"

"What a shame," said the Priest, "to dine on such fine foods as a nation starves."

The agitators talked, and then one, elected leader, came forth and said, "We reject your offer. We can't eat while the nation starves, and you can't make us look false by feeding us finery while others eat cow dung. We can't be bought."

"I know," said the King, and he turned to the food, and picked up a slab of beef, and dropped it on the floor. It shattered into many tiny pieces of plaster.

"This was not my offer. This was my test. But you have passed it, and so here is my offer: I will assume the responsibility of paying for your families from my own pocket. I will feed the people from the storehouse
of the King for this season. I also will demand nothing of what you produce. In exchange, you will assume responsibility for the fields and larders of the town, and you will rule yourselves, and eat only of what you produce."

The agitators were wary, but the Priest thought it was a wonderful idea, so they all signed up right away. When they went back to town, the people were shocked. "The mean old King is giving up," they said. "Hurrah! For our new leaders, who will not treat us like slaves." The agitators conferred, and decided on a great feast in the town, using the King's provisions. In the castle, the King smiled and dispatched his subordinates who flittered like flies. He sent away most of his court, or they now had no use to him.

In the neighboring kingdoms, war was planned for after the next year's snowfall, because they could smell weakness.

As the sun rose over the mountains the next day, the agitators shook hangovers from their heads and began to get the fields in order. "When do we plant?" asked one. "The King's overseer knows," said another, but when they went to his cabin, he was abroad.

"We plant about now," said the second agitator. "Let's do it."

"Which fields?" said another. "All the fields," came the answer. But here was not enough seed for all the fields and besides, people were getting tired. One agitator excused a friend, and an hour later, the people saw the family of another agitator leaving for home. "They're sick," came the reply.

The next day, more people were sick.

The third day, even more, and several others were caught eating the seed wheat.

The agitators conferred. "We can't take this lying down," said one. "We need to make an example."

"But we can't be like that nasty arbitrary king," said another. "We need a court."

The next day, no work was done in the fields; everyone was at the courthouse. An agitator dressed in lawyer's robes made his case. "This peasant has deserted his fields," he said. "He claims he was sick, but his ex-wife saw him drinking."

"That's not true," blurted the poor man. "I got markedly better after sundown!"

"Ass," said the agitator. He turned to the people. "This man should have been working to make you wheat, bacon and potatoes; instead, he was drinking. If you let him get away with it, others will follow. The sentence is 40 lashes."

Among themselves, the people talked. They all knew the man, but the thought of no food kept recurring in their heads. We can't let that happen. This man wanted that to happen. If we punish him, maybe it will not happen -- "Guilty," said the people.

The next day, no work was done, because all had to watch the lashing. "Come one, come all," said the Priest. "We are all equal in the eyes of God, and you will now see God's justice visited upon the selfish."

Generally, the King's warden would allow at most ten lashes, because they were done with a cane pole that cut deep into the skin. Even more, he knew when to check his stroke. The agitator who sentenced people did not know this, so demanded 40 lashes, and the person he appointed to lash did not check his stroke. As the sun went down, the people stood in a circle around the bloody remains of a man.

"That didn't work," said an agitator. "Tomorrow is a state holiday, for a funeral!"

So it went, and the day after, a lawsuit was brought from the family of the dead man, who now were starving.

The day after that, a group petitioned for less labor, because their fields were in the lee of the mountains, and so got less sun. And on and on.

Eventually, the King's overseer returned from vacation. The boy entrusted to watch for him raced to him and asked the question he had been told to memorize. "You haven't planted yet?" the overseer gasped. "It's well past time!"

The agitators sent out their officers to round up the people. "It's dusk, but we have found out that the fields we left half-planted have not prospered. You must work until dawn planting them." But when the people got to the fields, half of the plants were dead -- no one had been appointed to water them, and so they were scraggly, and sick.

"Going to be a starving season," said the crazy old woman who drank her pints from a shoe, and so they hanged her as a witch.

The people worked all night, and the next day, rigorous orders went out to ensure plants were watered. Two more died for not following orders.

"So they want us to water on pain of death," said one woman. "I'll do what they tell me, and nothing more." Heads around her nodded.

So when the agitators forgot to mention a field of peas, it dried up. "No one said to," said the people, and they were right.

"My field's farther away than yours," said one woman. "It's because your family has always had more power here."

"That's because they were the first to settle here," retorted a man. "They let you in out of pity and charity!"

"I don't need charity," said the first. "I want a field closer to the town." The next day was absorbed by her lawsuit.

And so it went, all season.

The agitators met on the eve of harvest day. "What a lot of work that was," said one.

"We'll do better next season," said another.

"You will," said the third. "I had better luck working a farm on my own. I can make my own crops thrive while these others screw it up, and that's what I've been doing all season. Each to his own. I don't need the town to approve."

The next day, all went out to the fields, but it was noticed that one man was slyly putting crops in his clothes and taking them home each time he got water. One woman started to object, and got clubbed with a bucket. Silently, the others began doing the same. "At least feed our kids for a week," grumbled one.

When it came time to count the harvest, the take was so small the agitators blinked. "We got planted late, and half the plants died, and yet we're still short for that amount," said one. Another came in the door, holding a small child. "She says her neighbors are hoarding -- the same neighbors who always get all the cold well-water each morning."

Another burst in the door. "Your third agitator has been worse than hoarding -- he's grown his own crops! The crowd hung him, and they took his food, and now his family is starving."

Lawsuits and persecutions wracked the land. Officers took bribes. The roads fell apart. Education was forgotten, but no one forgot to go each Sunday to the church. However, there was a new priest, formerly a
blacksmith. "No more fire and brimstone," he said. "God's word was misunderstood; he means we should all love and tolerate each other, and worry about nothing! God will feed us!"

In town, the people had looted a costume store, and were now dressed in "finery just like that evil King."

And the evil King? He had, like most practical people, taken action long ago. First, he stopped banquets and celebrations. Next, he ordered that enough fields to feed the castle and staff be cleared, and removed most of his staff, sending them to plant -- and going with them. "This work s beneath us," he said. "But we'll do it because we have to, and because nothing is beneath us when it's a question of survival."

The castle and soldiers and staff had food enough. They settled down each night to simple meals, enjoying them more than the banquets of yore, when they saw fire on the horizon in the town. "Something must have gone wrong," said one soldier.

"They're handling it," said the King. "We aren't needed."

"But they'll come here for us," said the soldier.

"That's right," said the King. "It's easier to defend than attack. Kill a few and the rest will run away, then they'll show up the next day begging for mercy."

Events happened as he said. One agitator died as did several dozen townspeople, which encouraged the rest, because that meant more food. The town was in ruins, burnt by riots and covered in graffiti for each of the two new political parties. The courts churned on, newspapers were sold with the latest drama of instability, and thin children wandered the streets selling their bodies.

The King turned to his people and said:

"You did not believe I served a role. I did. You believed you could rule yourselves. You could not. What I did to you was play a horrible trick on you, but I have saved us from a thousand years of not understanding this relationship. The King is the head, and you are the body. When the head is working, it protects you from things you can't see. When the body is working, it protects you from things that you can see. The two can never exchange places. I hope your chance to be Kings for a year has shown you that and, if the cost was terrible, it will be worth it."