Pascal Spronk stood atop the chicken shed roof, surveying his kingdom. It was a vast and impressive empire, sprawling from the Adamses’ broken hammock to the Joneses’ now-empty kennel. Pascal missed the Joneses’ bloodhound dog, Robert. The Joneses had called him “Bob,” but Pascal disdained such presumptive familiarity and had always greeted the dog by his proper name. Robert had been dutifully awed by and accepting of Pascal’s rule, and very appreciative of any and all sandwich crumbs. Whenever Pascal had mitigated a possibly nuclear situation betwixt the neighbourhood cats, or pronounced some particularly wise ruling for the Adamses' toddler, playing in the sandbox, he would bring his juicebox and cookies over to the Jones’ kennel. Once there he gripped chain-link with toes and grubby, prehensile fingers, and climbed nimbly over with the air of one who knows his will is unchallenged. Pascal would then lean against the bloodhound’s cavernous chest and feed him cookies (Robert preferred oatmeal cranberry); both boy and dog were content in each other’s company.
Now Robert was gone—the victim of some disease Pascal did not understand and was not informed of by either the Joneses or the middle-aged couple that lived in Pascal’s house. He wondered, sometimes, about it. But Pascal must ignore all that he does not know—he has not yet reached the age where understanding is linked with the acceptance of ignorance. That understanding would come, when his rule would extend over more territory than currently. For the time at hand, though, he ruled his remaining subjects with a benevolent, if slightly self-gratified rule.
Pascal Spronk did not recall a day he had not ruled. His earliest memories involved the middle-aged couple leaping about in shameful ways to fulfill his every desire and need. As he grew older, and in wisdom and kindness, Pascal took pity on them and tried to make his demands less burdensome. Their embarrassing reactions had lessened accordingly, the pitches of their voices lowered and calmed, and they wept less often than before. He brought them his art projects from the university and gifts from the fields. They loved it all. So proud were they of their emperor, they displayed his gifts to them ostentatiously on their appliances for their common friends to see. Pascal blushed a little at all of this, but the shallow corner of his soul was gratified by their delight. He graciously continued to offer them gifts, since he saw how well it pleased them.
Pascal’s subjects were happy and prosperous, and that is the universal sign that a good emperor rules a land.
But now Pascal stood atop the chicken shed, empty now of all chickens, and surveyed his kingdom, and felt a sadness he did not understand. He had felt sadness before, but that was briefly and, in context, understandable: when Robert had passed away; when Pascal had thoughtlessly made a comment to the middle-aged woman that caused her to cry; when Pascal had rescued a baby bird from the tomcat across the road, but had only made it in time to feel the little bird’s chest rise and fall several times in quick terror before it stretched out its tiny stick legs and, tremblingly grasping at Pascal’s pinky finger, died.
Pascal had had reasons for all those sadnesses; this was a sadness that made no sense. His subjects were still happy and prosperous, and Pascal had been productive that day—rising early, working quietly and gently with his royal construction company so as not to disturb the middle-aged couple’s repose, and making his own little breakfast before leaving the comfort of his palace to see to the welfare and comfort of his outdoor subjects.
Pascal pondered this tenacious sadness and tried to discover its origin. Some things were changing—his university classes had begun again, and the leaves had passed their autumn peak and begun to fall and crisp, leaving their parents bare, thin, and sad. The wind’s coming was no longer a delight to flushed cheeks, but a cause to withdraw inwards upon oneself and seek shelter. These were merely changes that must have happened before. Pascal Spronk did not understand why there now seemed to be a correlation between the changes, and an abiding sadness. Perhaps it was only now that he was noticing the changes and pondering them, and that was causing his sadness. This still did not make sense to him; he enjoyed his university, classmates, and classes, and he loved the colours of fall. One of his chief joys in life was playing solemnly in a pile of sugar maple leaves for hours at a time. The leaves seemed almost, in some lights, to take on a glow as if they were being lit from behind, or as if they were the cocoons of magical butterflies, preparing to emerge in a dazzle of light and brilliance.
How are these things that cause sadness?
Pascal watched a yellow leaf slip from amongst its brethren in the upper reaches of a mighty tree and fall quietly to the ground. Pascal’s heart was pierced by the beauty of the thing. Briefly he felt a flash of joy and the sharp pain of sorrow, and then the feelings subsided. Pascal released the remains of a cookie from the depths of the patched pocket of his pants and chewed on them, wondering. Sated physically, yet still confused in soul, Pascal slipped down from the chicken shed roof. He knew a neighbour’s eyes were on him, but ignored them. He was not in the frame of mind to talk to his subject right now. Anyway, he had matters of his own to attend to.
It was almost the time of day that a skinny mother cat would show up for the food assistance Pascal could provide for her. She was shy and refused to let him touch or look at her. He understood her actions were a result of fear and mistreatment at another ruler’s hands, and did not begrudge her that. Every day Pascal saved her a little piece of bread or meat from his breakfast and placed it under a rhododendron bush against the back fence. The mother cat would creep under a gap in the fence, keeping to the sparse shadows of the generic landscaping choices, and make her shy way to the rhododendron. She would delicately snatch the morsel up, while keeping Pascal in her sights. Then she would turn, and slip back quietly from whence she came. Pascal, out of kindness, would busy himself with other matters and turn his back to her when she came to receive his gift to her. She was proud and afraid, and he cared for her.
Pascal ruled well.
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