And he’s looking at me now
But what he can't see
Is that I'm looking through his eyes
So many lies behind his eyes
And tell me stories from your past
Sing me songs you wrote before
I tell you this my poison prince
You'll soon be knockin’ on heaven’s door
-Poison Prince, by Amy Macdonald
Malcolm ‘the Prince’ Prince. People saw a wheelchair-bound freak. A cripple; an invalid.
They mocked him. They accused him of outrages.
They never liked him. And they never trusted him...
...But they never saw him coming. Even the careful Macisikani were completely blindsided. A year ago he had become the unelected President of the Democratic Republic of Farmina.
No one mocks him now. But they still accuse him of outrages.
Richard Taylor, Prince’s inherited chief of staff, was running through the evening briefing, “Lord President - this sealed communication has arrived from FIS. Your eyes only – I was given no further details.” He passed the canister into Prince’s frail hands.
“‘Any other business?” The Prince didn't say this. A computer said this. Severely disabled - the Prince relies on technology to speak for him.
“Everything is ready for the President’s Ball tomorrow,” said Taylor, “And your predecessor is appearing on a talk-show tonight. I am beginning to wonder, if he is planning to run in the Presidential election next year. It is hard to believe given all that happened. We don’t know what he will be talking about tonight; but we he has recently requested school performance data.”
The School for the Gifted, thought the Prince. He jerked his head up, “Thank you Richard – would you join me for dinner?”
“Not tonight – the wife, you see...” Prince lowered his eyes. Taylor fell silent, he sympathised but left without a word.
Now alone, the Prince struggled to open the sealed container. Finally the message fell out, “The Restoration is at hand.”
And it was signed, Justinian, Emperor of Farmina. Defender of the Faith.
“Now may I ask you, Mister Cohen...”
“Please, call me Joe.” Joseph Cohen wore navy suit, light blue shirt, no tie. His jacket hung open. His legs stretched out, lounging slightly – he looked like he was at a bar after a long day’s work.
The talk-show host, Damien Banks leaned forwarded, as though trying to exchange confidences with an old friend “...Joe, do you miss the Presidency?”
Cohen placed a hand on his chest, “Of course I do – I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But when I was President, I missed my family. I missed them more, than I now miss that job. My girls were growing up so fast and I was always so busy...”
Although it was true, the line had been planned and rehearsed. Cohen looked out at the audience. He saw the looks on their faces: the mothers and fathers; the young women; all in love with some image of Cohen’s family life. Voters, each and every one of them. He estimated the audience, assumed 60% were won over, and added this amount to his running tally.
But it was not just the audience that fell for this – Damien Banks nodded approvingly, “But, if you were still President, what would your current priorities be?”
“I think President Prince is doing a very fine job,” said Cohen, “He is implementing the policies I took to the last election. These are good policies...”
“Indeed, but you’ve recently secured a seat in Parliament. You say this is to help use your experiences to inform policy development,” said Banks, “Given that, what would you do differently if you were the President today?”
Cohen stroked his chin and gave a contemplative look, as though thinking through an unexpected question. This was just a charade - after sufficient ‘thinking’ time had passed, Cohen gave his answer, “Education reform. I think we still have a lot to do. Data shows that final exam results are, on average, 15% lower in Church schools.”
Cohen made a deliberate pause; then, gesticulating as he spoke, said, “We all want what’s the best for our children, I certainly wanted my children to have the best education I could provide. If Church run schools can’t provide that, then we need to do something about it.”
Banks leaned back. His posture, his expression, firmed, “Is this just another part of your vendetta against the Church?”
“Damien, no. I don’t have a vendetta against the Church. That’s simply not true,” said Cohen, shaking his head. He a put hand on his chest, “There is no more devout Catholic than me. All I did; I did to make the Church stronger. To make the DRF stronger.”
“You ordered a priest burnt at the...”
“Let me stop you there, Damian,” said Cohen, his hands giving a stop gesture. He remained completely calm, “The courts gave out the death sentence. Not me. I didn’t draft the laws that saw Bishop Parsins executed. These laws predated me by decades.”
He paused, then continued, “And let us not pretend that Bishop Parsins was some innocent party. He instigated deadly violence. And this was far from his first sin. For a decade, Bishop Parsins was head teacher at the School for the Gifted...”
The School for the Gifted. Its name is synonymous with so many things. There are stories of terrible abuses. Priests and young boys. But it is also the highest ranked school in Farmina – one of the few well performing Church schools. It attracts the most talented. It is arduous, cold, demanding. Boys are turned into men – stronger, smarter, fiercer. But only the strongest survive the priests’ harsh lessons. Many boys break: they turn to substances, they take their own lives, they go mad. One was driven so mad – that he crowned himself ‘Emperor’.
A story from the past wandered back into Cohen’s thoughts – not that it was ever really gone. Instinctively, he wiped away a tear. But he was not crying. No sadness remained. After so many years, that wound had healed, but it still left a scar...
It was my first week. My classes were finished for the day, so I went to the study hall. You’d sit there and the priests would stalk back and forward. They didn’t so much walk as slither across the floor; their eyes slowly surveying the room. They saw everything. They punished everything. Because punishment makes you strong.
I saw this boy – maybe five years older than me – sitting alone, writing. He wrote with a pace that was utterly constant: without either haste or hesitation. He never stopped to make a correction or an edit. By the time the pen hit the paper, each word was thoroughly considered; each sentence perfectly formed; each paragraph had complete clarity of purpose.
I watched a priest approach him. “I hope you are studying for your theology test.”
The boy did not look up, nor turn his head. But his pace was broken. He closed his eyes, “Reverend Parsins – I will not forget a single answer in the test...” His tone was completely level; his voice was soft and understated. He opened his eyes, he looked up, “...I will not forget...anything...” He looked back down again and said nothing else.
For such insolence, the priests would show you the back of their hand, or make you familiar with their cane. But instead – to my awe – the priest stepped back, he turned and walked away without a word.
I walked over to the boy. We were not supposed to talk, but my curiosity defeated my sense, “What’s your name?”
He looked up, without quite looking at me “Who says I have one?” He closed his book of writings – the cover read, ‘A New Farmina’.
“Everyone has a name.”
His eyes fixed on mine. Those blue, blue eyes. I’ve never seen anyone else with eyes like that. He’d didn’t look at you – he looked straight through you. Behind his eyes, an all-consuming flame raged. Yet he spoke calmly, softly; like a philosopher putting questions to the universe, “What is a name, but a label? If I had a different name; if I had no name; would that change who I am?”
I fell silent, as though defeated by his words. The older boy smiled. His eyes – bluer than the sea – were like an endless expanse that drew you in. His entire demeanour was suddenly charming. And he said, with friendship, “My name is Justinian. What’s yours?”
“Marty. Martin Cohen.”
Joe Cohen snapped back to the present day, “If I was President, I would close the School for the Gifted.”
But all of Farmina is a School for the Gifted. Farminan politics are harsh; brutal; Darwinian. Only the strongest survive. But those who do survive – Joseph Cohen counts himself a survivor – become stronger, wiser, more ruthless. The strongest nations – Macisikan and the like – they enrol their best pupils in Farmina’s bloody classes. Lesser nations, likes the Messians, have failed Farmina’s brutal exams, and joined the list of failed states.
And now it’s time for the next lesson. What will you learn today? Or will you dropout of our little school, and join the Messians, feeding the maggots and the crows?
