The Fable of the Wall

There once was a kingdom, noble, proud, and fair. The envy of all the world, it was the greatest of all empires. Not in size, but in might — but not the might of the sword, the might of the heart, the harvest, and the hearth. For far and wide, all the world regarded it not with jealousy and fear — but with admiration, respect and love. The other empires squabbled and skirmished with one another — but only because all wanted to be as great and as loved as the kingdom they all envied. For this kingdom, unlike all before it, was prosperous, but not unjust; true, never false; and great, never merely mean.

One long summer day, the rains came. And came and came. They washed away the bountiful crop, as never they had before.

And that very winter, the King, who was a brave and lionhearted man, sat down with his council.

The harvest, he said, has failed. But we have enough food still to eat well, and fill our bellies. Who then has called this council with such haste?

Sire, said his Vizier, a cunning and wealthy man, I have. For the truth is this: we have enough food to fill our bellies, true. But they enter our kingdom, by night and day. They pour in like the waters of a great flood. And should they stay, like the flood, we will surely drown in them.

The council shifted uneasily.

They? Asked the King, arching an eyebrow.

They! Cried the Vizier. They come from lands far and wide, wracked by war and ravaged by disease, ruined by poverty and scorched by famine.

Are they then not to be welcomed? Asked the King’s Father, who, now old, and frail, having given up his crown, sat usually quiet and wistful, on his little chair festooned with pillows, through the long days of governing and administering.

Welcomed? Asked the Vizier sharply. They are filthy and poor, disgraced and dirty. Why? Because they are not like us, the noble and fair and proud. They are corrupt, devious, immoral — and that is why they suffer so. Deservingly and justly. Therefore: I would not have my kingdom poisoned by their pestilence.

MY kingdom, boomed the King, sharply.

The council was silent.

Sire, said the Vizier’s assistant, the Chief Minister, at last, breaking the pregnant silence. Perhaps the Vizier overstates the sentiments of pride he feels for this fair land. But that is to his credit, not to his detriment. And besides: the point remains, we must do something, or we shall not eat. Shall we feed the disgraced and the devious with the bread of our own toil? And is it wise to be so reckless their corruption might infect us, and ruin us — like them?

The King stroked his beard. What, then, he asked, shall we do?

We must, said the Vizier, quietly, steel in his voice, build a wall.

A wall? Asked the King.

A Wall, explained the Minister, will keep them out. Of our fair and noble land. And our bellies will remain full in our time of need.

I see, said the King, considering the idea carefully.

Fools, muttered the King’s Father. A wall cannot keep anything out. And it cannot keep anything in. A wall can only keep us from ourselves. For it can only keep suffering from grace.

The Vizier smiled kindly at him, the way that a rich man smiles at a pauper.

Very well! Said the King. But I will put it to the people. They are my masters, not my servants.

And so the very next day, the King summoned the people to the great square, and cried: My people! My council would build a wall, to protect you in this time of necessity. What say you?

The people looked at one another. Some uncomfortable, some puzzled, and some scornful.

The Vizier looked at the people. The Minister poked him in his bony ribs.

The Vizier cleared his throat and cried: People! Look among you. Here are strangers, that come from far and distant lands. Lands ravaged by disease and brought low by disgrace. Here they stand, in our fair and noble land. And in this time of scarcity, they eat the bread and work the jobs and live the very lives that are yours! Rightfully yours! Will you let them take all this from you?

The crowd shifted. Something in them seemed to snap, or to break, or to give. And then, one by one, they began to cheer. But it was not a happy cheer. It was an angry cheer.

A wall! They cried. A wall!!

The King nodded at the Vizier. The Vizier smiled.

The very next day, the wall began to be built. Stone by stone, it was raised. Until, at last, a full season later, it stood three man-heights high. It was, the Vizier smiled in satisfaction, impregnable. None could cross it — whether man or beast.

Until, one day, the Master at Arms breathlessly interrupted a meeting of the great council. Sires! He cried. I have news. That cannot wait!

Very well, said the King, frowning.

The wall! They have breached it! Cried the Master at Arms.

Breached it? How? Asked the Vizier, puzzled. Are we at war?

Fools, muttered the King’s Father.

No! Cried the Master at Arms.

Well, man, have they smashed it? Broken it? Burned it? Asked the Minister, irritated.

Sires, explained the Master at Arms, they are tunneling beneath it.

The King’s frown lengthened. The Vizier’s face grew red with rage. The old man smiled.

What shall we do? Asked the Minister, afraid.

It is simple, replied the Vizier, grimly. We shall build watchtowers all along the wall. And with them we shall have eyes to see any who dare to tunnel beneath our wall. Like the vermin that they are!

The King grunted in assent.

The very next, they began to construct the watchtowers. All along the wall, equidistant by the length of a man’s vision, the towers went up. And a season later, they were finished, studding the wall like dark jewels atop a great sea.

The people gathered before the wall, and the Vizier cried to them: My people!

Have our neighbors not proven themselves to be what they truly are? Why, men do not scurry beneath the ground! It is only vermin that do! That is why we must repel them. For vermin will bring this land only pestilence and ruin. With these watchtowers, my people, we will stop the vermin’s plague. Every one shall be stayed. From sharing in the bounty of our fair and noble land.

The people cheered mightily, feeling a great relief wash over them at last, for they had been afraid, now, many long seasons, of what the Vizier had foretold: pestilence, plague, ruin.

The King’s Father looked at them, and shook his spotted head in disgust. Us, he muttered, from ourselves.

A full season had passed, but all was not well in the fair and noble land, for the harvest had failed again. And still the people seemed uneasy, though their bellies remained satisfied.

One day, the Minister burst into the King’s chamber, the Master at Arms and the Vizier at his side.

Sire, he cried angrily. You shall not believe what I have to say!

What, asked the King, puzzled.

The Watchtowers along the Wall! They have not stayed the vermin!

How not? Asked the King, now growing angry, and though the Vizier and the Minister did not know it, the King’s anger was not for the people, but increasingly, for himself, and the foolish decision he appeared to have made.

The very people themselves, explained the Minister angrily. The vermin promise them coin, gold, treasure, and the people themselves…

The people, finished the Vizier, haughtily. Welcome them in as though they were noble guests, distracting and befooling the guards. For the jewels and riches the vermin promise them!

The King’s Father, sitting on his little chair festooned with pillows, laughed, and said: you fools. A wall cannot keep anyone out. It cannot keep anyone in. It can only keep suffering from grace.

Angered now, the King demanded to know. How shall we fix it?

It is not, the Vizier said grimly, the vermin that the Watchtowers must watch. It is the people. The people themselves must be kept from becoming vermin.

The King, fooled by his very own anger, nodded and smashed his fist against the table. Very well, he cried. Make it so!

And so the Watchtowers turned, one by one, on the people. And the people who had been angry and afraid of the vermin now began to grow suspicious and distrustful of one another. Their happiness and peace, their prosperity and their comity, had been drained from within them, as if a great sea had been tipped into the very earth. And they did not, nor could they say, how.

One day, not long after, the Master at Arms came to make his report to the council.

He hesitated, unsure, and the King said to him: come, man. Tell us what you must. How goes the battle of the Watchowers along the Wall against the vermin?

I am afraid to say, sire, replied the Master at Arms, carefully, that the war is being lost.

But how? Asked the King, dumbfounded.

The Master at Arms looked at the Vizier. The Vizier nudged the Minister.

The Minister cleared his throat, and said, angrily. Sire. The Watchtowers along the Wall can see the people. But they cannot see through walls.

I, said the King quietly, menace in his voice, do not understand.

The Minister, trying again, said. Sire. The vermin tunnel beneath the Wall into the very homes of the people. Where the guards on the Watchtowers along the Wall cannot see them.

But why do the people allow this? Asked the King, his anger rising like a scalding volcano. Are they traitors?

Sire, said the Vizier calmly, his voice grim. The vermin promise the people gold and jewels, treasure and fortune. They are betraying this noble and proud and fair land for a pauper’s pittance.

They, said the King’s Father, quietly, are but people. And they truck with people. Like them. For who among them, in this time of failed harvests, would not feed their hungry child, to aid a fellow traveller, should he be able to strike the bargain? They are not traitors — you are but fools.

Silence! shouted the King at his Father, poisoned by the heat of his own anger.

If even the guards on the Watchtowers along the Wall cannot watch the people, then who, the King thundered at the Vizier and the Minister, will watch the people? His voice seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle.

Why, said the Vizier, cunning to the last, the people shall watch the people. There shall be a new force established in society, a new order. A People’s League. And I shall be its figurehead. The people shall be rewarded for discovering their neighbors’ crimes. And the truest among them shall be my prefects, for they are the noblest among the people — and they shall be the arbiters of justice.

The King, overwhelmed by his own anger, shouted at them. Make it so! My kingdom shall not be brought low into poverty and pestilence and ruin by vermin!

Fools, muttered the King’s Father. Walls beget only walls. And so walls will never defeat walls. A wall cannot keep anyone out. And it cannot keep anyone it. It can only keep people from themselves.

But they did not hear him. They heard only the burning angels of their own vengeful salvation. And the new order that salvation necessitated.

One day, not long after, the King proudly ventured from his castle, and wandered his kingdom. But the markets were empty. The taverns were shuttered. And the squares, once thronged by joyous, raucous crowds, were bare.

But where is everyone? He asked the Minister at his side, puzzled.

Why, sire! Replied the Minister. They are hard at work!

But what work are they doing? Asked the King, again puzzled. For I see the shops and taverns shuttered, and the markets and squares bare.

They work diligently, the Minister said proudly, to reveal and to uproot the traitors among us. Each to a man sits in his home, watching his neighbors, looking carefully, painstakingly, for the slightest trace, the merest hint of contamination, of disease, of poverty, of strangeness. For all these are sure signs that they are friends — servants! — to vermin.

The Minister smiled both at the concision of his explanation and the new order in society, so efficient, so productive, so just, that had been established.

Just then, before he could even fully appreciate the Minister’s reply to his question, the King spied a man at the corner of the square, dressed in the finest silks, with a bulging purse, who was smiling at him. But it was not a smile of happiness. It was a smile jagged with malevolence.

The King, recognizing him as the Vizier’s brother, forgot the Minister’s reply to his very own question, and approached the man in greeting.

But the man simply cried out, pointing at the King. That man! I have seen him, just now with my very own eyes! Escorting vermin through this square. Nay — not merely escorting — but serving! As though they were our masters!!

I am no man, the King began to shout, indignant, half amused, half scornful. I am your Ki —

My Lord, said the Vizier, appearing to be very sad. I must place you under arrest. Master at Arms! He cried.

But this is ridicu — the King began.

The Master at Arms appeared, his face red. My Lord, he said, shackling the King, I am sorry. But more than I am sorry, I am disgusted.

By now, a crowd had gathered, a storm on their faces.

People! the Vizier shouted. You see here now, with your very own eyes: none among us are safe from the vermin’s pestilence. Even the noblest among us here you witness brought low, made a servant of the vermin, by their coin and their promises. This very King—once so great and noble — he has betrayed us!

Traitor! Cried the crowd. Sentence him! They shouted.

The very next day, they sentenced the King. They could not execute him, for his blood was noble. But they placed in him in the darkest cell of the dankest dungeon in all the land, nevermore to see daylight.

And as he was led away, so the Vizier was crowned. He smiled at the people, magnanimously.

They cheered, relieved, hopeful, happy, and knelt before him.

For they knew. He was more than a king. He was a ruler. And they were not his masters — they merely his subjects. Whom he would protect with all his might. Even from themselves.

The King’s Father, now just another old pauper, sitting at the back of the square, on his little chair, it’s cushions now threadbare, laughed sadly, and said.

You fools. Walls beget only walls. Not without us, but within us. A wall did not keep anyone out. It did not keep anyone in. It only kept suffering from grace. It only kept us from ourselves.

You did not understand, not at all. It is not the fall of a wall that fells a kingdom. It is the fall of a kingdom to raise a wall. A kingdom is not a kingdom should it held in such thrall. Such a kingdom is merely a dark prison for all.

But no one heard him. For the burning angels of their own vengeful salvation sang to them then that all seemed right and fair.

And that is how the noblest and fairest kingdom in all the world was brought low. Nevermore were its people safe nor comfortable, happy nor wise, prosperous nor peaceful. Not by a man, nor by the gods; not by a war; nor by a pestilence, not by a flood, nor by a quake.

But by a wall. Bricks and stone, rubble and mortar.

Which had, just as the old man had said, the wisest among them, at last, accomplished naught but this. Keeping them from their very own truest and mightiest selves. It had prevented suffering from knowing grace, gratitude for the mighty privilege of being. And without the mercy allowed by grace, things that were once men, in their fear of vermin, had become lower than the very vermin they once feared. They had become ghosts stalking the night, searching for monsters to scare.

Umair
Washington, DC
August 2015