(Note: this story is built off of something my friend Dave wrote some time ago. I'd post the original work, but it's gone all ninja on me. If'n'when it comes out of stealth mode, I'll see what I can do about reposting it here.)
Let me tell you a tale of morality.
Once upon a time, in a kingdom so far lost in time that its name wasn't even recorded, an old king died, putting a new, young king on the throne. Now while the old king was sage and wise, as is befitting both a king and an old man, the young king was less so, relying more on his own cleverness than on the wisdom of the ages, though he was not without some mental skill. And while he had a council of advisers, he never forgot who ultimately made decisions for the kingdom.
It was in this vein that the young king was beset with a Prophet, who claimed that the young king's kingdom was going to be destroyed. "The Gods themselves have told me," said the prophet. "When the red headed man carries a jar on his left shoulder, but does not stop at the well, the kingdom will be destroyed."
The young king nodded sagely at the Prophet's words, then turned to his nearest guard. "Take this man down into my dungeons and dismantle him, starting with his tongue." The Prophet was startled as two large burly guards grabbed him to carry him off.
"But the Gods have spoken!" he cried.
"I'm sure they have," called back the king in a bored tone. "But they didn't speak to me."
And the Prophet was carried away to a horrible, torturous death.
Word of this got around, as word of such things will, but for some reason, more and more prophets came out of the woodwork to give the king warnings disguised as riddles.
"A cow with two udders shall be a harbinger of your downfall!"
"When two eagles are killed with a single arrow, your days will number five and twenty!"
"When the moon is black but bright as the sun, so too shall your light go out!"
Each prophecy was as ridiculous in its detail as it was in its absurdity. And each prophet was killed horribly for the affront.
Now, let me say this about the king: he was not a bad king. Despite his ruthless, heartless destruction of soothsayers and prognosticators, he was actually a decent leader, making sure his people were clothed, housed, fed, protected. He made sure taxes weren't too heavy (or too light) and that the Church didn't meddle in affairs of the State. Thus the long string of dead prophets.
After a particularly gruesome execution, involving the flaying and dismemberment of seven individuals who claimed to have had a vision of the king's demise at the hands of a seven foot tall living tree, one of his advisers asked for an audience.
"Why do you do this? Why do you kill them? And in such horrible fashion? I mean no impudence, I just seek understanding."
The king nodded grimly. "Each of these so-called prophets claims that the Gods have spoken directly to each of them. That the Gods have given them a specific message concerning the demise of myself and/or of this kingdom I control. My view is this: if the message is that important, that my life or my kingdom's welfare is in that grave a danger that the Gods actually take notice, then the Gods need to speak with ME directly. Don't use emissaries that will misconstrue the message, or twist it to their own means for their own reasons. The Gods need to talk to me directly if they expect me to take action."
"But why kill them? The prophets?" queried the adviser.
"My reasoning is this: If I allow one of these so-called prophets to leave my presence after delivering an apocalyptic message, and I don't follow through in a manner that THEY would see me follow through in, then they can create rabble in my kingdom, sowing seeds of disharmony, doubt, fear, and disobedience. By not only killing them, but killing them in manners most unkind, yes I sow some seeds of fear in my own kingdom. But I also sow seeds of confidence, because I ALWAYS kill a prophet that dares come to me. Without exception. It shows my people that my word is bond, that I do what I say. And in this matter, what I say is this: if the Gods want to tell me something, let them tell me themselves."
And the adviser left the king to his thoughts, pondering what had been said, and the new wisdom of it.
It was some time later, and the king sat in his throne room, contemplating the records of the incoming harvests, when a messenger ran breathless into the throne room. "Sire! The people are massing at the front gate!"
Somewhat startled, the king got up and went to the window facing the gate, curious as to what it could be about. "Messenger, are the people armed?" he asked as he strode to the portal. "Do they mean to overthrow me? Storm my castle?"
"I don't think so sire. Each one of them was muttering. But what was odd is that they all seemed to be muttering the same thing."
Curious, and a little unnerved, the king asked "What was it they were muttering?"
"They were muttering 'I must speak with the king,' sire."
The king reached the window, opened it, and stepped out onto the balcony that faced the great gate. Sure enough, there was a crowd of people, already gathered with more pouring in behind, standing before the gate. The guardsmen were braced for an attack that wasn't coming. The crowd merely stood, passive, outside the protective bars. Each one, to a man, was muttering something unintelligible from where the king stood.
"My people," the king's voice rang out, strong and true and royal, booming about the courtyard, "why have you come to me in this manner? What do you wish of your king?"
As one, the crowd moved their heads to look upon the king, and with one clear, unified voice, said "DO NOT MOCK THE GODS. WE WILL SPEAK WITH YOU HOWEVER WE WILL. WE GIVE YOU THIS ONE LAST WARNING: KILL NO MORE PROPHETS."
Taken aback, the king looked out upon his people. The masses were silent now, staring at their monarch. Grief and horror and pain and resolve fought for control of his features, with no clear cut winner as the king spoke. "If you truly are the Gods, you have refused to speak to me directly. You continue to use intermediaries. I have no desire to entertain messages third hand. If you truly are the Gods, then you know my position on this. And as such, you have destroyed my people."
He turned to the messenger: "Fetch me the sergeant-at-arms immediately." The messenger scampered off, obedient. He walked slowly back to his throne, where his royal scepter and his royal crown sat on pedestals, awaiting his need for them. He looked at them with grief and self-pity and with iron resolve. The sergeant-at-arms was soon before him.
"My leige?"
"Brandon," said the king, for that was the sergeant-at-arms name, "gather up a squad of 100 stouthearted me, loyal to me, with the stomach to do ugly business. With those men, you are to slaughter every single one of the crowd that stands at my gates, to the man. Every man, woman, and child. No exceptions."
"Sire?" Brandon whispered, horrified.
"I am still king, Brandon," he said quietly, with steadfastness and pain. "They are my subjects and I will do with them as I please. If the Gods refuse to meet with me directly, I will make it my business to silence their stand-ins."
"Please don't take this wrong," said Brandon, as meekly as he could, "But didn't the Gods demonstrate a direct communication with you? Speaking through a crowd in such a manner as this?"
The king sighed. "The Gods demonstrated that they exist. Of this, I cannot deny, nor have I ever argued against their existence. My whole controversy is they they refuse to speak directly TO me. Am I not capable of accepting a message from the Gods in the same manner as these so-called prophets? Is it too much to ask? Apparently so, and now, in order to maintain my integrity, I am forced to annihilate my people. It is not something I relish, Brandon. It is not something I want, and I could rescind the order, but at the sacrifice of my word. And that I will not do. So, when this horrid event is over, I will be resigning my throne. I will give my lands to the neighbors to the West, and surrender myself to their constabulary. I am not fit to wear this crown. If the king to the West is as just as I believe him to be, I should be executed and buried in a paupers grave. That's certainly what I'll be suggesting to him.
And so it came about that the kingdom was decimated from within, because the king refused to communicate indirectly with the Gods, but stayed a man of his word.
So what's the moral of this little tale? Is it "Sacrifice your integrity for the sake of theology?" Or is it "Obedience is more crucial than principle?"
Who knows...
