I Do Not Want to Be a King

“I do not want to be a king,” said my friend. “I just want to live and feel like one.”

“That would be hard,” I replied. “With your lack of fundamental assets, most notably the folding stuff called money, it would be a little hard to imagine such a thing.”

We are sitting around a twilight campfire on the eve of a glorious summer day. I pick up the stick I have been using for a poker, gently re-arrange the glowing coals and bits of sparking firewood and throw in a few pieces for good measure. I sit back and prepare to listen as I can see this is going to be another one of my friends rambling philosophical tales that so often come about in this relaxed setting.

“Not really,” says my friend. “I will give you an example.”

“I often have foreigners and people from the city visit my place. I live at the end of the road so they have to stop. There are some that simply turn around and drive away but a lot of them get out of their car and walk onto the beach, halt at the waters edge and stand there for a time, staring wistfully into the distance. Eventually the water washes away some of the sand beneath their feet and starts lapping at their city shoes.  They bend down, rinse their hands in the water and wade in a little ways invariably getting their footwear completely soaked. They stand there in their soggy shoes and continue to gaze around in awe at the white-capped mountain peaks, the clutter free shoreline and the endless expanse of the lake disappearing in the distance. They hear and see the gulls fishing the mouth of the river, they follow the little sandpiper bobbing and dipping along the shoreline and pause to see a family of loons drifting just out of reach their questioning chatter making them feel alive and part of the natural world.”

“I don’t normally bother them unless they make an effort to communicate. I just keep puttering around outside doing other things.”

“When they leave,” he continued, “some of them seem more complete and content as if they have seen and felt what they came for. Others leave as sudden and pretentious as they appeared. One of them asked me why I lived here in such obvious impoverished quarters; many others thanked me for allowing them to see my piece of paradise.”

There is a period of silence and he gazes deep into the glowing coals of the fire, possibly a little amazed at his own eloquence or gathering his thoughts for the final point of the story, something that has so far escaped me.

“You see, I do live and feel like a king,” he continued.  “I live here, surrounded by the natural splendor and beauty that people come from all over the world to see, my personal paradise.”

“Furthermore,” he now raises the index finger of his right hand into the air, “ they come to pay homage and come bearing gifts.”

There is another pause and he looks at me pointedly, eyebrows pulled up, expecting me to ask him to explain this last remark.

I don’t go there but nonchalantly pick up my poker to organize the coals in front of me and reach for another piece of driftwood.

Disappointed at my lack of response, he drops the finger, clasps his hands together, places both elbows on his knees and continues his narrative.

“This morning a canoe pulled up on the shore in front of my place.  A couple of kids stepped out onto the beach and quite purposely walked to my door, you know, like they knew exactly where they were going. I was at the window, saw them coming and opened the door just as they were about to knock. The pair of them stood there smiling, their bright red lifejackets on and each carrying a paddle in one hand.  They grounded their paddles and simultaneously bowed ever so lightly. Without a word, the girl reached out and gave me this silk wallet.”

He reached into the duffel coat he was wearing and brought out a blue silk gold embroidered wallet and handed it over to me for inspection.

“The kids were from another part of the world and in broken English, heavily accented with hand movements the girl explained that a friend in Japan had asked them to deliver this gift to me. Despite the language barrier, we managed to have a conversation of sorts. It turns out they are friends of a fellow that traveled the river some years ago.  He pulled into my place on a grim and wet September morning with the wind blowing and white-capped waves running into the beach. He had no raingear and was soaking wet, all alone and shivering like he was on the edge of hypothermia. I brought him in, warmed him up by the stove, fed him some coffee and kept him there until the day improved. As he was leaving I gave him an old plastic poncho to use. I pushed him off in the middle of the afternoon and never saw him again.”

“After our little confab this morning, the kids continued on their way and while saying goodbye on the beach they again did that funny little bow.”

This time he stood up to demonstrate. With one hand crossed in front of him and the other loosely by his side he bowed slightly from the waist.

“So you see,” said my friend. “I live like a king in my own personal paradise. There are people from all over the world that come to see me. They come bearing gifts and bow as we meet.”

And so ends the tale of the King of Lake Laberge.