The trek to Pologea
A man walked 40 days and 40 nights through the forest with barely an available shelter. He would make it through the night by sleeping on a bed of leaves collected throughout his journey. When he woke the next morning, he would gather up the usable leaves, place them in a compartment of his satchel and start again. If asked, he probably would say it got easier as he went on—with more distance comes more variety of leaves to choose from—though it’s possible that means he just got used to sleeping on leaves after awhile.
But he knew it would all be worth it.
By the time he reached his destination his pants were tattered, his face was covered in dirt, and the soles of his shoes had come apart. There was barely any life left in them, but yet there he stood. He had made it through the long forest, and he was feeling even more like it would all be worth it.
As the drawbridge came down, lending him entry to the fortified castle, he knew without a doubt this was the moment he had been pinning most of his adult life on. He would finally, without hesitation, be able to stand before the king.
He thought of himself very differently from all the other wanderers in the kingdom. He was not here, and did not make this journey, to ask the king for riches, or much less a chance to work for a spot in his grand cabinet. He was not interested in any of these less interesting pursuits.
He was not here, in this moment, even to ask for anything. He was here to demand.
As the drawbridge lowered past the gaze of our journeyman, he had already somehow hastily changed outfits. He was wearing a sparkling new garb, with sturdy shoes and occasional jewelry, by the time the massive drawbridge hit the floor. He had kept this new outfit safe in one compartment of his satchel for the entire journey, because he knew that he was never going to engage with the king looking like a desperate hitchhiker, fresh from sleeping in the soil of the winding forest. He knew his best chance at succeeding was to look and feel like the king’s contemporary.
Why? Because he was here to demand an apology.
You see, him and the king go way back. And before he became the king, he wronged our journeyman in horrible fashion. They went their separate ways, and the man almost never recovered.
Years later, he knew that the only way he was going to decide to live his life fully was to receive an apology from the king. He decided that if he could walk up to the king and demand that he say he’s sorry, the king would have to oblige him. He would have to say it. He would just have to. Upon hearing it, he would go and leave from the kingdom to never return. He would simply retreat back to his village and, thusly, move on with his life.
But it had been so many years, almost a generation, since he had vowed this. So truth be told, this was not the man’s first time attempting to engage the heavily guarded castle. Because of these previous attempts he knew that, even still, with the nicest garb and the finest diction he would not be able to just walk up to the king’s throne unannounced. So he had studied the layout of the castle within an inch of detail. He knew the lefts, the rights and the long hallways he would have to walk down, and at what time, to catch the king in his most vulnerable position. He had prepared a route and, looking up, the sun was at the perfect height in the sky.
Making his way across the drawbridge and into the courtyard, he followed the exact steps he practiced. He knew exactly which guards would be where, and bypassed their patterns. He was closing in.
But in the back of his mind, he also knew that with perfect timing and precision in his movements, it would still not be enough.
So, sitting in another of compartment of his satchel, the man carried a vial full of a very important potion. He knew from their younger days that the king loved the smell of Cactus Dahlias. As young boys, they would collect them together, sniff the faint scent and compare the different shades of deep purple. The man gathered as many of these rare flowers as he could, and after many failed experiments, he had brewed a fragrance to perfection. At the right time, he would open the vial and expose the king to the familiar smell, softening him to a conversation.
And this was the time to do it.
The man rounded the corner to the main hall where the king’s throne was located. But as he started down the long royal corridor, he did not see the king. Exactly as he planned, there was no one else in sight, but he did not expect the king to not be there either. And just as he turned to go back out, he bumped right into the king’s chest which caused the man to startle and drop his things.
“Oh, goodness”, said the king. “What are you doing here?”
The satchel the man carried had fallen to the floor and everything in it—in each of the compartments—had spilled onto the royal carpet.
“Uh, what am I doing here?? What do you think I’m doing here?” the man responded.
And just at that moment, the king paused and his expression changed. The vial, shattered on the floor, let off the scent of Dahlias, and brought a tiny smile to the king’s face. He was suddenly in a grander mood.
“What are you doing here? Are you trying to sell me something?”, said the king.
“No, I am here to talk to you. I have come to—”
“Wait, look what you’ve done, silly rascal. You’ve soiled the royal carpet. No worries, I am okay though. At least it smells pleasant.”
The man didn’t take his eyes off the king, mustering up the necessary courage.
“What’s this bag you have here? I love the design of it,” said the king.
The king picked up the satchel off the floor and inspected the many compartments.
“Thank you. I made it myself.”
“It’s brilliant. It carries so much with so little fuss. I’ll buy it off you right now.”
“No, I don’t think so. I am not looking to sell—”
“Silence, I will not take no for an answer.”
“I will not be silenced. I have come too far and made too many sacrifices,” the man asserted.
“Alright, then. What would you like?”
“I would like you to say you’re sorry.”
“Say I’m sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m very sorry.”
“I just want to be sure, and I’d like for you to say it one more time.”
“Can I have the satchel if I do?”
“The satchel is yours.”
The king cleared his throat and took one step forward, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“I am so sorry. I did not mean to cause you harm.”
Smiling, with a tear coming down his face, the man turned and exited the castle.
Perplexed, the king watched the man triumphantly leaving his kingdom. He inspected the satchel one more time, fluffing out it’s volume and admiring it’s design. He smiled.
“I should apologize for bumping into people more often,” the king muttered to himself.
By the time the man returned back to his home in the tiny village on the other side of the forest, he was very tired. So for the first time in a long time, he slept in his own bed.
The next day he woke up and seeing all the bruises on his body from multiple treks through the forest, he cursed the heavens. But he also got on his knees and thanked those same heavens. He thanked them for the blessing of repentance and declared aloud that he has now forgiven the king for his transgression many years ago. It was all worth it to him.
That afternoon, a servant of the king arrived at the lowly village with an offer for the man to make satchels for the entire kingdom. Elated, the man said yes, and, with the help of the king’s transportation, he crossed the forest one more time and moved into the castle the very next week.
He spent the rest of his days in an office, funded by the king, mastering the art of satchel-making. Before long, the satchel design had taken over the kingdom, despite no one knowing the identity of the man behind it. The man and his childhood friend, the king, never saw each other again.
The name of our journeyman, you ask? Fughken DcHead.