PICTURES ON THE WALL

Our guest turned to the report of his the ring of heavy shodden footfalls rechoing off the cool stone of the silent caverns of the bastion. "My footfalls stir the musty air of this - - eh old tomb." The guest commented, "Yet you scarcely give trace of your passing."

I looked to the wall, our hall of fame, where having the portraits of former chiefs. Had I righted all perfectly? Would any disarray give due of our purpose - - to defeat the prophesy?

Only minutes before, I had scurried up and down the cool dark stone floored passageway leading to the Chief's chambers clearing it of the least mite of dust, the least grain of sand which might mar the simple beauty of our Spartan accommodations.

I had also carefully straightened the portraits of the former chiefs whose dour stern glance looked down on the hallway like sentinels guarding admission to a great treasure.

Having drawn no reply, the guest simply raised his eyebrows and continued the march to the chief's chambers. After only one step forward, the guest turned again to the reverberation of his footprints.

Footfalls were a warning in our secluded enclave of the coming of the coming of the Chief to dispense from idle low breath chatter and to return our labors. Yet, words of the prophesy hung on the cool breeze our hilltop refuge provided.

As I passed down the corridor with the guest, the guest looked up at the pictures and asked, "Is it always so cheerless."

I bowed my head; I could feel the hood of my robes conceal my face. "The rule of our community" I told the guest, "Is silence. Do you require an answer?"

Silence may have been our rule, but I had learned people better read without words. Indeed had not the entire committee - - our cabal to cheat fate been hatched with a minimum of spoken words. Yet I denied I sought particular acclaim for engineering this conspiracy. I acted only as the necessity of preserving the Enclave required.

"Speak up," the guest commanded in a pleasant tone. "I am here to announce the results of the Election to Chief."

My body went rigid as I strained not to think of the prophesy nor to glance at the empty spot in the wall. The rule may have been silence; yet, the other members of the community and I had agreed - -

"All are," I replied hesitantly, "equal, therefore some have stepped down as chief so that they would join the community at labor."

I held my piece. For most of my time here we had rest secure in belief in the remoteness both of the prophesy and of outside interest in our affairs. A changing world outside our gates was too absorbed in itself to partake of our simple treasure. Now we sought to challenge and circumvent the prophesy we once laughed about.

As much as I hid my face from the guest, I would feel penetrating eyes upon me. My statement had only been partially true. I added, "in recent years, some chiefs have resigned from the community and - - pursued a calling elsewhere."

I looked to the portraits on the wall. Recently new faces were added with terrifying rapidity and short-lived reigns as chief had filled the barren space and turned the wall of fame into something dreadful.

Yet I was confident I had, with unseen footwork, defeated the prophesy itself.

"Years?" the guest laughed. The echo, I'm sure, rang through the stone buttresses of our fortification. "Half this wall has been filled up in the last six months - - with resignations and" the guest added in a snarly tone, "with desertions."

"And yet enough remain with dedication to," I rejoined confidently, "continue our labor." I glanced toward the empty spot on the wall. We who remained were determined to preserve the enclave.

Yes I had allied the entire community before I presented my plan to the Elder for assent. "You scurry through these with dim, damp corridors unseen like a mouse, yet, unspoken words, your roar resounds." Came the reply before the figure crashed back in bed.

I took those words as an ascent to the desperate plot.

The guest pivoted and walked briskly to the empty chamber of the departed chief wherein he would announce the results of the election. I had to gather up the skirts of my robe to catch up with him. I'm sure my passing was no longer as silent or graceful as I wished it were.

When the heavy wooden door of the chamber was opened, we left the darkened hallway and entered a room a wash with light.

The guest stood at the window and looked over our fields, which stretched down the hill toward the city below. His face and appearance seemed transfigured by the light into a devilishly angelic glow.

"The results of the election were unanimous," the guest declared "every member in the community voted for an elderly 81-year-old bed ridden former chief."

"I shall publish the results to the community." I strove to keep the sigh of relief out of my voice. The blank space on the wall would not be filled. The former chief's portrait already hung. The prophesy was vanquished. "The Elder who once stepped down is elected again!"

The guest waved his arm just as I was turning to fulfill my appointed task.

"As elector, I void out the results. I instead choose you." The guest leveled an accusatory finger at me. "Why do you look so glum? You are uniquely qualified. In a place where none can speak you rigged an election and planned to run the place by committees . . . I can see no one else so capable."

"Then" I sighed, " my stewardship begins with filling the last space on the wall in accordance with the prophecy: presiding over the Enclave's demise."

"Only coincidental," the guest looked across the fields toward our outer walls that the city was beginning to reach, "the land has become too valuable to maintain the Enclave against a sweeping tide."

Arthurian Legend * FULLOSIA PRESS * * FULLOSIA * * * Fullosian Moment