The Boatwright

The Book said ‘Pride goes before a fall.’
But no one could have imagined how far that fall would be.
Nor how far the climb back up would be and how long it would take.
If it happened at all.
Dalat was Prince Regent. But he didn’t think about it because it was too far in the future. He thought about the game, beating his opponents. And not simply winning, but crushing them, completely humiliating them.
But then disaster struck. His father’s entire empire collapsed. Enemies took every city. Judgement came. The kingdom was proclaimed ended by some being that seemed to be a sort of Lord, even though it was only a bird. His father was struck dumb and deaf, motionless, empty, but not dead.
Well, someone had to take charge. And he, Dalat, was supposed to be the one. He determined to be king, no matter who stood between him and the crown. No matter that he knew nothing about being king. No matter that no greater crisis had ever faced the kingdom.

So he grasped the crown and put it on himself. But the crown took him to another world, another life, a multitude of other lives, each one more difficult than the last. They were designed to train him, to prepare him to be the king he ought to be. But would he learn? And could it make a difference to his people?
“He didn’t know where the man had put his boots, but he remembered the footwear in the bundle he had been given. He went back in and put on whatever they were. The thin hide provided little protection for his soft feet, but it was better than nothing. He went to the door, surveyed the area again, and stepped out. A baby cried in a distant dwelling, and he heard some subdued whispers coming from nearby, but no one was about.
Now, how did we come in from the forest? he wondered. The rain had changed the aspect of things a little, but after he had walked part of the way around the large building, he thought he recognized a clump of bushes through which they had entered the village. Glancing quickly to the right and left, he stole quietly to the bushes and through them.
So far, so good, he thought. It will be a shame to leave without thanking them, but I must get back. Can I find that hole I fell through?
He made his way slowly from bush to tree to puddle to pond, thinking he recognized this or that landmark. But not only did he not really recognize anything, he realized in a moment he had completely lost his way. However, just then he saw a mudhole like the one through which he had entered, and went running and leaping and tripping over cypress roots, to jump into it.
Splash! Muddy ooze all over his face, hands, legs, and body. But he did not sink into it. He wondered if he didn’t hear a strange noise. Looking around and seeing nothing, he got himself up.
“By the Gates of Broll!” he said. “How do I get back?” He continued to wander, saw another mudhole, and made a flying leap into that. Kersplash! Mud all over everything. But he did not sink.
Again he thought he heard a strange noise, and this time he was quite sure. He looked more carefully, but still saw nothing. So he ignored it. Again he picked himself up and wandered.
Another mudhole, another flying leap, another great muddy splash. Another noise. This time he recognized it. It was a laugh.
“All right,” he shouted, standing ankle deep in mud, covered with mud from head to ankle, hands on hips. He faced the direction of the laugh. “Come out and show yourself!”
For a moment nothing happened. He sloshed through the mud to its dry edge toward the sound. Then, quietly, the boy who had found him the day before stood forth. He covered his mouth to squelch a laugh.
Dalat was about to speak harshly to him, when another boy stood out from behind another tree. He didn’t squelch his laughter. Then another and another and still others, from all around him, stood out in the open and filled the air with gales of mirth. Dalat’s jaw dropped.”

Over a period of twenty-five years, Dr. Saunders lived in four countries in Europe--working in more than three dozen countries both before and after the end of communist rule--with the purpose of describing and purveying grace. Overcoming cultural differences and ways of communicating gave him insight both into what divides people and into what unites them. It also helped him understand elements in various cultures, baggage some call it, that keep people from hearing one another. Writing fantasy gave him a way to minimize the baggage and show truths to people they might otherwise be unable to see.

Anna Coleman is a freelance illustrator living in Deltona, Florida. She received formal training in Fine Art at Flagler College where she earned her BFA in 2011. Her style is versatile, ranging from detailed traditional paintings to whimsical digital illustrations. Anna's favorite things are animals, vintage aesthetics and the outdoors, which make them reoccurring themes in her work. She shares her home with her husband, her dog, and a growing collection of house plants.