By J. L. Thurston

In the turbulent city of Viv, in the square, by the fountain, you will find him. He’s a man who seems older than he is as he stoops over a broom and pushes dried leaves and debris off the street. His task is never-ending. Day or night, you will find him cleaning the square under the shadow of the castle.

The Street Sweeper has a story to tell, and he will stop pushing the broom only long enough to tell it. Go to him. Ask him his story. When you do, he will straighten his back in a long-needed stretch. He’ll fold his arms on top of his broomstick and lean. Notice how he looks as though he was born with a broom in his hand.

His eyes will cast to the north, up the winding street of stone, beyond the houses and the hanging eaves. He will look to the castle and the castle will look down at him. They reveal to you their intimacy. And he will tell you how he once was a king.

How mighty he was. Fearless in his youth, he took his fire to his castle and made the crown fall. The cheers of his supporters caused the very windows to shake. He was lifted onto the throne by the hands of the oppressed. A blood-speckled crown was settled upon his brow and he looked down upon his subjects with a terrible grin.

The world became his and he clenched his fist around it with the might of all the wicked kings before him. All his faithful subjects, his knights, his circle, began to whisper what a monster was he. He punished those whisperers. His temper was the winter wind. Cold. Relentless.

The betrayal was as inevitable as a leaf turning in the air. He had betrayed those who’d given him power, and soon they betrayed him by demanding his downfall.

The castle doors were broken down, the swarm of the oppressed rushed in. A new leader raged his accusations, backed by screaming cheers. The force of their anger blew the crown away, it’s metal clattering to the floor. It rolled on its side while eager fingers snatched at it from all directions.

The fallen king was captured and imprisoned in the underbelly of his own castle. Above him was a single window. A tiny barred slat, granting only a sliver of the night sky.

Dressed in his riches, crownless, and utterly healthy, he knew his death would be a slow rot in that cell. But relief would never come. Only a fool would believe God would forgive the things he’d done.

He could not remember why he had wanted to be king. All that fire, all that passion that had once blazed in his heart was just a fool’s desire.

His heart was at its lowest when the wall slid aside. Awaiting him in a tunnel was an old man with a torch, beckoning. After a moment, he realized the old man was the Once-King, the very one he’d rose against. They each had shared a crown, a throne, and a cell. They were the same.

Together, they moved through the secret passage. The stone walls were jagged and narrow, and the rich clothing on the fallen king’s back was caught and torn. Soon his clothes were reduced to rags, draped with cloaks made of cobwebs and dirt. When he and the Once-King emerged, they stood outside the castle.

The fallen king turned to the Once-King and asked, “Why?”

It was a question that was never answered. The Once-King left him there, returning to the tunnel.

It was at this time the fighting within the castle swelled. The oppressed desired the crown, but only the monstrous were strong enough to take it. Crowds pressed against the walls, shouts and fights erupted.

Our storyteller will sigh when he speaks of this part in the story, as though this is what is most wearing on him. When he watched the people fight for power, using tyranny to end tyranny. He will speak of how they passed right by him and did not know him though they had just demanded his head. He’ll tell you how the crowds left a mess on the streets.

That is when he picked up a broom and began to clean.

This is where the story ends. The Street Sweeper will look away from the castle. He will give you his eyes and they will speak volumes to your soul. You will understand that you do not need to be a king. Sometimes, the best way to help the world is by sweeping.