The Prophet's Call

A prophet in a class of slaves.

The Prophet's Call

The Stranger Alias

“How did we ever come to be so pathetic?”

This was said at a speaking volume to no one in particular…an utterance that might have gone unnoticed at another time in another place. Here, the only sound being the frantic scribbling of my fellow inmates and the snoring of our sleeping overseer, peering at us from beneath bushy eyebrows with half-closed eyes that see nothing. The statement lies naked with no chatter to distract from its poignancy. It is almost comical how they turn their heads in unison to catch a glance of the speaker, he who dares speak while the rest write, daring still further to insult his peers to whom his socio-economic status lies equal or lesser.

With a flutter the overseer's eyes crack open and his back straightens imperceptibly, the former having been briefly closed, indicating both an inappropriate level of relaxation for a man of his duty and an undue apathy towards the prisoners in his charge. He makes as if to scold the speaker �" licks his lips, opens his mouth, the red-hot words almost visibly singing his tongue �" then, changing his mind, slumps into his chair as if it were a bed. He releases the air from his lungs with a great sigh, closes his eyes and wordlessly forfeits control of his classroom to anarchy in favor of the comfortable promise of unpunished laziness.

The speaker stands slowly acknowledging the rule of anarchy. He looks around the room, matching the curious gaze of his impromptu audience with a gaze of his own. His gaze is equal parts pity, empathy, and nihilistic hatred, the latter inoffensive only because the emotion is directed inward as much as outward. He utters not another word; soundlessly he makes himself heard, forging bonds of understanding with his fellows that far surpass the capabilities of spoken language. He wears their attention like a cloak. The thunder of the overseer's snoring quakes the classroom still, but the scribbling has ceased, the scribes now joined in admiration of their messenger who has yet to deliver his message.

“Here we sit,” he begins, “studying theory and history that should remain so, preparing ourselves for hypothesized scenarios that will never be, while grand and glorious potentials bubble in our guts unrealized. Why? We are slaves to faceless cowards �" men who would rather hide behind systems of subjugation and imbecilic pawns rather than reveal themselves for scrutiny and ultimate damnation. These cowards let others bear the brunt of our anger and angst” - here the speaker points an accusing paw at the sleeping overseer - “while they reap the rewards of our labor and genius. Why?

“We sit and we scribble, happily unhappy, perfectly aware of our crooked reality, but preferring to bow our heads rather than address our masters as equals and demand the like; preferring the comfort of pseudo-slavery to the effortful struggle for freedom as promised by God and nature. Content are we to indulge in vice, placating ourselves with flavors and colors, while behind us our world turns and burns by another's hand. We immerse ourselves in the digitalized and artificial company of our fellows, filtered through and censored by the Man's media. We allow ourselves to be divided by pettiness and differences, fighting each other while our gold fills their coffers and they rule our world. We scribble for them. We learn the skills that will support their empires, skills that are useless except in such capacity. All of this �" why?”

A rhetorical question that expects an answer is never received well; here lies no exception. Once we cotton on to the speaker's intention, we avert our eyes, we shuffle in our seats and try failingly to resume our scribbling while his words ring in our ears and jar our souls.

“Is it because we are weak?” he asks, his voice adopting a softer tone and his expression matching the stride. “Are we creatures destined for domination, created with such purpose intended? Are the eager scribblers before me what they appear �" machines good for rote memorization and regurgitation and nothing else? Cogs in a machine �" have we no greater destiny? Is the potential I sense within each of you an illusion, or simply a weak plant destined for early harvest?”

A grunt arises in the audience, traced to a football superstar sitting in the rear. He is the type who shoots spitballs and paper airplanes at underclassman and is never called upon to answer questions, the overseer knows of his incapability. The superstar makes an obscene gesture, wordlessly promising the speaker pain and suffering for insulting his aura of superiority.

“I don't believe that. Despite the evidence assaulting my senses with unwanted certainty, I refuse to recognize your lesser nature. I believe in my people, I believe in the proletariat and their ability to affect positive change in their own condition, if not in their willingness to do so unaided.”

“You can stuff your belief!” the superstar cries. “You can stuff your fancy rhetoric too! Lesser nature? Our lesser nature? You're of us. Your filth-stained blood is the same color as ours! And you preach to us like a... like an un-annointed prophet? Who gave you the right?”

“I address you not as a prophet, fellows, but as a brother bound by your shackles, embroiled in your struggles. I bear a message of change and freedom, that quality of existence whose taste and feel you've been made to forget. I beckon you towards the path of resistance. I would have you do battle with the walls enclosing and directing our efforts towards continued poverty. The road you walk is dangerous, friends. I, footing the same path, am destined to falter along your side, unless I heed my own words and choose a different way…unless I rise above the limits of my stunted potential and do something about this mass-predicament...”

The bell rings. The inmates rise in unison and start for the door. Some have bored of the speaker's action call, while others simply choose promised yet temporary freedom over the difficult journey to the speaker's theoretical promised land. The overseer wakes and, finding his classroom empty save two, parks his boots on the desk in a gesture of contentment and continues dreaming.

The speaker watches them go without a word. His face boils with emotion but he holds his tongue. He keeps his tired words to himself, saving his strength for a battle worth fighting - a battle that can be won.

The inmates are gone. I remain seated, alone in a room with a prophet and an overseer destined to crack a whip for his life's duration, useless except in such capacity.

The Prophet meets my eye and holds it. “Have you sense?”

I nod.

“Good,” he says. “We will meet again.” He walks for the door, his stride very different from the walk of the inmates…a walk full of hope and strength and purpose.

Author's Note

Beginning of a series.

Reviews

[Starmountainkid]

I like it. I'm not much of a reviewer. It reminds me of my attitude in High School, though not as articulately stated by me. The story's got my interest. Looking forward to reading more of this tale.