The Greatest Honour (Sample)

It is 1865.

A young gentleman strolls through a sea of heather. The wind strikes his shaven cheeks and well clothed body, threatening to knock his already poor balance. The mountainside is steep, but the gentleman does not hesitate. He continues along the ridge, hands deep in pockets, mind deep in concentration. After a while, he settles upon a rock, removes a notepad and pencil from the pocket concealed in the inside pocket  of his tweed jacket, and begins to write. He smiles to himself, after all, the greatest honour is to learn. His gnarled, lumpy fingers are tense as they scrawl screeds of barely readable words across the paper. Before him, the heathery glens of his home stretch into the distance.

At the other end of the world, a turbaned man slices his sword through the air. The relentless sun beats down at his dark skin as the curved sword draws a thin, red line across the throat of the blue jacketed man in front of him. The man drops to the floor, but the sword continues, pursued by glittering droplets of blood, before finding contact with yet more white skin. The turbaned swordsman smiles with a fierce joy, and his black moustache quivers in excitement. His eyes glint as he surveys the dead and dying men that surround him like sleeping children. But the day’s work is not yet over. More men approach, more tentatively than the last. He is poised and ready. Fighting is the greatest honour. And as he fights, his feet dance through the swirling yellow dust, leaving fine trails of dry earth across his rippling silk clothing.

He is not alone with his dancing. Thousands of miles from him, across oceans and deserts and mountains, a girl stands in a mighty hall. The ceilings are painted with cherubs and robe-clad men, reaching out with a divine compassion. White pillars rise from the floor, wrapped with golden floral reliefs. A face emerges from the flowing groups of finely clad men and women. The young man reaches a hand out to the girl like the Gods on the ceiling. She takes it, her powder blue dress rustling as she moves. A clear, sparkling jewel winks in the nape of her neck. Together, the girl and her companion are swept onto the pale carpeted dance floor. To dance with a Prince is the greatest honour. As one, they spin and swirl with an elegant precision, the fine decorations and gaudily dressed onlookers blurring into a blend of vibrant colours and shades.

Only ten miles from the golden halls, a small boy scurries down a dark alleyway, his hand tightly clutching a small silvery kitten. Haphazardly, his feet slide and slip across the muddy, slime coated cobbles, avoiding the deeper puddles of filth. Large brown creatures scuttle from the gutters and shadows like demons. His clothes hang from his slight frame like rags on a corpse. Suddenly, he plummets, headfirst, into the stomach of a blue coated form. Stealing is no issue, but to be caught stealing? It is the greatest dishonour. The form picks him up by the front of his shirt, and delivers a blow to the boy’s face. Darkness takes over his vision, and the boy falls to the ground. Beside his unmoving body, the kitten mews softly.