Manifestations of Freedom

By Makhno Boyce

A similar concept to the Seven Deadly Sins. Except it is the "Manifestations of Freedom." Characters and ideas who represent a certain method of freedom, and synthesis of them all that creates it.

Set in your typical medieval fantasy setting, with very atypical plot and motivations.

A writer lays out the problems (in his own mind finds out the problems), the courageous are the first to act, the tenacious keep fighting no matter what and don't lose heart, the strong fight harder than anyone else, and the intelligent use their brain to get around the problem. In short the "Manifestations of Freedom."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244454739

Book preview

Manifestations of Freedom

Manifestations of Freedom

Table of Contents

Manifestations of Freedom

Part 1: Spur of Ideology

1. The Beginning of the Beginning

2. Arena

3. Revolt

4.Holdouts

Part 2: The Revolution.

1. A Beginning

2. Strength

3. Tenacity or Cowardice?

4. Admiration

5. Panic

6. Counter Destiny

7. Western Campaign

8. Capital

Part 1: Spur of Ideology

1. The Beginning of the Beginning

Sometimes we are reminded of our flaws. Being a man of astute work, a relatively tall peasant named Dirk. Despite being a peasant, he read every day, stealing books and ploughing his land (badly), writing down notes to amuse himself. He would read and write.

For the freedom of the masses is not just about what they can say, for we don’t have even that. It is the ability to autonomously express one’s self. The homosexual girls across the street exchange pitiful kisses. The peasant pays for what he collected, and sometimes he even has to fight for his lord, against other lords. And even the city dwellers, I hear they pay taxes to the Lord himself or the Burgher as the case may be. Here in the south, there are Burghers.

Brown straight, short spiky hair, tanned skin, brown-green eyes too, no wonder he had a rustic look to him. A peasant came up to him to try to talk to him about his life. This man was a little overweight, and unlike Dirk had low visions for himself. Slightly hunchback, obsequious and overly polite, he was not a citizen, but a serf, even his hand gestures gave away his perception of himself.

‘OI DIRK!’ He said, ‘I heard you are a free farmer now?’

‘Who told you that?’ Dirk laughed, ‘yeah I own my own land now!’

‘Own your own land?’ The guy said, ‘how did you do that?’

‘Nothing crooked, the market is a fun place.’

‘What did you sell?’

‘I make wooden sculptures…’ Dirk chuckled nervously, ‘sounds nice huh?’

‘Wooden sculptures?’ The peasant’s surprise was palpable, ‘wow, can you show me one?’

Dirk proceeded to show it, it was a whole row of wooden objects. A carp coiled into a circle, a woman holding a basket, the detail was as intricate as a bureaucrat for a coin.

‘So, you sell these?’ The peasant said stupidly.

‘Yeah.’ Dirk laughed, ‘I’m thinking of selling this land and going on a tour of the empire. Would you like to own this?’

‘Own my own land?’ The peasant replied with joy, ‘own my own plot? Oh, my prayers have been answered.’

‘God didn’t give you shit. I did,’ Dirk laughed, his cheeks were pursing, the flesh was filling, and he closed his eyes. Scrunched face creating hills on his face, separating the mouth area and the cheeks, the nose was inflated and the teeth showing.

‘Regardless…’ the peasant said, tipping his hat, ‘my family will be eternally grateful.’

‘I am a lousy farmer anyways!’ Dirk said, ’the only thing I am good at is potatoes. And those things just need a bit of digging.’

Dirk’s humour was being avoided by the subservient peasant, to him it was an emotional moment, and Dirk’s flippant attitude probably offended him to be honest. Dirk was in better hygiene, smiled more, ate better, thought more lucidly, ate more quickly, was less unkempt yet more aloof to it all, as well as desiring greater things. The peasant held onto his hat, to his groin, his pudgy proportions probably made fun of, and instinctively submissive to avoid any kind of retribution.

‘So you sure about that?’ He asked, just to be sure it was no cruel joke.

He was biting his lips, and looking at Dirk trying to make sure. The eyes were running through a million simulations. His nose flared as he brought more oxygen into his face. His adrenaline running high for such hope could put him in the darkest despair.

‘I need you to do one thing for me…?’ He gestured with his finger, but the eyes also did the trick of presenting the question.

‘It’s Athel!’

‘Athel, you need to go to your lord and tell him that you are now free. I only demand three copper coins for the plot.’

‘Three copper coins?’ He said, looking at him with utter astonishment.

The man grappled Dirk’s shoulders. Grasping him with such blubbering force, crying there and sobbing. The hat was on the floor. He was not. He looked dead into his eyes, not as a serf but as a human.

‘I owe you a debt for life!’ The man said as he took him by the hand.

Browner than potatoes from earth, his hands had so many bruises, cuts and was rougher than the coarsest wool. When the peasant walked away, Dirk’s eyes watered. He almost mimicked the peasant out of empathy, but straightened his back almost immediately.

It is the common trait of oppressed people to look down and not up, to be bent out of shape, I wish to not be hunchbacked, but not arrogant to not even look down to help people up. I swear to myself no matter how much my lot improves I will help those who can’t help themselves.

‘Take care of yourself!’ Dirk said as he patted the man’s back.

Dirk got his satchel carrying all his treasures. A lump of wood, a chisel, and a knife. He also got a quill, and some parchment, smiling at the thought of losing his straw bed and his wooden table, the sleepless nights with a candle. A smile pursed on his lips, looking down at the place that had so many silly memories.

It was the year 515 of our Lord, I couldn’t help but notice the gratefulness of the peasant I gave the land to. His lord was furious, but he had to accept the moving, as the man was now free from the man’s grip. Was that what happened? Or did he refuse out of spite? Nonetheless, even if the lord did allow it, the freedom was limited, still having to pay taxes to the lord, instead of rents. But to Athel this would be a big improvement, as the payment was smaller, and he could maybe even educate his kid.

The cart hit a rock, and ink welled over all of Dirk’s fingers. He cursed at the driver, and the man just laughed. Again, power relations presented themselves.

‘The road from Menos to Central is a long one. Get some sleep!’ It was a croaky voice. Smoking? Shouting? Both? Smoking while shouting, Dirk would never know.

A sheepish grin as he chugged a bottle of gin, you could hear as it travelled down his throat. Dirk slapped his own thigh, and bit his lip. Trying not to say something stupid that might get him thrown off the cart. His legs in an uncomfortable kite formation when counting the crotch, but it maintained the stability of his body, despite the driver having a talent to hit every pot hole and every rock and even swerving into obstacles (mainly trees, but a few people as well) to miraculously avoid them at the last second. Naturally sleep was impossible. Dirk willed himself, or at least tried to.

The next day, they arrived there. Dirk had been cuddled into a ball, and he just knew that he arrived without even the driver telling him, everyone gets that instinct sometimes. The city was bustling with trade. There were many corridors, many street angles, and everyone was perched on one of them. Of course, bigger merchants had bigger perches, and ate smaller merchants.  Even beggars had wares, people screaming, and tax collectors instructing where people could and couldn’t do business. People would be escorted screaming, and no one paying attention, debts had caught up with them, or they were disappeared for dissent. Muscles flexed and others perplexed as Dirk put items into a crescent formation. He knew that this formation would enthuse his audience, and mark out his territory. People threw coins and picked up items.

‘Giving me money?’ Dirk laughed, ‘been a long time since that happened!’

He unfolded his wares in a small corner of the market, and immediately people began buying.

‘10 copper coins for 1,’ he said, as he pointed at the various designs.

People were enthused, and the 20 or so sculptures were all bought up. A carp that looked almost edible, a fox seeming cheekier than a ten year old, a deer looking just as jolted as they would be in a hunter’s presence, a round house exuding atrium status, a horse, all lifelike to the eyes, chiselled to the finest quality. Miniature but lifelike.

‘Amazing quality!’ A woman said as she bought the last item.

Beautiful skin, black hair, blue eyes, lightly tanned skin and that final quality of being infinitely cute. She lingered there for a moment, but in Dirk’s mind, he could see every feature of her. Don’t think of her body, don’t think of her body, don’t think of her body. I can’t judge a woman purely by her looks, what am I? She doesn’t do that to me, what merits such a thing.

Her skin glazed, golden in the sun. Her mouth and lips strong, calm and relaxed. Her eyes that twinkled at his eyes looking up. She wore a long trailing dress and sandals. Her toes could be seen, marked up with red ink on delicate toes and effete feet, but muscular legs. A lot stronger than she let on. Should I talk to her, should I talk to her?

‘If you come by tomorrow. Actually never mind.’

‘Huh?’ She communicated. Eyes down. Moved away slowly, and dissipated into the ocean of people.

He nodded, clasping his head, words failed him. Counting his money. 200 copper coins, the equivalent of 20 silver coins, or 2 gold coins. Enough to buy a small cottage inside the bustling city of trade. The city of trade, the city of corruption. Night. Dirk rolled a boulder into the city. Perplexing the guards, but their medusan curiosity got the better of them. He chiselled so fast the guards could see the sparks.

Is he trying to create a fire?

If he does, we’ll kill him. Let’s just watch what he does.

Their spears resting on their hands, their eyes squinting at the man, as he flaked the stone, cracked the stone, and then began shaping the stone. He was so meticulous he created the base of the stone. Everything from the dress to the eyes, the demeanour of quiet confidence and beauty. The guards began whistling, and some laughed turning to each other. Whatever Dirk saw in her, he replicated in his work. They came back with drinks. The demeanour of the rock realer then reality. Posing with a hand out calling out to the observers. A spy watched from her watch tower.

‘Superior!’ She said using telepathic magic, ‘what is this guy doing so late?’

‘What are you doing so late?’ The logic had its flaws, but it stumped her retorting functions, ‘you know this job is basically to look after and sort out violent drunks, it’s a Monday evening, besides, the normal guards are laughing. They’ll deal with the idiot.’

‘Yes sir,’ she thought and said sarcastically, ‘fucking idiot.’

‘Turn the telepathy off. I can hear what you’re thinking.’

She did, embarrassed that her superior heard such words

When morning came, I slept like a log.

A wolf sleeping in straw,

having sharpened its claws,

the feeling of defending something,

protecting something

Maybe something will happen now.

This poem is merely my way of interacting with the world. Yesterday I did something for free, out of pure spontaneity, isn’t that when life’s most interesting? When are things changing? We tend to sour when we’re older, isn’t that the way of the world? Old folks souring over their own failures, like some sort of self-sacrifice of the soul. The lacerations of a peasant on his own soul. Is the way of the world now? This suicide to appease, and it isn’t just the peasant, even the idealist youth. What am I saying? Especially the people of youth, they are the ones with the wide-eyed dreams. Sometimes even the wealthy can dream of a free people, more than the peasant for the peasant can’t imagine a life other than his under a master, but equally, I suppose the rich quite often like their privilege, and I suppose there are rebellious peasants and foolish rich dreamers. Where am I in this equation? It’s hard to know.

By the next morning, the man did crunches and pull-ups, audible grunts, sweat dripped off his nose. This offed his concentration slightly.

‘WHAT AN IDIOT I AM!’ He screamed, screaming the vanity and arrogance away.

The merchants cawed, and the citizens stared, this the way of the