raveling the long and winding road to Babylon, a man came upon a troop of Kalishé; the nomadic jugglers and acrobats.  Beklan, for so the man was called, paused and eyed the performers, but they showed no signs of performing.

"What ails thee, Kalishé?" He inquired of an aged beguiler. "Are not thy people pledged to the performance?  Sworn to entertain?"

"Ah yes." spoke the whitebeard, his eyes remaining fixed on the far horizon, "We do perform, but also we are pledged to the Goddess, and her Oracle.  That service is our higher calling."

Beklan was taken aback, for no man should speak so freely of the Goddess or her Oracle.  Especially not here, on this dusty road, so far from the holy cities.  "Goddess?  Here?" He muttered.

The old Kalishé remained motionless, his eyes still fixed in the distance.  One hand emerged from his robe with a long, thin blade, and the fingers made the metal dance.

Beklan took a half step back, for in olden times the Kalishé had been notorious rogues and brigands, only turning to the performing arts when the Goddess had bound them to her service, through her Oracle.

"What..." Beklan began tentatively, "What could the Oracle demand of you here, on this dusty road?"

"Blame not the road for its dust.  Blame the sky for its sun, or the clouds for their lack of rain, if you must point your finger."

Beklan didn't know what to make of the whitebeard's words, and began to grow angry.

"You speak of the Goddess, and the Oracle!  Yet here you sit, with your troupe inside the tents of gold and crimson!" For there were three such tents ten paces from the road, brilliant royal purple pennants crackling overhead in the light breeze.

As Beklan spoke, one tent flap opened, and a man unfolded himself through the opening.  He was all legs and arms, standing nearly eight feet tall in white silk, his hairless skull shining in the harsh sunlight.  He cast an imperious gaze across the surroundings, his eyes not pausing as they raked across Beklan.  Survey complete, he turned and walked away from the road, heading up the hill along a narrow path.  Half a dozen female Kalishé followed behind, their long braids and tight, purple costumes jingling with hundreds of small golden bells, great curved scimitars resting against their shoulders.

"The Oracle!" Beklan gasped, his eyes bulging from the sight.  He'd have been no less surprised if the Goddess herself had cracked open the sky and poured a rain of fishes from the heavens.  Legends told of that sort of thing.

"Aye.  Ask not what the Oracle may do for you, but what you may do for he." spoke the aged Kalishé.

"What I..." Beklan gasped, still stunned at the sight he had witnessed. "What I can do for the Oracle?"

"That's the spirit!" cackled the old man, and with that he tucked his knife away, turned, and ducked into the tent the Oracle had emerged from, pulling the flap shut behind him.

It's a fable, or even a parable.  Though it would need to have some sort of lesson to qualify for the latter term, technically speaking.

I don't remember where the idea for this came from.  I think I had the last little play on Kennedy's famous "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." in my head, and wrote a story that I could somehow put it into.  Ironically I think the last three paragraphs are the weakest part.

I like it up until there.  It's not about anything, but it's got a nice light feeling, and feels authentic, like the short parable type of fables credited to Aesop, or that you'd see in some old book. The world in it feels real, the situation feels real.  I like the choice of words, "aged beguiler" is a nice term.  Certainly beats "old man", eh?  I like the bit about the goddess cracking opening the sky and pouring a rain of fishes down also.

Anyway, there's not much more to it than this, just a quick story.  I can't see expanding it to anything more.

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