school—stared down at him, some wearing gas masks marking the turbulent time of their creation. The day infused winter-heavy hearts with the giddy possibility of summer, and Richard was no different.
Sitting with legs crossed, he absorbed The Once and Future King.
“Interesting choice, nose in a book on this beautiful day.”
Richard dipped the novel and shielded his eyes to view an old man, his beard white and skin tanned to the depths of its wrinkles. Both hands in khaki pockets and his white collared shirt gleaming, he had a scholarly appeal, an empty pipe hanging from his mouth like an afterthought.
Richard liked him instantly.
“Is my book the interesting choice or choosing to read outside?” Richard asked.
“Both, I think.”
“It beats grading papers, that’s for sure.”
“May I?” the older man questioned, indicating the empty side of the bench.
Richard nodded and scooted over a bit.
“T.H. White,” the man observed as he sat, removing his pipe and holding it like a cherished thing. “A very good writer. Took many liberties with the lives of Arthur and Lancelot and the rest, though I suppose he had his reasons. Many other writers have done the same—Bede, Gildas, Nennius, Geoffrey of Monmoth, Wace, de Troyes, Mallory. Even Tennyson, Twain and Bradley. All have it right; all have it wrong.”
“I’ve read most of them, as part of my undergrad work,” Richard said, turning the book over and looking at the cover. “This is an infinitely easier read but just as engaging—maybe more so with its relevance to World War II.”
“So you prefer the easier trod path then?”
“Sometimes,” Richard admitted. “When it makes sense.”
“Did you graduate in four years?”
Richard peered closer at the old man. Icy blue eyes stared back, unflinching.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but who are you?”
“Four years? Five years? Longer?”
“Five,” Richard replied, perplexed but intrigued. “I was biochem for a while but my heart wasn’t in lab work. I finished with an English Literature degree.”
“Then you do not take the easier path when it matters?”
“No, I suppose I don’t. I could have graduated on time with a degree I would not have been happy with—and saved money and time just to do something I would have hated. I could have started a life, made money, had a family, and become prey of the system.” Richard paused, suddenly wondering why he was telling this stranger anything about his life. “Anyway, The Once and Future King is not as simple as it may appear; it’s a literary commentary on how mankind fails to bring about a government that does not take advantage of its people.”
“Ultimate power corrupts ultimately,” the man said. “No matter if it is totalitarian or socialist or democracies run by hierarchal laws—’might by right’ or ‘might for right’ or ‘right for right.’”
“Right,” Richard said, grinning. “You’ve read it then. Any merit in it? That mankind will never be truly free of tyranny unless it abolishes all government?”
“I believe quite strongly in what White had to say,” the bearded man said. “Sadly there are those in humanity who will never be satiated, who are moved by evil—from the vagabond to the leader of a country and all between. Mankind is flawed. No form of government can account for that. It offers belief in a utopia that is unattainable. Gotten to Lancelot’s portrayal yet?”
“Just,” Richard said. “He is…a very imperfect character. Nothing like the romantic ideal boys aspire to be and girls hope to marry. Desperate to prove himself. Angry and ugly to boot.”
“Yes, he was imperfect,” the white-haired man said, tamping fragrant tobacco into his pipe. “Of course, just another fabrication to suit the writer. Lancelot was anything but ugly. Interesting idea though. I enjoy subtexts very much.”
“Are you a professor here at the University?” Richard asked, closing the book.
“No, no, but that would be an honor, too,” the old man chuckled. “I sell ancient and rare books. Why don’t you come down to my bookstore tomorrow in Pioneer Square. It’s on First, near Yesler. There are a few items there I think you might be interested in.”
“I’ll try,” Richard said, knowing he would not go.
“Good day then, sir,” the man said, lighting his pipe. “Be sure to enjoy it. A nice day like today should be treasured, particularly in Seattle. See you tomorrow.”
The bookseller left, retreating beneath a rain of broken pink blossoms.
Richard shook his head and reopened the book.
The conversation with the old man lingered with Richard that night. The next day he bussed to the bookstore and made a choice that had