"What Children See" by Sabrina E G Withers

"One day whiles we were playing
My son he said to me,
If there is so much food around
Why are people hungry?
The ones who plant the crops
Potatoes, wheat and grain
By giving us the things they need
What have they then to gain?"

Leaning outwards from the topmost rung of the rickety ladder attached to the water tower, the boy shielded his eyes from the sun to watch the road. The land was dusty in all directions for the drought had been long. He froze as he saw the plume of dust in the distance. As the cause of the dust plume came closer he could spot the banner waving in the wind.

"Father," the boy cried as he scrambled down the ladder as fast as he dared. "Father, the Taxman is coming!" Jumping the last few feet he ran towards the tall man who had emerged into the street at his shout. A worried expression covered his father’s face as he looked to where the boy pointed.

"This does not bode well. We have barely enough to feed ourselves let alone pay our taxes." He rubbed the scar along his chin, the price for protecting his wife against brigands. "Fetch the Taxing Table and spread the news." The boy ran off to do as he was told leaving his father to stare at the column of riders coming towards the village.

When the riders finally entered the town the boy had set the Taxing Table ready for them. His father stood by it grim faced and silent. The foremost rider pulled up in front of them. The boy rushed forward to take the reins so that the rider could dismount. The man’s clothes were of the finest cloth but had the wear that told of much travelling. His face had the softness of a man who rarely had to spend time in the bitter weather that was a farmer’s lot. His eyes were piercing and when the man turned to look at him the boy felt as if he could see into his soul. The boy’s father looked warily at the man as he approached the Taxing Table.

"You are not the Taxman we normally have." The man smiled reassuringly at his words.

"He was needed elsewhere to the south. Let us seat ourselves." The man sat down at the table. The boy’s father eyed the soldier that had come with the Taxman suspiciously before seating himself as well.

"Why the soldiers? We have always paid our tax." The Taxman nodded.

"That is true. They are not for you. In this time of drought food has become more precious than gold and many a brigand would like to take the Tax." The soldiers had dismounted as he spoke, tending to their horses, giving them water before meeting their own need. The boy at a nod from his father went to fetch some water for the Taxman.

"This drought will ruin the chance of us paying the full tax without going hungry ourselves." The forwardness of the father’s statement did not seem to worry the Taxman.

"The law changes to accommodate this. A new tax decree has been passed." He stopped to thank the boy when he poured him a glass of water. He placed a coin in the boy’s hand stifling his protest that it was not necessary.

"Go back to your mother," his father told him calmly, not taking his eyes off the Taxman.

"No, let him stay. I may require his services." The boy hesitated unsure what to do until his father nodded. He took a quick look at the coin before slipping it into his pouch and turning his attention back to the Taxman.

"The king has said no tax is to be taken from those who can not pay."

"And how is this to be determined? We pay our tax in food not coin."

"Drought is apparent in most of the country and the crops are needed to feed all. But we can not deprive the farmers of their food for then we kill our only source." He took a sip of the water as he contemplated what to say next. "A rationing has been enforced across the land. All able-bodied workers are entitled to a set amount of food that should keep them through the winter until new crops can be harvested. The ill and young are given an extra half ration. Which can, when the ill are well again, be distributed among the families."

"What of those that have less or more than they need?" The Taxman pulled forth a piece of parchment from the bag at his hip.

"Each village is counted and the rations worked out. In those places that have more the Tax is taken from the excess. Any extra is paid for. All that is extra is distributed to those that can not feed themselves. Once this is done, food will go to the cities where the merchants and craftsman can gain their rations."

"You can not tell me that the noblemen agreed to this. They who are never without food."

"The king decrees and they have no choice," the Taxman stated and the boy could tell he did not enjoy the scepticism of his father but accepted that it existed.

"So they eat and do not work. Tell me what ration that constitutes."

"The king and his nobles are on half rations and will be on half rations until the drought is proven to be over." The fierceness with which this was spoken seemed to indicate the belief the Taxman had that this was as it should be. "Now let my men count the crops as you tell me how many people live here. Leave no one out, I would not wish for them to die just because they are not mentioned." He placed an inkwell on the table and pulled forth a quill. As the boy’s father named each resident in the village the Taxman made a mark on the paper until all had been mentioned. His head bent, the Taxman then began writing numbers on the parchment and scribbling calculations as carefully and as quickly as possible. The boy looked at his profile, recognition in the back of his mind. He tried to place the Taxman’s face comparing it to all the men and clerks that had always come before, but none of the faces fit. He stopped staring when the sergeant who led the soldiers placed a list of the crops next to the Taxman.

"Half your usual tax will be required."

"Why that will leave us barely enough to feed ourselves!" The sergeant stepped forward at the outburst but stopped when the Taxman raised his hand.

"There is a village that I came through four days ago. They only had enough food for half the children and that would soon be gone as it was needed to feed them all. The food we take from you today because of your bounty may come back one day when you have nothing. Sergeant, load the wagon we must be on our way back. This will be enough to keep that village alive."

"Aye my lord. It gladdens me that we will have something to give them now." The sergeant saluted and bellowing to his soldiers, directed the removal of the grain that they had found. A dark cloaked woman with an ear tattooed black came from among the horses and handed the Taxman another sheet of parchment. He smiled gratefully at her.

"This sets out the rationing scheme so that you know how to spread the food among the villagers. Don’t exceed the amounts given as your stores will not last." He handed the parchment to the boy’s father who no longer disapproved of the actions taken by the king.

"Thank you." He accepted the paper with a smile and shook the Taxman’s hand. As the boy brought forth the man’s horse the sergeant came to tell the Taxman that the loading was done. The Taxman swung into his saddle with ease and sat waiting for the soldiers to ready themselves.

"My lord," the boy said startling his father who had forbidden him to speak. The Taxman looked down at him patiently. "Tell your son that the king is a good man." The boy held the Taxman’s gaze until he smiled.

"Thank you." He turned his attention on the boy’s father. "Your son is very observant. When he comes of age he would make a fine Highseer." With those words he turned his horse and moving to the front of the column, led the soldiers away from the village. The boy stood by his father a large grin on his face as they watched them leave.

"He was strange that Taxman, but an honest man," his father said putting his hand on his son’s shoulder. "Now what are you grinning like that for?"

"Didn’t you hear? I could become a Highseer!"

"Don’t be silly son. You can’t believe a Taxman. Only the king can appoint Highseers."

"But Father," the boy said pulling forth the coin, which his father only now saw was a scaran, the only coin that bore the king’s stamp. "That Taxman was the king."