The Last Book

The Last Book

If this was the last book in humanity would you treat it any differently?  I imagine you are sitting in class thinking, “It's just another book,” and maybe it is. Maybe this is the most boring book you have ever read! But just maybe, this is the most important book in existence, and you are its powerful keeper.

This is the story of a simple book that changed someone's life forever, and it all began a long time ago in a kingdom far far…...“Get up you lazy serf!” Birtle awoke abruptly from the heap of hay in the barn to the screeching voice of his lord.  “Yes sir,” Birtle groaned. Birtle slumped out of the barn, brushing mud off his threadbare pants, humming a tune, “Off to work again, given no pay again!” Birtle wandered into the dry crackly field and started picking weeds, talking to himself as he went along. “A man lives on a island, an island having their survival weigh on BOOKS! A child is born, who wants to see a book more than anything in the whole world, yet he is put to work on farm, while most serfs construct books…!” With that Birtle yanked a weed out of the ground so hard he toppled onto the ground and on to….”A BOOK!” Birtle hollered to no one. Birtle tore open the book with a vivacious energy that was completely new to him, and viewed the title, running his grimy hands across the leather spine. The title read “The art of everything.”  Birtle leafed through the thick papyrus pages, struggling to make sense of the strange symbols on each page.  He could, however, figure out what the colorful drawings on the pages were conveying, and as he was doing so, a horde of frightened villagers ran past Birtle, screaming, “Fire in the village, fire, fire!” Without a second thought, Birtle grabbed the book and followed the villagers into a nearby marsh area.

Hours later, when the dead and living were counted, the king, lords, villagers, serfs, and Birtle gathered in the charred village.  The king rose solemnly in the crowd and spoke, choking on each word, “Our people are dead, our houses are gone, we have no food, and most of all, every last book is gone.” The villagers murmured sadly in a hushed tone, “Sage, sage, tell us what to do.” An old cloaked man arose, and croaked, “I have seen a prophecy, where the one who has the last book in this village, fate’s chosen leader, is declared...the rightful king!”  With that everyone started chattering, until Birtle rose, the book clutched in his hand. Silently, all kneeled at the foot of Birtle. At once they began to cry, “Lead us serf, turned into a king, lead us!” So, opening the book, Birtle began to lead his people.

The Last Moringa Flower

The Last Moringa Flower

“Tell me a story about before the earth dried up, and before life faded!”  Chirped a young boy, sitting on a hard slab of wood in a small, earthen hut. Shakily standing over a boiling pot of water, was a withered old woman. “Alright, Vihaan.” The old woman agreed with a forlorn look in her wrinkled eyes as she began the story.

“Quite a time ago, when the trees grew bountiful fruit, flowers burst from rich soil, and life bloomed everywhere, there lived a prince named Aarav, who lived in a kingdom in the Himalayan foothills.  Everywhere Aarav went, nature followed.  It was legend to all that Aarav carried the power of life.  There was a kind girl in a nearby kingdom named Moringa, who was as beautiful and delicate as a velveteen rose. One day, while Aarav was on a trip to her kingdom, she caught his eye. Instantly they fell in love, and for awhile life in the kingdom was as plentiful and beautiful as ever. In Moringa’s honor, Aarav created a beautiful flower named moringa.  

Despite good times, and Moringa’s love for the prince, she missed her family dearly. Moringa begged Aarav to let her to see her family, but Aarav refused, saying that if she left, he would die of heartache.  Of course, like any sensible person would, Moringa thought Aarav was lying, and left immediately, only pausing to pluck one moringa blossom from a tree.  Within the hour of her departure, dreary clouds covered the kingdom’s sky like a shroud.

Eventually, realizing Moringa was gone, the prince whispered his last words, “nature’s balance can be disturbed by the smallest ant to the largest lion,” as he lay on the bed, dying of true heartache. Instantly, the kingdom grew as dry and lifeless as anything could be, and stayed that way until this day.”

The story’s spell was broken as the old woman revealed a shriveled flower in her palm. She looked Vihaan in the eye and croaked, tears running down her wrinkled face, “This is the last moringa blossom, and I am Moringa.”