The Mother who Saved the World

I sat in a chair of moth-eaten cloth in a small dusty room, forgotten and neglected, off one of the many corridors of the Great Library of the Nation of Korinon. Dusk filters through the glass panes of three-fold stone arches, highlighting motes of dust dancing in the pale light. Long shadows blanket the limestone floor, worn with the passage of many feet over many long years. Wooden bookcases scattered among small round tables holding a single candle cramped the small space.

            The larger, more renowned rooms of the Great Library contained many great tomes embroidered in gold and silver, scrolls tied with crimson silk, well-organized and cared-for upon great stone shelves that ran floor to ceiling a hundred paces high. Curators in purple silk robes pace the walkways between shelves. Any scholar who desired promotion at their respective institutions would study in those great halls, perusing the works written by great kings and wise sages of ages long past.

            My friends, out in those Halls, urge me to come and join them. They do not understand why I prefer this small enclave, neglected and forgotten, holding the small-minded journal-entries, news-paper clippings, and the like. 

            “What are you doing all day in there?” My friend Atticus had once asked. “I know you want a position as a scholar in the Emperor’s court. You will not obtain one if you keep spending all day in there. No master will give you a referral. What can you find in a few old news-clippings and interviews with widows and mothers, craft-smiths, and the like? What advice can they give you to give to a King?”

            We were in our third year of studies, red eyes-straining over long texts and written essays in the Common room of the boys dormitory, when he had placed his pen down, and asked the question.

            I, too, placed my pen upon the wooden table, and stared into the flames of the fireplace that warmed the room. Winter in Korinth, the City where the university lay and where we studied, was cold with snow and ice. I thought for a moment, before replying. “It’s true I’d like a position in the court as an advisor. But how can I advise a king if I do not have any wise advice to give?”

            “Exactly,” Atticus replied. “Which is why you ought to study texts by someone like King Amaziah, a king of the land of Ajuda, 500 years past.”

            But I shook my head. “They are all dead.”

            “So are those that you read.” My friend said. “Yet the kings at least left behind a legacy.”

            I picked up my pen, and began my essay once more. I did not know quite how to explain to my friend, not then, why I was drawn too that small room with long forgotten writings by long forgotten men and women.

            Now, as I sat in the moth-eaten chair, I knew the explanation that eluded me those many months ago. It lay in the words of a small journal, of poor grammar and a cramped writing, and went as such.

Spring, Ad’s 8 year

            Ad has grown so much! He helps me lots with his little sister Irda and rarely complains, and knows his math and loves plants and herbs and anything that grows.

            But today he fell. Cut his knee on the walk. He cried lots too. I think brave as he pretends to be the blood scared him.After patchin’ him up,  I told ‘em. “It’s okay to fall down, Ad. It’s okay to cry too. But I came and helped you back up? Didn’t I?”

            He looked at me with his trusting eyes, and oh how it makes my heart swell! He’s such a kind, trusting boy. I’m so afraid others will try to take that away from him.  Oh – little sister Irda is crying in the next room. I bet a nightmare woke her. I’ll write later.

~Erma  

            I sat and pondered over her words.

Ad. Ador Olenorf, son of Erma and Irdador Olenorf, born in sixth year of Jotham’s reign. Ador was known for his fearless compassion in healing patients with plague, and his invention of the medicine that ended it. One of the most popular quotes of Ador Olenorf went such, “ We all fall into sickness. And illness brings with it tears. It is okay to cry. But as a mother helps her child who fell and split his knee open, so a physician comes and helps the sick.” Was Ador thinking of that incident recorded in Erma’s journal when he said that? And Irda – Irda Moran, maiden name Irda Ordendorf, mother of Corine Moran. Corine was a brilliant senator renowned for her commitment to fair and just economic policies.

  I sat in the old, moth-eaten chair and wondered.

          Ador and Corine changed the world. Their lives changed the lives of many for the better. Yet, maybe, it was their mother and grandmother, Erma, who truly saved the world.