"Now let's hear it for Carro, the miner!" 

Amidst all the cheering and the energy, a desperate, weary sort of energy, another person steps up onto the stage made by the staircase. They are very strange. I cannot tell whether they are a man or a woman. The long shirt they're wearing is not really a tunic and not really a dress. But they take the stage anyways and I listen to what they have to say. Because I have to.

"Dear companions," he begins, "it is an honour to be here among you today. I come to you to express the pains and the strife of the miners, and to ask why the lords and ladies, and why the king, is forcing us to work so that they can have their riches." 

Cheers erupt all around me and I have a sour taste left in my mouth at all that is happening. I try to tell myself that I'm spying. That I'll tell my Papa this information so that he can deal with these rebels better. But I know that I am lying to myself. I know that I will not tell my Papa anything. I don't know why it is that I'm here. 

"Mining is horrible!" The strange person tells us. "It's dirty! It's degrading! It's dangerous! We have to stay there under the ground, in mine shafts that are are stuffy and difficult to breathe in. We have to bang and bang on our picks until our arms are aching and our joints are in agony. And still we have to work on. The work is maddening, repetitive, and unnatural. And even worse, all the vibrations from all that clanging metal make their way to our backs and leaves them sore and aching." 

The crowd grows rowdy again, voicing their rage and their discontent. And I mean, I can almost understand what they mean. A lot of people have tough lives. But they shouldn't be taking that out on an innocent person. They shouldn't be taking it out on my Papa. 

"But do you know what is worse?" The miner tells us. "It's horrifically dangerous. Rocks and dirt fall and they hit people square in the head. They bury them alive. Entire sections of the mine sometimes collapse, due to not having adequate supports and also due to the fact that working underground is undeniably dangerous." 

The crowd erupts around me again. The speaker waves at them to calm down. 

"It's dangerous. And they make us do it anyways. They make us go in there and die anyways. Do you know why they do it?" 

"Why?" A bunch of people call out, probably rhetorically. 

"Because," they continue, "the lords and ladies and all the fine, royal, rich people need us to give them jewels. They need jewels and they need energy for their overheated palaces and they make us go risk our lives, go sacrifice our lives to bring them that!" 

The crowd cheers again. And it's too much, it's all too much. I don't know what to think. I don't know what to feel. I only know that something is deeply not right here. Something is deeply not right. But what? What is it that is settling so unpleasantly in my heart? 

"My best friend died in the mines," the speaker continues, "he died and there was nothing I could do to save him. He died and so did everything he was, every joke, every smile, every word of comfort, every hope, every fear. And who do we have to blame?"

"The king!" The crowd shouts out. And they're not right. They're not. They're not. 

But it doesn't matter whether they're right or not because the miner steps down and the young woman from before steps up amidst the chanting. 

"My friends! My friends!" She calls out. "I know you are angry. But we have more speeches to get through. So please calm down!" 

They do. It takes a bit of a while, but they eventually do settle into silence. 

"Our next speaker is named Robin! And he will talk about the healthcare inequalities that exist in the kingdom!" 

The crowd roars to life again as this Robin man steps up. His eyes are filled with grief and heartache. And I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But I don't feel sorry for him. Not sorry at all. 

"Hello friends," his voice is surprisingly calm for someone with his eyes. "We are gathered here today to express our grievances to the king. I know, like all of you here, I have many grievances. But what I want to discuss with you is the inadequate state of the healthcare system in this kingdom."

The crowd roasts around me, though in my mind this man hasn't said anything of note yet. Well, whatever. I'll go along with the whims of this rabid, excitable crowd. 

"My sister," the man continues, sadness seeping into his voice, "had gotten sick with a dreadful sort of illness." He takes a moment to pause. "She had horrible cramps all along her belly and her chest would seize up and she couldn't eat any food, she would just throw it up. 

"I nursed her for weeks. I stayed there by her bedside whenever I was not working, giving her whatever I could and trying to make sure she stayed warm and drank water. I was desperate, hoping against hope that she would get better. And at first it seemed like she would get better. Like she would beat her pale illness. But she didn't get better. As the days got by, she only got worse. 

"It was then I knew that she needed to see a doctor. And I went to the doctors quarters of the city, with all the coin that we had saved up. I knocked on every door and begged each doctor to please show mercy, to please see my sister. But they all refused. I did not have enough coin. 

"But do you know who does have enough coin, always? Do you know who sees the doctor and gets medecine for every small cough, every little sniffle, every twisted ankle? The nobles. They hog all the medical staff and all the doctors and leave nothing for the rest of us." 

Around me the crowd is deafening. This is an unfair condemnation, I think. For the nobles have a right to have their medical needs looked at. And they have a right to take care of the medical needs of themselves and their families. Even if those are small things. The crowd should not be condemning us for that. 

"But do you know what's even worse?" The man asks. "The fact that even a couple of generations ago I would have been able to get treatment for my sister, for free. A couple of generations ago, our woods-spouses would be able to look at the people needing treatment and would be able to give them the herbs and poultices to cure them. But who waged war against the spouses of the woods? Who killed them all so that they couldn't pass on their knowledge? The royals!" 

"Down with the king!" The crowd chants again. And again, it's an unfair condemnation. The woods-spouses and their magic were dangerous. It was otherworldly. It was a threat to the kingdom and everything we held dear. They had to be dealt with.

"My sister was a kind and passionate and curious and radiant soul," the man speaks. "But what is the worst thing of all is that she is only one of many such souls, one of innumerable souls, whose radiance and glory was cut short due to the inequalities of the kingdom. We need justice. Justice for them all." The man steps down and the woman steps up as the crowd goes wild. Wild. I suppose they are like wild beasts. But still ... there is something about them. Something I cannot define. 

"Fellow comrades!" The woman declares when the crowd dies down, "for our final speaker today, we have the young Amilee, from the butchers' district!" 

The girl who steps up amidst the cheering cannot be any older than me. In fact, she looks a year or two younger. She's brave, for doing this. I do not know why I think that. 

"Hello everyone!" Her voice is far too dark for anyone of her age. But it's the voice she speaks with nonetheless. "I'm here to describe the death of my sibling, who I loved so much. He should still be here with us in this world, but he's not here. He's not here like so many other people who are not here. Do you know why he died?

"Because he stole from the Nobles. And he only stole a little bit. Only a few silver coins. So much that the nobles would not notice it was gone. But they did notice it. Because he couldn't run away fast enough. He wasn't sneaky enough. He tried his best but he got caught." 

She pauses for a while as the crowd cheers her on, giving her their support. I think it's right that her brother died. He was stealing. And stealing is bad. He has to get punished for that. He has to face the consequences. Well whatever though. What's done is done. And it's not my Papa's fault if the guards of the kingdom have to enforce the kingdom's laws. 

"I was there when he was killed," the girl finally gets out. "I had to watch it happen. It was horrifying. So horrifying. I get nightmares about it every night. The guards, they forced the whole neighbourhood to watch. The whole neighbourhood is full of people who love my sibling. They watched him grow up. They raised him. But they had to watch him die. 

"Do you know why he stole? Because all the people in our community were hungry. And we were cold. And we were cold and we were hungry. And my sibling, he wanted to help. He wanted to help our people. He wanted us to have more. He wanted us to have enough. And he wanted us to be well. 

"He thought that he could be sneaky. He thought that he wouldn't get caught. But he did get caught. And do you know how old he was when he died last summer? He was thirteen."

Thirteen. That's how old I am. Oh my gosh. Still, he deserves to be punished for what he did. Stealing is a sin. It is not okay. 

The crowd stills silent, taking that fact in for a moment. I still silent with them. It's like a strange sort of camaraderie shared between us. It's like a strange sort of oneness. I don't like it. I don't like it but I do, in a small part of myself that I cannot name. I don't like it but I do. 

"My sibling is not the only one," the young girl continues on after the silence. "So many people get executed because they broke small laws that aren't even important." What is she talking about? All laws are important. "The system punishes us for trivial things because they want to keep us in line. They want to keep the order that holds us down. And they want to stop us from going against that order. But we have to go against the order. Because the order is cruel. The order is unequal. The order is unfair. And the order has to be overthrown!" She raises her fist in the air and everyone else does the same. 

After the chanting and yelling dies down, the young woman takes the stage again. These rebels are such troublemakers. But still. ... Still. 

"And we are done our demonstration in front of the House of Lords! Hopefully they have heard us, or will hear of this! Now, I have sources which tell me that the King is at a dress shop in front of Fairove Avenue. We will take the protest there and chant outside so he can hear us!" 

Te crowd roars to life. We move again, back the way we came, marching tiredly and with purpose. The chanting around me becomes increasingly frenzied and part of me feels like I can almost get lost in it. Almost. 

"The guards! The guards are coming!" Someone shouts in the crowd. The chanting dies down immediately as everyone starts scattering in different directions. Fear is imprinted stony on everyone's faces, as they go down whichever street they can, running. It was already pretty chaotic before but this seems like pure madness. 

So what? The guards are coming. What's wrong with that? The guards are here to protect us, to keep order, to keep everyone in line. But I don't think I will ever understand the psychology of this crowd. 

"People of the city!" A high, booming voice thunders out from somewhere amidst the crowd, "Disperse now or we will be forced to use lethal force!"

There is screaming all around me and I cannot even tell which way is which. But I try to keep walking down the street, looking for the dress shop I left my parents in. It must be along here somewhere. It's where we were going after all. 

"Bang! Bang!" There are screams all around me. People are screaming. I am screaming. They're shooting! Someone is actually shooting shots. Why would they be doing that? I don't know. All I do know is that I'm in danger. All I know is that I have to get out. 

Shots echo all around me as I run and run as fast as my feet will carry me, mind racing to keep up with my pace. What if I get shot? What if I get shot? I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. 

Finally spotting the dress shop in front of me, I breathe a sigh of relief and slip through its doors. The chaos and confusion of the ragged, jagged outside world is at once silenced by the shining and pristine polish of the dress shop adorned as it is by its many fabrics. I can still hear the chaos outside though, but it's muffled with the calmness inside. It feels as though it's not real, as though it's from another world. 

My heart rate quickly slows and my breathing evens out. I'm a princess now, I tell myself. I'm a princess. Not a protestor, but a princess. I have nothing to hide. Nothing to fear. I only have to pick out some nice outfits for the banquet. That's all that matters. The banquet is all that matters. 

Finally having calmed myself, I walk through the rows of clothing until I find my discarded dress. It's difficult, putting it back on all by myself, but I manage. I think that my bow at the back might be a little lopsided. But still. It's good enough. 

"Angelina! Where are you?" Mama's sing-song voice cuts through the cavernous room. 

"I'm here!" I call out. 

In a few minutes I am face to face with my mother and father. With the king and queen of this land. They are beautiful and shining as they look at me with loving eyes and smile. I feel at peace, seeing them. I feel as if I am finally home. 

A thought crosses my mind, dark and terrible. It leaves a sick feeling in my chest and my gut and makes me feel as if I am falling through a darkness. What if those protestors were right? What if my Papa is a bad leader, a bad person? What if he has really caused all that hardship? What if he is really to blame? 

Then who am I? Then what can I do? What should I do? How can I ever look my parents in the eyes again? How can I live my life? 

"Sweetheart," Papa coos, "we were so worried about you!" His voice is gentle, his eyes are soft and I run into his arms. 

I feel safe there, safer than I have ever felt anywhere else. And that's when I realize. Those protestors were wrong. My Papa is not to blame for all of their problems. They themselves are. 

———

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.