I entered the general store in that small jungle village. There was the clerk, and in a corner, a small child, 6 or 7 years old, was sitting, in full native paraphernalia.
The clerk told me he was the king of the *****, one of the last members of his tribe in that zone because all the others were absorbed by the modern society or killed in the wars.
When the child heard his name, he stood up and held his small ceremonial spear.
I went to greet him and he answered, in his child voice but full of dignity, that he was honored to have a visitor. I asked him about his parents. He told me that they were killed in a war so the crown befell on him. I asked him about his subjects. He told me that they had gone out as ambassadors to other tribes, and that they would be back soon. I said goodbye and went back for my purchases.
The clerk told me in low voice that the king had no subjects. The last one of them, a boy in his teens, had left to the city trying to find work a few weeks ago. He had no heart to tell the king that he had no subjects or family left.
I left, thinking about that small, proud, hungry little king, whose kingdom was reduced to a corner in a forgotten trade outpost.
