In a bustling kingdom long ago, King Alaric, a ruler both cunning and curious, devised a test to uncover the true heart of his people. One moonlit night, he ordered his guards to roll a massive, jagged boulder onto the main road leading to the market. “Let’s see who among my subjects has the grit to act,” he muttered, a sly grin spreading across his face. He hid behind a thicket of brambles, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
The next morning, the road buzzed with travelers. First came a merchant, his silk robes swishing as he hauled a cart of exotic spices. He stopped dead at the boulder, his face twisting in disgust. “What’s this nonsense? The King’s men are slacking again!” he huffed, sidestepping the rock with a dramatic flourish, muttering curses under his breath.
Next, a courtier in a velvet cape strutted by, his nose high. “Alaric ought to keep these roads clear!” he sneered to his servant, who nodded like a bobble-headed puppet. They tiptoed around the boulder, careful not to dirty their polished boots, and carried on as if it were someone else’s problem.
Villagers passed, too—grumbling, pointing, blaming. “Lazy King!” one shouted. “Can’t even keep a road open!” another spat. Yet not one lifted a finger to budge the stone. King Alaric, still crouched in the bushes, shook his head. “All talk, no spine,” he whispered, disappointed but not surprised.
Then, as the sun climbed high, a young peasant named Thom trudged along, a rickety basket of turnips slung over his shoulder. His clothes were patched, his face smudged with dirt from a morning’s work. When he saw the boulder, he froze, scratching his head. “Well, that’s a right mess,” he mumbled. “Can’t have folks tripping over this beast.”
Setting his basket down with a thud, Thom squared his shoulders and pressed his hands against the boulder. It didn’t budge. He pushed harder, veins bulging, sweat beading on his brow. “Come on, you stubborn lump!” he growled, shoving with all his might. The boulder groaned, then rolled, inch by agonizing inch, until it tumbled into the ditch with a dusty thump.
Panting, Thom wiped his face and turned back to his turnips. But something caught his eye—a leather purse, half-buried in the dirt where the boulder had sat. He knelt, brushing it off, and opened it to find a cascade of gold coins glinting in the sunlight. Tucked inside was a note, scrawled in bold ink: To the one who clears the path, the reward is yours. —King Alaric.
Thom’s eyes widened. “Blimey,” he whispered, clutching the purse. He glanced around, half-expecting the King to leap out and yell, “Gotcha!” But the road was quiet, save for the chirping of birds. With a grin, he slung his basket over his shoulder and walked on, a little richer and a lot prouder.
King Alaric stepped from the bushes, dusting off his cloak. “That’s the one,” he said to himself, nodding. “The kingdom needs more like him.”
Moral: Don’t just complain about problems—roll up your sleeves and fix them, for action brings rewards that words never will.