The English Major
by Charles C. Cole
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
“In this case, the name comes from the war of many nations, World War II. The father of His Highness, a great man in his own right, had deep admiration for the leadership and, shall we say, tactical brilliance of German Field Marshal Rommel. His nickname for his young son was, naturally, The Little Field Marshal. When he ascended to the throne, His Highness chose The Supreme Field Marshal in honor of his late father.”
“Wow,” said Kip.
“Indeed,” agreed Omar.
“You’re all fluent in English. That’s cool.”
“Not all of us. Very few, actually.”
“What’s the name of your country, if you don’t mind my asking, for when I eventually get back home and tell my father all about my many adventures—”
Omar stood and nodded at a painting nearby on the wall as if in consultation. Before him: a serious man in colorful military attire. The father in the story? Then he closed his eyes a moment and took several long, deep breaths.
“Are we done?” asked Kip, standing.
“No, Mr. Farr, we are far from done,” countered Omar. “Please, sit. I will let you know when we are finished. I promise.” Omar flashed a quick smile. There was absolutely nothing warm and inviting about it. Kip sat. He felt smaller, a young child called to the principal’s office for something someone else had done.
Kip wanted the principal to know he was a good kid, that it was all a misunderstanding, that he would be cooperative. “I’m listening,” he said.
“I see that.” Omar sat. He straightened some scattered papers, found a blank sheet and pulled a feathery pen out of a previously unnoticed inkpot. “Kipling Farr,” Omar stated as he wrote.
“That’s me.”
“Yes, it is. You are hereby charged with illegal entry across our sacred sovereign border—”
“I was just a passenger,” blurted Kip.
“May I continue?”
Kip nodded.
“And attempted theft.”
“The fuel? Phelps told you he’d pay for it.”
“What if we had not been alerted and gone to meet you? Who would you have paid?”
Kip shrugged. He was defeated.
Omar appreciated the moment, as he had appreciated many previous similar moments. Now we are on the same page: my page.
“Do I get a lawyer?”
“There’s no need.”
“Will there be a trial where I can tell my side?”
“Only one side is germane for these proceedings.”
“Will I be executed?” Never ask a question for which you are not prepared to hear the answer.
Omar put his pen down. “These are serious charges with serious consequences, ordinarily.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Your kingdom: your rules. I’m in the wrong, I recognize that. I don’t suppose you have something like so many hours of community service.”
Omar shook his head, clearly not understanding the expression.
“It’s where the convicted party performs certain state-sanctioned chores, like repainting the palace or mucking out the stables. Like work-release only I don’t get paid and you get some free labor for unpleasant projects that have been on your to-do list for months, maybe years.”
Omar looked off into space, remembering an old story. “Like a chain gang.”
“Sure,” agreed Kip, reluctantly, “but without the chains.”
“A college-educated American who doesn’t understand the nature of punishment. How sad.”
“I didn’t fly the plane across your border. Hell, I was asleep when it happened.”
“Wandering through life while asleep: very dangerous, very criminal. I believe the old man in the dungeon will appreciate the company.”
“That sounds like a threat,” hissed Kip.
“Or an eventuality, when I have only so many options.”
“Put me to work. Let me do something helpful around here. I’m young and fit.”
“What skills or talents do you possess that could possibly be of use to His Royal Highness?”
There was a sudden knock at the closed office door. “Excuse me,” said Omar, jumping in response.
“I hope the flight went well,” said Kip, meaning it sincerely but sounding ironic. Omar blanched. He steadied himself with one hand on the desk. “I mean it,” added Kip.
Omar regained his composure as the knocking continued. “Surely you must realize that what happens in the real world has no bearing on what happens to you. A guard will return you to your room. We will continue this another time.”
* * *
Two guards led Kip back, one in front and one behind. Heightened security? The one behind him, who had been on his heels down each hall, shoved him roughly into his room, then closed and locked the door behind him. Phelps stood in the middle of the room. He looked uninjured. He looked angry.
“What happened?” ask Kip.
“Nothing happened. Would I be standing here if something happened?”
“How was the flight?”
“He chickened out. I told you. He was all talk. He didn’t even get in. He took one look at the packed crates in the back and trembled like a boy on his first date. ‘No room for my bodyguards,’ he said. ‘It’s a small plane,’ I explained. ‘But why load it up when it is already heavier than air?’ he said. ‘Surely, you want to be as light as possible.’ ‘Because that’s what I do,’ I said. ‘I deliver things. It’s the nature of the business.’ I don’t know what he was expecting.”
“A luxury jet,” mumbled Kip.
“Maybe,” conceded Phelps, then: “Where you been? I figured they’d marched you to the border for merely being an ‘accessory to trespassing.’ I flew the damn thing. Hell, you were asleep.”
“I know. They know, but they do not make any meaningful distinctions on that point. Nope, either we shall all hang together or we will hang separately, depending on how much rope they have. Omar was interviewing me, not about you. Apparently, he’s very conscientious; it profoundly matters to him that the punishment fits the crime.”
“Sorry,” said Phelps.
“They marched me to Omar’s office. I still don’t know his title. Anyway, he’s got a library, books and books and more books. Of course, they’re probably in ancient Greek or Arabic. One minute I was in hell, then I was in Heaven, then I was in hell again.”
“Do they really have a dungeon?” asked Phelps.
“That’s what they say. I’ll take their word on it. I don’t need a tour. I’ve been to Alcatraz: what a waste of an island getaway.”
“What happens now?” demanded Phelps.
“You’re asking me? I watched you schmooze with two lovely ladies half your age... Surely a gunrunner of your class knows how to patronize the rich and powerful.”
Phelps got quiet. “I never said I was a gunrunner.”
“You can’t tell me those big crates are full of mail. Not gonna buy it.”
“Keep your voice down,” hissed Phelps.
“Why?”
“Because my delivery was supposed to be just over the border. On the border, if you get me.”
“Oh my god. ‘The friend of my enemy is my enemy.’”
“We’re not friends; it’s business. If you say a word, I’ll tell them you’re my business partner instead of some lost stray I picked up.”
“They’re gonna execute us, for sure,” said Kip.
“Maybe. If it comes to that, I’ll open one of those crates a little early and go down fighting. You with me?”
“I’ve never shot anyone. I’ve never even held a gun. Hiram, I’m a vegetarian.”
After a long restless night, after a dinner of what looked like runny oatmeal with a side of figs, Kip and Phelps heard the door open. Omar stood there with a couple of clean white shirts. He threw them in: “To change into. You must be tired of wearing the same things.”
The men stood and changed.
Kip paused.
“What’s the matter?” asked Phelps.
“I don’t want to insult anyone. Maybe we should smear some food stains on them.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Omar.
“Where we going?” asked Phelps.
“Back to the airfield. The Supreme Field Marshal has had a good night’s rest and a change of heart.”
“You’re letting us go?” asked Kip. “After all the scare tactics? I don’t believe it.”
“The Supreme Field Marshal is ready to ride in your plane, Mr. Phelps. He says such opportunities don’t come to us often, so we must take advantage of them when we can.”
“And me?” asked Kip.
“We will continue where we left off. I have some thoughts.”
* * *
Omar led Kip back into his office. “It even smells like a library,” gushed Kip. “How did I miss that before? Are any in English?”
“Many.”
“Can I look at a few titles? They must be over fifty years old.”
“Many are much older.”
The titles appeared in no particular order: Swiss Family Robinson, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Treasure Island, The Three Muskateers, Madame Bovary, Candide, The Odyssey, War and Peace, Meditations on First Philosophy by Descartes.
“Join me when you can catch your breath,” teased Omar. “I’ll be in the more comfortable chair at the desk.”
Kip pulled himself away. “Just when I thought I’d read everything worth reading,” joked Kip. Omar put both hands over his heart as if accepting the compliment and smiled. “I will not dare say that we are more alike than different, but in another life, we could have traveled in similar circles.”
“Have you read them all?” asked Kip.
“Surely, you jest. I speak English but, alas, I do not read it.”
“Is there a reading light in the dungeon?” asked Kip, half-joking.
“You are contemplating, perhaps, your future. It may give some small peace of mind to know that while the Supreme Field Marshal leads the army and governs the nation — he is the brains and brawn — he leaves adjudicating justice to me as I see fit, as I am the heart. Sometimes there are mitigating circumstances to consider, yes?”
“Absolutely,” agreed Kip.
“If a wifeless father steals for his hungry child, he is executed, but his orphaned child becomes a servant at the palace. It balances, yes?”
Kip smiled without speaking.
“It balances, trust me,” continued Omar, “more or less.”
“Guess I’d have to see it from your shoes,” allowed Kip.
“Yes. So, when a gunrunner for our enemy crash-lands near the palace — yes, we know: the old man in the dungeon is a talkative spy we captured last week — we must weigh ignorance against intention.”
“I just found out myself,” said Kip.
“I believe you,” said Omar. “But would you have warned us?”
“I was trying to think of a way, without costing Hiram his life.”
“You need not worry any more about that,” said Omar. “He made his own bed.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know him long,” said Kip. “He was a colorful guy who lived by his own rules. I suppose when you’re a gunrunner, you’re bound to end a victim of your own success.”
“Now it is your turn.”
“I thought as much. I was young and stupid. I thought the rules didn’t pertain to me. After all, I’m an American. If anyone threatens me, a battalion of soldiers will come to my rescue, for pride and country.”
“If they knew in which country you were currently traveling.”
Kip sighed. He drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “I’m not going to cause a problem,” he said. “I’m not happy about it, but your justice is your justice. Them’s the rules.”
“Good,” said Omar.
“So, what’s the penalty? You’re gonna have to tell me sooner or later.”
Omar stood. He stretched. Something popped along his upper neck. “Believe it or not, we are through with the hard part.” He glanced around the room at the many, many books. “Stand and face your punishment.”
Kip stood.
“Don’t look at me, look at them,” said Omar gesturing to the full shelves.
“I don’t understand,” said Kip.
“Your punishment is to read aloud to me for four hours every day all of the English-language books in this room until you are done or your year abroad is over, whichever comes first.”
“No time in the dungeon?”
“Get my precious books dirty with your soiled hands? No. We will find you a room, only slightly bigger than the one you are in now; the servant wants his bed back. And when you are not reading, maybe you can help tend to the dogs or paint. This is yet to be decided.”
“You’re not gonna execute me?”
“You can read. That, to me, is an amazing gift. Maybe you can teach me. Yes, we will make much use of it. Now go. The guard will take you for a sponge bath; it is time.”
Kip was not always happy; it was punishment, after all. But he learned many lessons and matured as a man. Sometimes, but not often, he witnessed sudden, unjustifiable violence. In the end, Omar kept his word and sent Kip home, where Kip survived in the family business for many years.
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
