Rebellious Activity Will Not Be Tolerated

The early spring breeze that lightly rustled the leaves of the maple trees paid no mind to the young boy's thin cotton shirt nor to his skin and drove straight to his bones. After nearly two weeks of traveling out of the city, Markus learned two things: To deal with the cold, and he had little more to think about than his father. It was only a few days after they started seeing the anti-rebellion posters when his father was taken away for questioning by two police officers. Markus never knew what they looked like because while this was happening he, his mother Martha, and his younger sister Annie snuck out the back window, and his mother lead them to Mr. Pavlo, an old friend of their father.

Mr. Pavlo was a large man, but not fat nor overly muscular. He was six feet and ten inches tall, bald but with a glorious handlebar mustache, but more importantly, he seemed to know what to do. So after he gave some small rucksacks to the family they followed him out of the city that night, while another man was talking to the city guards. It wouldn't have mattered much, the guards never seemed to pay mind to the world inside the perimeter. He didn't tell them where they were going, only that they were almost there, almost there, almost there. It was only his voice and the birds that filled the airwaves in the mornings, and in the same in the evenings. The afternoon was always as silent as the woods could be, with no voices interrupting the wind.

In his pocket, Markus ran his fingers over the roughly folded piece of paper he had kept since they left, tracing over it's surface time and time again, but he didn't take it out; Mr. Pavlo didn't like it when he did. But he didn't need to use his eyes to see it, even after such a short period of time his retinas were full of its image. The picture of a man, strong and capable, who could, if he wanted to, flip the world upside down at a moments notice.

"Almost there!" Mr. Pavlo said one afternoon, and Markus's eyes widened as his daydreams were pulled from like a fish on a line because this time Mr. Pavlo looked like he believed himself, losing his chipper facade with a genuine happiness. His gait quickened and his eyes started to smile along with his mouth.

It would be a lie to say the family wasn't disappointed. Mr. Pavlo had brought them to... something. It was either an incredibly small house or a slightly above averagely sized shed; they couldn't tell at this distance. Mr. Pavlo seemed to think it was the former as he goaded the family on. Markus's little sister had the excitement of a prisoner in lock-up, so Markus tried telling her it would probably be better once they got up to it, and hey, it might have a basement!

It did not have a basement. But it did have some holes in the roof, so they had other priorities in terms of home improvement. Markus's mother was simply spellbound that they wouldn't have to spend any more time sleeping in the forest, and would be able to sleep on a bed. Markus, on the other hand, took his concerns to Mr. Pavlo, who seemed dismissive.

"Don't worry about how long we'll stay here. All we have to do is wait for your dad to send word he's ready for us to go back. And besides, it's cozy!" Mr. Pavlo was interrupted by Markus's mother. There were no beds.

They stayed there until early summer when a man came to the door. Markus and his family tried to hide as best they could (and they could do so quite well after two months of practice) as Mr. Pavlo went to the door. But he was quite happy when the person came in, apparently, he was another one of their dad's old friends. Mr. Pavlo brought in the family to talk with this thin, short, twenty-four-year-old Anthony as they shared water and dry bread, along with their delicacy of squirrel meat. They were all hoping for the good news but were only told that they had to move again. Mr. Pavlo was nervous as the newcomer talked, and even Annie could tell he was trying to stop the young man and let him use his own, softer words. But the man was too stubborn and felt that this family deserved to know the truth, and called it as it was: This place had been found by the police and wasn't safe anymore, but he knew of a safe house to the North. "And no, Markus, your father isn't ready for you to come back yet." That was the one half lie Anthony allowed himself. He couldn't bring himself to tell them what had happened to his father.

In the late summer of that year they lived in a house in a village that overlooked a small stream. It was larger than their old shack, but the family was not allowed to go outside, and they were no longer to call themselves by their last names and were to refer to themselves as the Smith family. Their father's two friends, now John and Timothy would work and bring food for them. Markus was at first outraged by this. How could he carry on what his father had lived for if he could not even have the pride of his name? He slowly grew to understand what happened to his father, but never fully understood why.

His paper was still with him, and for the first time in many months he took it out and drew himself into it. It was tattered now, anything more than the most delicate touch would tear it, starting to fade, but in the waning moonlight, he could still see the stone-faced, white-haired man in the picture, the King of his country, the one who was truly fit to rule. Why would anyone dare try to take matters into their own hands? Had they no national pride? Why did they not trust their king? Why did they not trust God who had put him there? But still, could he ignore his father's clear wishes? Perhaps there was more than he knew. Sweat started to fall around him. His father stood before him in his mind, and on the paper his king watched his every move, reading his thoughts. Underneath the king's face, a great number of soldiers stood watching him. Trusting him. And underneath them was a small phrase "Rebellious activity will not be tolerated, Long live the King!"

It was early morning the next day when Markus went and unlocked the front door before sneaking out, paper in his pocket. Quietly he cracked open the window and crawled out, as the front door squeaked. He didn't bother closing the window. He tried to act confident but every passerby judged this newcomer, this teenager walking before morning's light. Little did they know he watched them pass for weeks as he turmoiled over the very thing he was doing. He made his way to the constabulary, it's dark wooden doors begging him to enter into their rooms, yet still, he paused. Those two seconds quickly turned to three as his hand lingered over the metal handle, as more still watched him. Four seconds.

It was cold in his grip as he turned it. There was only one man inside, a fat angry man who had paperwork to do, asking this boy what the hell he was doing here at this hour. His whole demeanor changed after Markus said a handful of words he would never remember saying. He didn't have to think of them, they had been rehearsed dozens of times on the walk here.

"Sir? I'd like to report rebellious activity."