“And what of
your noble laborer?”
My breath stopped. I had not thought of P’att for several
days. But to my surprise, I felt no
anger at him. My lasting vision of
him—or, that is, the one that came to mind first—was not of P’att standing over
Ma’t’s battered body, but the sad man, crippled in the street, begging my
forgiveness. I did not like his crime; I
could never excuse it. But the battle
was over. When the dust settled, how
many Ilepyans would find blood on their hands?
I would have to forgive them as well to go on living in this city,
because they were my brothers. In fact,
I began to feel as though I already had.
Making amends with a former criminal did not excuse their crimes any
more than making friends with a former enemy justified their hatred. Perhaps P’att had not been the man I thought
he was, but that was no more his doing than mine. I had ascribed characteristics to him,
equated him with a fable, and refused to see him as a human being, capable of
flaws.
“While P’att was not the noble
laborer, but he was a special man whom I loved and took into my home. He is alienated from me now, but were our
paths to cross again, I would treat him to a new shirt and give him a meal,
just as I would any other Ilepyan in need.”
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