At the end of World History in my sophomore year, we were told to create a country of our own design and weave it into world history. This is the country I created for that project told through a series of short anecdotes.
1443 CE
The sand crunches under my feet as a young boy sits on the beach, alone. I do not question why he sits on the beaches of white sand. During this time of day, these beaches are beautiful, stunning even. The sun is beginning its descent, sinking below the horizon. It is a sight marvelous to behold. The sky is dyed a brilliant orange that fades away to a dark, royal blue while the sun glistens against the surface of the ocean. For a moment, I can almost forget why I am here.
Once I recollect my thoughts, I approach the young boy but he does not move. Maybe he is aware of my presence, maybe not. Perhaps something else is on his mind?
He had told me when I first met him not too long ago that his mother brings him here often, but her absence raises a nagging question in the back of my mind. Where is the young and beautiful maiden otherwise known to me as the Sylvanian Kingdom? Why has she left her son alone, unsupervised, vulnerable? I know the answer, but the sight of her innocent son puts me in denial.
I had only discovered this island nation a month ago. The people, her people, are not like us. They are not civilized, though they show the potential to be; they simply need the proper instruction and teaching. It is a powerful gift I give: knowledge. In time, they will come to appreciate what I have done.
My thoughts turn back to the young man sitting on the white sands of the beach, as quiet as a corpse. With hesitation, I sit down beside him and there is a tugging of my heartstrings as he does not bother to glance my way. I wonder why he does not. He is a polite young man, keeping his gaze to the ground of those superior to him and always addressing them never by name. Despite his docile, civilized ways, he is not the personification of this kingdom, despite first impressions. He is brown haired and blue eyed like many of the island inhabitants. He is tanned like many of the farmers of this simple, primitive nation. Most importantly, he is ignorant like all those who live on this island.
When he finally turns to me, I catch a glistening in his eyes as though he might cry. Suddenly, he hugs me tightly and buries his face into my chest, wrinkling my cotton shirt and creasing my velvety coat. I pat his head, guilt rising in my throat, threatening to choke me alive.
Words flow from him as he tells me his mother is ill. I know why. The country is in turmoil. The people, his mother's people are torn over what to do. I offer to them a new world, a developed, civilized world. Some choose this new world, my world. Others choose their world, her world.
At a time like this, I wonder if I truly have a heart. A young child is crying into my chest over his ailing mother who is dying as we speak and yet I continue with my plans. I continue to weed my way into his government, his royal family and tie marionette strings around them, controlling them. He is wholly unaware and I can never let him know. If his mother were to die and he inherits this country, he must see me as a close friend, a trusted mentor. He cannot know that it is because of my actions that he will lose the person closest to him.
Sobs rack his body and I pat his head, trying in vain to comfort him. His sobs only continue onward, the only sound on the white beach other than the small waves splashing at the shore.
I look at him with a heavy heart, ready to fall through my chest, but I realize I must be cold to him. I must harden my heart. I cannot become strong if I feel remorse for controlling him, manipulating him into benefiting my empire. I must not give into my desire to confess what I have done, what I have set into motion.
I tell myself that the strong must control the weak. I am the strong. He is the weak. His mother is the weakest.
The pain lessens when I tell myself that this is the way of the world. The strong prey on the weak. His mother is weak. Her people live in mud shacks on shoddy farms of random, irregular plots of land. Her people are unaware that there is a world beyond their shores and that there is indeed a way to travel to the horizon and beyond. Her people do not know how to live.
When his sobbing finally stops, I lead him back to his village of mud shacks. I lead him back to the home of his dying mother and leave him at the hanging fabric acting as a door. He gives me one last look with his sea-blue eyes and enters the modest, clay abode to tend to his dying mother.
I turn to the horizon once more. This is the calm before the storm. I only hope he would forgive me and understand that this was for the benefit of a great number of people. His people would serve the great Portuguese Empire and be a part of the greatest empire in the world. Spain, Britain, and the others would tremble at my might. There is more land out there for me and I will take it for land is a resource that cannot be made by man.
I am going to take this land once he inherits his mother's fertile soils and he will let me have it for I am his close friend, his trusted mentor. He cannot say no to me, the one who brought his people civilization.
I look to the horizon. From where the sky kisses the sea, I see sails, the sails of Portuguese ships…
1467 CE
The hardest part of losing my mother was the realization that she was gone forever, away to some far away place where I would not see her for centuries, perhaps millennia. As much as I want to mourn over her grave and sob until I lost the strength to sob, her people, my people, are in turmoil. Portugal promises to help me quell the rebellions and uprisings, reassuring me he had dealt with them more times than I could count. I only hope he is right.
I wait for him by the Vyiato Veazo, the holy place where the sun disappears beneath the sea in a beautiful sunset. I buried my mother here down the shore near a cliff, her grave marked only by a smooth, auburn boulder.
Ships approach from beyond the horizon no doubt bringing more soldiers to keep my people under strict, martial law. "It is all part of the plan, criança," Portugal reassures me, always putting his hand on my shoulder whenever he says that. "People must be controlled. That is the only way to have a proper kingdom."
His green eyes held a lifetime of experience that I do not have. I can only listen to him as my mother is gone, unable to advise me on what to do. I can only blame my people for taking her from me with their needless turmoil and aggression. Portugal had come to help us, why would they fight his people who could teach us so much?
There are skirmishes every sunrise and before the sunset, they are silenced. This cycle hurts me as I can hear – feel – my people suffering as men are imprisoned, women are abused, and children are hurt. I must come to a better solution with Portugal. He taught me that we must be civilized, but where is the civilization in the ruthless assault of Sylvanian on Portuguese and Portuguese on Sylvanian?
Perhaps I can ask him the next time he comes to teach me his language. It is a strange language with strange words. He reminds me that languages are power and strength. If I am to become stronger and defend myself from the vicious nations that would attempt to take advantage of my country's turmoil, I must adopt a language that the modern world can speak.
Every day, he comes with lessons and words, but I struggle to remember them. They are so unlike my own language. The new sounds are odd and confusing. I cannot say 'branca' properly. Portugal reprimands me for saying 'vranca' during our lessons. I still bear a handprint on my left cheek where he slapped me the day before.
Though despite his strict tendencies, I believe that he is watching out for me. I am only a country as of seven days ago. He is a country as of ages ago. He could teach me much
If only I truly believe that his green eyes hold my best interests at heart.
1799 CE
I did not realize he would grow so fast. I thought I had control of him, able have him do my bidding with a word. How wrong I was.
Now, he stands only a short distance from me, holding a sharp sabre, ready to cut me down like he did so many of my entourage. He is a young country with potential. I am an older country having seen better days. Regardless, he is my colony and he will learn what it means to stand up against me, Portugal, the one who started the Maritime Revolution!
We clash constantly and with each strike, it dawns on me that he is no longer the complacent young child I met centuries ago. He is now a deadly young man, strong and learned, who could, and would, flay me alive if I faltered even the slightest bit.
In his age, he sees through my lies and deception. I can only guess Spain told him the truth of my imperialistic intentions. That bastard probably wants Sylvania's island for himself, to control the rich, fertile land for his own kingdom. I will not let him have it!
Sylvania is my colony!