Prologue:

The seventeenth day of November, in 1978, is a date of particular importance for my family. For my father, especially, it was a day of both great joy and great sorrow. The joy he felt was brought on by the airing of the one and only Star Wars Holiday special that evening. The sorrow he felt was brought on by one person. Me.

You see, that was also the evening that I was born. Yes, in my father’s eyes, I will forever be seen as the reason he had to miss the holiday special. Of course, it only aired that one night, and was received with such dismal reviews that it was never aired again. Even to this day, it’s said that the esteemed George Lucas won’t discuss it. But try telling that to my dad. Instead of spending his night fixated to the television, he spent it in the hospital with my mother. And he’ll never let me forget it.

You might wonder why I’m sharing this seemingly insignificant fact about my birthday. The truth is, it’s not insignificant at all. For much of my childhood, from the time that the other kids at school began with their teasing and name-calling, well into the beginning of my angst-filled high school days, I wondered how he would exact his revenge. I knew that it would come somehow. It had to come, what with all of his constant reminders, sighs, and groans about the event on every anniversary of my birth.

“Oh, Marion,” he would say to my mother, who always shook her head and sent a small smile my way. “If only our darling, dearest son could have waited another few hours. I might have seen that Star Wars special!”

Of course, being their only son, I certainly hoped that I was also their darling and dearest one. My sisters seemed to think so, and took great delight is calling me “darling” or “dearest” at school. I often wondered if this was his punishment for my bad timing. But somehow, it seemed too simple, too easy. What fun could he be having when he wasn’t at school with me, hearing chants of “dearest!” filling the playground at recess, while my sisters stood by with idiot grins on their faces.

No, that wasn’t his revenge, and deep down inside, I was well aware of it. His revenge would be something that would haunt me for the rest of my life, just as my birth had resulted in something that would stay with him for just as long. It would be swift, it would be sneaky, and it would be thoroughly diabolical. Then, in the tenth grade, I realized that he had his revenge the instant I was born.

Miss Walker was my teacher for our History of Ancient Civilizations. A pretty young thing, straight out of teacher’s college, she had a knack for making you want to learn more about the subject, despite any misgivings you had about delving into religion and the like, which, of course, is most of the focus of an ancient civilizations class. I had grown up in a secular household, with very little exposure to the Christian ideals and Bible that so many of my friends had read from cover to cover. I had no idea what the Quran was, and all I knew about Hindus, sadly, had been gleaned from watching the Simpsons. However, Miss Walker changed all of that, with her lessons, books, and obvious love of the ancient world.

I’ll never forget the day that she stopped by my desk during our independent work time.
She had been informing everyone of their grades for the first essay assignment of the class. I’ll never be able to wipe the words she spoke to me from my mind, and I think that was my father’s plan all along.”

“Your work was very insightful, I must say. I’m sure you’ve heard it many times before, but your parents chose your name so well. Such wise words from someone as young as you are!” She smiled at me, obviously expecting a happy jig or something of the like at her kind words. All she got was a gaping mouth and glassy-eyed stare. It had finally dawned on me what my father had done.

When you’re a child, it’s easy to ignore your little school friends as they call you names and make references to stories you’ve never heard of. But as you grow and gain the ability to think for yourself and dig into the stories, you understand the importance of your name and how it will affect your life. For me, my name is my father’s ultimate revenge. If I come across as anything other than wise, give anything other than sage advice and intelligent replies, I’ll be a laughingstock. But if I live up to my name, people will think that either I’m some kind of religious freak, or just some pretentious git.

My name is Solomon King. Welcome to my journeys.