In the kingdom of Wi-Fiya, news traveled at the speed of gossip, which was faster than sound and considerably less reliable. One spring morning, the Royal Council declared a state of alarm:
“Stay indoors! Wash your hands until the skin peels! Sanitize your doorknobs — twice!”
The townsfolk reacted instantly. Merchants doubled the price of soap, the cobbler sold leather gloves for “protection,” and Farmer Tilly started wearing a colander on her head because “you can’t be too careful.”
But one woman remained unimpressed: Queen Antivira. She wasn’t a queen in the political sense — her crown was made of twigs, and her royal decree extended only to her three cats, all named Doctor. Still, she carried herself with the confidence of someone who could recite the twelve-times table backwards.
That afternoon, she stood in the village square, robes billowing in the breeze, holding a carrot in one hand and an ancient book in the other.
“My dear villagers,” she began, “this menace you fear is not alive. It is a janitor inside your own cells, sweeping out the rubbish you’ve been collecting since your last birthday cake.”
The crowd murmured. “So… we’re all just… cleaning?” asked Old Cobbler Joe.
“Exactly,” said Antivira, “and you can only ‘catch’ this janitor if someone pours it directly into your veins. Which, unless you’re into strange hobbies, rarely happens by accident.”
From that day on, the town split into two tribes: the Door-Polishers, who scrubbed handles to a mirror shine, and the Sun-Baskers, who followed Antivira into the meadows, barefoot, orange from carrots, and smug about their vitamin D levels.
One week later, the Royal Messenger galloped into town with urgent parchment scrolls. The King wanted to know why half his subjects were ignoring official orders.
The Messenger found Antivira kneeling in her garden, whispering encouragement to her lettuce.
“By royal decree,” he read, “all citizens must remain indoors until the Invisible Menace has been defeated.”
Antivira plucked a carrot and handed it to him. “Tell the King,” she said, “that the menace is not attacking us. It’s tidying up. Doorknobs don’t spread it. Neither do pigs, bats, or gossiping aunties.”
“But everyone is getting sick at the same time!” protested the Messenger.
Antivira rolled her eyes. “Nature works like a group chat. Trees bloom together, frogs sing together, and yes, bodies sometimes decide to detox together. Don’t take it personally.”
Meanwhile, the Door-Polishers began rumors that the Sun-Baskers were “dangerous radicals.” The Sun-Baskers retaliated by composing folk songs mocking indoor life, with hits like “Shiny Doorknob Blues” and “Ode to Vitamin D.”
The stalemate dragged on. The Royal Council held meetings in increasingly elaborate masks, while Antivira hosted outdoor storytelling sessions, complete with herbal tea and sarcastic commentary about politics.
One evening, she addressed the largest gathering yet.
“My friends, whether you think the menace is alive or not doesn’t matter as much as this: if you don’t use your own mind, someone else will. And in fairy tales, when you let someone else think for you, you usually end up cursed — or peeling turnips in the palace cellar forever.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Even the Door-Polishers paused mid-scrub.
From that day forward, the kingdom of Wi-Fiya changed. Some still polished doorknobs, others danced barefoot in the fields — but more and more people began asking questions.
And Queen Antivira? She just smiled, fed her cats, and continued her life’s mission: growing vegetables, reading forbidden books, and never, ever believing anything simply because someone important said it was true.
Moral: Thinking is like sunlight — use it often, or you’ll grow pale and weird-looking.
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