Over the rainbow
[dec 28 2002, 01:12]
It was a nice day. Well, obviously it wasn't really a nice day for everyone but it definitely was a nice day for Smaki. The sky seemed to be uncertain about what kind of weather should follow. If you looked west, there were huge clouds, black clouds, grey clouds, clouds with a lot of dramatic potential. On the other hand, if you turned east, you could see large patches of blue. If you listened closely, you could even hear the birds (or similar things) singing.
But that did not seem to bother anyone.
Perhaps because of the simple reason that nobody was there. Except for Smaki.
Smaki had been a typical Unumai, just like his father and his father's father and so on. In a fairly old book that he had once found beneath a bookshelf, Smaki had read that since 1685 of the second age his family had been in this business. And that was special, even for the tradition-loving Unumai.
Smaki's family was not a family of usual Unumai who went wandering around praising their goods. Smaki's family had been experts ever since his grand-grand-grand-grandfather Smaliki had invented the machine. A little black cube, not any larger than a usual dice, that was the source of all their success – and their wealth.
For Smaki's family, and thus Smaki himself, was not poor. Not at all. Smaki lived in a huge cave beneath the green hills behind the forest of Lernok. And if, by accident, Smaki was at home when a group of casual wanderers came by, he always invited them to join him for tea. Sometimes even for dinner. Not for any special reason. He did not need company or feel lonely or anything as human as that. It was also not the fact that he tried to show off. There was no need for that. He just liked to be wealthy and share his prosperity.
But there had not been many casual wanderers lately, Smaki realized as he stood on the field thinking about which direction to turn into. Years ago, when his grandfather had been living in this cave and when he, Smaki, had been a little child, there had been great feasts almost every month. Visitors from all the villages around had come to join them. Even some other Unumai had come, shaken their heads, whispered something about 'wasteful bunch' and 'unearned luck' and then joined the feast (eating and drinking and laughing most of all).
The rivers had turned green by these days because of all of the amazing Fijok, a drink made mostly of grass and time. Concerning this, Smaki and those like him were not so different from us, everything that got in at the top had to get out at the bottom, somewhen. Or, sometimes, under rare circumstances, the other way round.
Smaki shook these thoughts off. There was no time for melancholy now. And his life now was not that bad, either. Spending your days wandering around making other people happy was not his imagination of a bad life. It was just…
Lately, many people did not greet him friendly anymore. They had used to do so, he reckoned, when he was younger. He was not exactly old, though he had passed what he called 'his best years'. He was, as he liked to put it, experienced. He stuck a finger into his mouth and raised it into the wind. North-west. With a little breeze from south-south-west.
That seemed to cheer Smaki up again. He turned eastward and started to walk. He did not care for roads or ways, he just walked through the forests and over the fields, over the hills and besides the mountains.
He had started his walk in the morning, just as usual. He had opened his eyes, yawned, stretched his bones, packed his little mattress (as mentioned before, he was not too young anymore), checked the equipment (especially the machine) and started to walk.
He had about three hours before he would reach the next village. Three hours, two minutes and sixteen, fifteen, fourteen seconds, to be exact. He knew that because of three reasons.
The first was that he had walked this way for probably a hundred times.
The second was that a good Unumai always knew where he was, where he was going, how long it was going to take and where he would be needed most.
The third was that there was a sign displaying the exact time he would need. Down to the second. And, yes, that is possible. Because this is just a story, see?
So he went on with a little tune on his lips. Nothing special. Just a little song he had invented once, when too much Fijok had clouded his senses. Of course, he never told anyone about it or even sang it to anyone. It just was not appropriate for an Unumai!
As he walked, he kept thinking about the people he was going to meet. Again. Those villagers were strange. They needed him as much as the flowers needed the water, yet they cursed every day that he stayed in town. 'Definitely strange people', Smaki thought and shook his head.
The sun already began to crawl into its bed behind the high mountains in the west, when Smaki arrived. He looked around. Just like a thief making sure that nobody was watching him. Then he reached into his right pocket and pulled the little black cube out of it. He ran his fingers about the perfect material, the perfect surface. There was no crack visible or palpable, not even the slightest unevenness.
Yet the machine felt warm as he put it on the palm of his lower left hand and moved his upper left hand over it. As he concentrated hard, a quiet little buzzing sound emerged from the machine – which immediately was drowned by the ear-splitting sound of millions and millions of raindrops ferociously hitting the ground.
Smaki smiled, put the little cube back into his right pocked, slipped the backpack from his shoulders, opened it and produced a green umbrella. Which was a fairly stupid thing to do because not one of the raindrops still leaving the black, pitch-black clouds that had suddenly appeared over the village of – what was its name – Stalgona hitting the ground with such an anger that even the animals that were used to rain hid in their barns – not one of these raindrops even touched Smaki's skin, his hair or his clothes. The raindrops seemed to have a sense of their own and always missed him by millimeters.
Merrily, he hopped down the main street (which was, by the way, the only street in Stalgona) still whistling his song and stopped right before the only tavern in town. He checked his clothes again which was completely unnecessary by the way because they were – as usual – in perfect shape, perfectly clean and perfectly aligned, cleared his throat and walked in.
Lots of people were sitting inside. Old people, young people, tall people, small people, fat ones and thin ones, although there were more thin ones because it had been a rather hard winter. The perfect audience, Smaki thought.
And the tradition that he had inherited from his father who had inherited it from his grandfather – and so on – started to take control of his actions.
Smaki stepped forward, shaked like a dog that has been left in the rain for a couple of years (of course with the appropriate noises that his audience would expect), opened his backpack and said 'That's one kind of weather, eh? We haven't had something like this in years! But accidentally, I've got some high-quality umbrellas with me today. So if anyone of you would like to go home without loosing some limbs…' Here he smiled – just a little – and added 'It doesn’t look as if it would stop too soon… does it?'
charon
But that did not seem to bother anyone.
Perhaps because of the simple reason that nobody was there. Except for Smaki.
Smaki had been a typical Unumai, just like his father and his father's father and so on. In a fairly old book that he had once found beneath a bookshelf, Smaki had read that since 1685 of the second age his family had been in this business. And that was special, even for the tradition-loving Unumai.
Smaki's family was not a family of usual Unumai who went wandering around praising their goods. Smaki's family had been experts ever since his grand-grand-grand-grandfather Smaliki had invented the machine. A little black cube, not any larger than a usual dice, that was the source of all their success – and their wealth.
For Smaki's family, and thus Smaki himself, was not poor. Not at all. Smaki lived in a huge cave beneath the green hills behind the forest of Lernok. And if, by accident, Smaki was at home when a group of casual wanderers came by, he always invited them to join him for tea. Sometimes even for dinner. Not for any special reason. He did not need company or feel lonely or anything as human as that. It was also not the fact that he tried to show off. There was no need for that. He just liked to be wealthy and share his prosperity.
But there had not been many casual wanderers lately, Smaki realized as he stood on the field thinking about which direction to turn into. Years ago, when his grandfather had been living in this cave and when he, Smaki, had been a little child, there had been great feasts almost every month. Visitors from all the villages around had come to join them. Even some other Unumai had come, shaken their heads, whispered something about 'wasteful bunch' and 'unearned luck' and then joined the feast (eating and drinking and laughing most of all).
The rivers had turned green by these days because of all of the amazing Fijok, a drink made mostly of grass and time. Concerning this, Smaki and those like him were not so different from us, everything that got in at the top had to get out at the bottom, somewhen. Or, sometimes, under rare circumstances, the other way round.
Smaki shook these thoughts off. There was no time for melancholy now. And his life now was not that bad, either. Spending your days wandering around making other people happy was not his imagination of a bad life. It was just…
Lately, many people did not greet him friendly anymore. They had used to do so, he reckoned, when he was younger. He was not exactly old, though he had passed what he called 'his best years'. He was, as he liked to put it, experienced. He stuck a finger into his mouth and raised it into the wind. North-west. With a little breeze from south-south-west.
That seemed to cheer Smaki up again. He turned eastward and started to walk. He did not care for roads or ways, he just walked through the forests and over the fields, over the hills and besides the mountains.
He had started his walk in the morning, just as usual. He had opened his eyes, yawned, stretched his bones, packed his little mattress (as mentioned before, he was not too young anymore), checked the equipment (especially the machine) and started to walk.
He had about three hours before he would reach the next village. Three hours, two minutes and sixteen, fifteen, fourteen seconds, to be exact. He knew that because of three reasons.
The first was that he had walked this way for probably a hundred times.
The second was that a good Unumai always knew where he was, where he was going, how long it was going to take and where he would be needed most.
The third was that there was a sign displaying the exact time he would need. Down to the second. And, yes, that is possible. Because this is just a story, see?
So he went on with a little tune on his lips. Nothing special. Just a little song he had invented once, when too much Fijok had clouded his senses. Of course, he never told anyone about it or even sang it to anyone. It just was not appropriate for an Unumai!
As he walked, he kept thinking about the people he was going to meet. Again. Those villagers were strange. They needed him as much as the flowers needed the water, yet they cursed every day that he stayed in town. 'Definitely strange people', Smaki thought and shook his head.
The sun already began to crawl into its bed behind the high mountains in the west, when Smaki arrived. He looked around. Just like a thief making sure that nobody was watching him. Then he reached into his right pocket and pulled the little black cube out of it. He ran his fingers about the perfect material, the perfect surface. There was no crack visible or palpable, not even the slightest unevenness.
Yet the machine felt warm as he put it on the palm of his lower left hand and moved his upper left hand over it. As he concentrated hard, a quiet little buzzing sound emerged from the machine – which immediately was drowned by the ear-splitting sound of millions and millions of raindrops ferociously hitting the ground.
Smaki smiled, put the little cube back into his right pocked, slipped the backpack from his shoulders, opened it and produced a green umbrella. Which was a fairly stupid thing to do because not one of the raindrops still leaving the black, pitch-black clouds that had suddenly appeared over the village of – what was its name – Stalgona hitting the ground with such an anger that even the animals that were used to rain hid in their barns – not one of these raindrops even touched Smaki's skin, his hair or his clothes. The raindrops seemed to have a sense of their own and always missed him by millimeters.
Merrily, he hopped down the main street (which was, by the way, the only street in Stalgona) still whistling his song and stopped right before the only tavern in town. He checked his clothes again which was completely unnecessary by the way because they were – as usual – in perfect shape, perfectly clean and perfectly aligned, cleared his throat and walked in.
Lots of people were sitting inside. Old people, young people, tall people, small people, fat ones and thin ones, although there were more thin ones because it had been a rather hard winter. The perfect audience, Smaki thought.
And the tradition that he had inherited from his father who had inherited it from his grandfather – and so on – started to take control of his actions.
Smaki stepped forward, shaked like a dog that has been left in the rain for a couple of years (of course with the appropriate noises that his audience would expect), opened his backpack and said 'That's one kind of weather, eh? We haven't had something like this in years! But accidentally, I've got some high-quality umbrellas with me today. So if anyone of you would like to go home without loosing some limbs…' Here he smiled – just a little – and added 'It doesn’t look as if it would stop too soon… does it?'
charon