Chris Sellars
Once upon a time in the back of beyond past the never-never land just this side of the black stump, there was a meagre village where dwelt a few hardy souls. The land could support no more. The soil was rich, the farmers industrious, but water was always short. Crops struggled and the livestock were lean.
One day a wayfarer chanced upon the village. He was what some might call a tramp but his trade was as a teller of tales. And perchance he also had the gift of divining water.
Hungry and thirsty from the dusty trail he appealed to the villagers for succour. It was the custom and duty in those times to show hospitality to strangers. Whilst there may not have been a lot to eat and the available water was perhaps a little less than crystal clear, they fed and watered the traveller.
The children of the village were, in short order, drawn to his strangeness and his speech. They gathered round as he weaved a tapestry of tales. Adults too began to stop and listen to his beguiling parables and proverbs. At the night’s end, the villagers, grateful for his wise words, brought him rare luxuries of milk and sweet cakes. A comely girl set herself the task of seeing to his comfort. The storyteller slept soundly and was grateful.
On the morrow, well-rested, the itinerant bard rose and went about the village. With the broad knowledge of a travelled man, he could see at once the difficulties that bedevilled the villagers. Fashioning a rough diviner from a tree branch he went, in concert with the village children, out and about the surrounding land. The stick in his hands twitched several times but it was not until late in the day that he stopped. Planting the stick in the dry earth he instructed the children to return to the village and exhort the men to come and dig. Soon clear sweet spring water was bubbling from the ground.
With water in abundance, it soon came to pass that the animals fattened and the crops grew lush and green. The men worked hard and the women were economical. The village prospered. Oft-times a cart would be loaded with fresh produce to be sent to markets abroad.
At this point in tales such as these most writers usually cop out and say ‘They lived happily ever after‘, but I am made of stronger stuff and must tell the full story.
The days and years passed as days and years will. The storyteller had long left to tell his tale to his maker as had all the villagers of those early times. He was not remembered but for a brass plaque mounted upon the library wall.
The latter-day children of prosperity inherited a village that was a village no longer. It had become a town. Pumps had been sunk into the ground, the land irrigated. There were swimming pools and lawns. The men had grown lazy and the women wasteful. Their once humble village had become at first a paradise but as time had passed wealth and status had become more important than community and shared prosperity. The tradition of hospitality was lost.
Dishonesty and licentiousness flourished as it does when people have nothing more pressing to do than be dishonest and licentious. They borrowed from a neighbouring town to fund more pumps and wells. They needed, said the town elders, to grow their economy. The quality of their produce was renowned and much sought after. It was traded for such magical and marvellous things as play stations and smart phones. This was done at the expense of some of the town’s people who could no longer afford the produce of the land of their birth. They were so lavish and wasteful that in spite of the great wealth of the town many still had to borrow from money lenders to sustain their opulent lifestyles. Seduced by wealth and consumed by myriad lusts they were unprepared when suddenly the water ran out.
Almost overnight the crops withered and the animals sickened. The town descended into a chaos of smashed windows and looted shops. The strong sought to oppress the weak. The clever, as cunning rats on mean streets, survived by guile. The powerful took food from the mouths of the hungry. They had transformed a paradise into a hell.
One day a traveller entered the town. A story teller by trade he was perchance a water diviner. He tried to tell his story but was not heard above the discordant din of drunken desperate confusion – the prayer of the doomed. He was arrested for vagrancy then on his release was mugged by street thugs. Staggering to a hospital resplendent with scrubbed linoleum floors and stainless steel basins he was, due to a lack of health insurance, put on a waiting list and turned away. He lived on the streets and died soon after of neglect and despair in the company of drunks and prostitutes.
Eventually, the entire area became a barren desert unable to sustain any life.
and ahhhh ……… they lived happily ever after.
© Worzel 2012
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