The walls of the ancient village of Alinta were toppled by a small child—from the inside.
Once, a very long time ago, there were six Córean merchants who left their homes to set up shop in a city together. One of the merchants was named Alinta, and she made pyrotechnics the likes of which none had seen; with but a small flame, they would pop and sizzle and whiz off into the sky and explode in all manner of shapes and colors.
The other merchants knew that Alinta was talented, which is why they wanted to come with her. For who would be watching Alinta's pyrotechnics but clients that would want something to eat, and perhaps a blanket against the cold of the night, and surely transportation to and from the watching grounds. So the six set off to find an ideal place for their enterprise, and they found it—not in a city—but on the side of a mountain...
Three things drew them to the spot:
In the first place, they were thirsty from their journey, and so they stopped by a natural spring to drink. In the second place, the spring bubbled out of a grassy delve bordered by plum trees, where they were able to look out over the mountainside, down across the plains below, and up to the clear night sky where little falling star-lights gave them a glimpse of the fine view their clients would have of Alinta's technics. In the third place, the spot was far above the city, away from the night lights that would diminish the effect of the colorful explosions, and—they thought—entice the city dwellers to come and see what was going on up the mountain, away from all their competitors within the city walls.
And so the six merchants set up shop on the mountain. First they pitched their own tents as shops, each wearing a plum blossom on their lapel. They threw a little private show to celebrate, the flashes and booms of Alinta's technics crashing down the mountainside. And the city dwellers came to see what the fuss was about. And of course they needed something to eat, and a blanket against the cold of the night. And the rupees of the visitors was enough for the six merchants to make little shacks of wood all in a row. And they painted them bright colors with plum blossoms on the doors. Soon after, other merchants came to fill the tents with their own wares.
A year passed and the six merchants threw a little private show to celebrate, the flashes and booms of Alinta's technics crashing down the mountainside. And the city dwellers came to see what the fuss was about. And of course they needed something to eat, and a blanket against the cold of the night. And the rupees of the visitors was enough for the six merchants to make sturdy stone structures all in a row. And they painted them bright colors with plum blossoms on flags outside. Soon after, the merchants in the tents moved to the shacks, and other merchants came to fill the tents with their own wares.
Year after year Alinta's show was bigger, brighter, louder, and the row of merchants grew longer and longer, each time filling in what the six had left behind.
By the time the six merchants were preparing for Alinta's 10th annual technical show, they had moved into fine brick stores with glass windows, each painted with plum blossoms on white canvas awnings. Alinta had a big event planned for that night, and all her pyrotechnics were stacked against the stone walls of their little village—everywhere except the small door that still let in visitors, buyers and sellers alike. All was as it had been for ten years, only bigger and better, with one notable exception...
This year, there was a flint-and-steel vendor.
The explosions rang out two hours earlier and a good deal closer than anyone had anticipated. Anyone, that is, except the mischievous little girl that had begged her mother to buy her something—anything—as a souvenir.
And that was how the walls of Alinta were toppled by a small child—from the inside.
Soon after, city officials were sent to secure the village and "protect" the city's inhabitants from Alinta's "dangerous weapons." It became a fort, watched over day and night (especially night) by the Marshal and his soldiers, and now stands a bastion of law on the mountain.
Not everything has changed, mind you. I am happy to say Merchant's Row still stands. And Alinta's legacy lives on in the form of a spectacular annual (highly regulated, but no less impressive) pyrotechnical display. Which, I am also happy to say, has been sponsored by a descendant of that mischievous little girl for the past two centuries.
Which reminds me: would you care for a glass of plum wine? Perhaps a blanket for the cold? The festivities are about to begin, and I hear you won't want to miss a thing this year. 210th anniversary. What's the worst that could happen?
No comments:
Post a Comment