"Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts." ~ Wendell Berry
The town had been ravaged by so many years of drought, not only the drought that typically comes to mind from stories of parched river beds and forests ravaged by fire. This was a drought of the mind and soul, a drought of pessimism, loathing of the self and others, and fear.
Not so long ago the village had been riding a wave of prosperity. The people were happy, the birds sang, the sun shone almost all the time and nourishing rains would appear like clockwork late each afternoon.
It was as close to a simple Utopia as one could imagine. More recently however the most often phrase heard among the townspeople had become, "It used to be so wonderful here. Life was so good. What happened?"
Nobody remembered when what had happened, actually happened. It was a building of occurrences, not a catastrophe. It snuck up on the town and its inhabitants like a fog carrying a plague. Most recently the townspeople had even ceased venturing out of their homes unless for the most pressing necessities - work, food ... that's essentially the entire list. There was only darkness and dankness - grays, browns and every lifeless color in between covering the landscape.
No one trusted anyone. No one cared. No one laughed or cried. Shared feelings and experiences were locked up with them, tight in their homes. Shame ruled this little hamlet.
The town became a study in despondency - until a little peddler came rattling up its only road in or out.
This peddler had come upon tough times one could see. Sitting on the driver's seat his posture was clearly hunched, his face painted by years of sun, wind, dust and grit met upon countless roadways. His small wagon drawn by a single sad donkey that had seen better days as well bore the hand-painted words, "Chee-yiea - Tinker, Purveyor, Pluviculturalist." At one time, perhaps decades ago, this wagon had been painted in bright reds, greens, oranges, yellows and blues - now the colors had blended, washed to each pigment's version of gray. As his wheeled home clanked along the town's barren roadway flanked by an even more barren, gray, lifeless countryside, the people locked tight in their tiny homes couldn't help but hear the cacophony of the utensils, pots and pans deftly arranged for effect on hooks placed along the perimeter of the wagon's weathered rooftop.
The traveller began his self endorsement as soon as he approached the first home on the sterile road, "I am Chee-yiea, your tinker, purveyor of everything you will need for cooking, clothing, and life. I bring your last chance for these. This town is known as a town of recluses. I however, have faith in you. I am the only artisan willing to make the journey and take a chance on a future for all of you that leads to a rebirth of your lives."
He repeated this again and again as he continued slowly along the bumpy village road. Not a sound was heard from within any of the homes he passed, not the large homes, the small homes, the tall or wide homes. In desperation he finally said the words he hoped would finally draw at least one or two of the townspeople from their seclusion.
"And I bring with me the magic crystals."
One by one the townspeople, all of them, slowly opened their doors, and squinting due to what little ambient light leaked through haze of the clouds began to gather around this odd little tinker. They proceeded to do what all citizens of towns do when visited by such a salesman. They slowly surrounded the wagon, donkey and tinker and began to touch and feel the various wares displayed while feigning disinterest.
Remember, these people had lost interest in everything years ago. The peddler knew the disinterest was real, a result of the shutdown of the town's life, beginning when the drought of the mind and soul, the drought brought by pessimism, loathing of the self and others and fear took hold.
"We have nothing to offer you for your wares," said one of the townspeople.
"Why would you even bother to come here? We are failures, the
most worthless," said another.
The little tinker had been prepared for this. He had heard the stories and truly believed not all the rumors were true. He slowly reached under the bottom of the little carriage and produced a stool as if out of nowhere, then sitting down beside his conveyance unclasped a lock on the same side to reveal a drawer previously unseen. From the drawer he produced what appeared to be a translucent bag filled with a small frame made out of bamboo, threads of various lengths, a small square piece of fabric, a miniature wicker basket the size of a small drinking cup and at the last, a glass jar filled to its top with multi-colored crystals. He then climbed atop the little stool before the townspeople and began his well-practiced presentation.
"I have here the solution to the darkness that has befallen your town and the bleak prospects you all see for your future," began the little man. "These crystals you see in this jar come from the far reaches of the world, from the East, and possess magical abilities for changing barren to fertile, grays to colors, failed to prosperous. If you purchase these crystals, f
or a nominal fee I promise you, and by floating these high in the clouds using the sky lantern I will provide and assemble for you,
at no additional charge, you will, within 7 days, see the rain fall once again gently from above, the clouds will depart, the sun will shine and the colors and crops you had cherished not so long ago will return." This, I promise you as sure is my name is Chee-yiea, Tinker, Purveyor and Pluviculturalist."
The townspeople stood in stunned silence. Never before had they been witness to this level of self importance. To imagine the little interloper had anything more to offer than pots, pans, buttons, clothing and other small wares that could be carried along from town to town was absurd.
"
And what in the world is a Pluvicultuirst?" they were all privately thinking.
Soon the people gathered there began to laugh. It began as a chuckle, deep within each of their chests, a sound not heard or felt for some time - it was almost as if the effort was painful and foreign to them. The chuckles soon transformed to a deafening din of laughter, so loud and boisterous the townspeople, embarrassed and shocked by the volume, ceased their reaction in unison as if directed by a maestro's wand.
They all looked at each other, then turned their gazes upon this itinerant, this drifter who would dare to know what they needed, what they longed for and perhaps even privately dreamt of. Soon the feelings brought on by the laughter subsided and once again, the people of the little village reverted to the familiar, to the drought of pessimism, loathing of the self and others, and fear.
"Get out," they began to scream at the tinker. "We don't want you here. What makes you think we would be interested in anything you have to offer? And that silly bottle of crystals is an insult to all of us! Leave and never return!"
With that they took the pots, pans, spoons and whatever else they could pluck from the sides of the little wagon and threw them at Chee-yiea, who collected as many of the wares as he possibly could, tossed them into the transport, and deftly leaping into the driver's ledge, gave the little donkey the command to move and they were off - as quickly as donkeys can.
Slowly, exhausted from the excitement and embarrassed by their recent spontaneous outpouring of emotion, the people returned to their homes, to the large homes, the small homes, the tall and wide homes.
All of them had gone except one small child who was too young, too innocent to have embraced the town's drought of pessimism, loathing of the self and others, and fear as a way of life. He was transfixed by what he saw, what the tinker had left behind. There at his feet was the translucent bag filled with a small frame made out of bamboo, threads of various lengths, a small square piece of fabric, a miniature wicker basket the size of a small drinking cup and at the last, a glass jar filled to its top with multi-colored crystals.
He sat with the collection and even at his young age was amazed that nothing had been damaged during the recent adult commotion.
"
What did the little man call this?" the boy tried his best to recall what the man had said. "
And what could he possibly make with this even if he could? He was just a little boy."
"SKY LANTERN!" the boy cried out in delight as he finally remembered. Soon a tear slid down his cheek as he thought, "I surely would like to see a sky lantern, but I am just a boy. I don't know what to do with this, these sticks, this bag, strings and things."
Then the boy began to cry.
And the skies above him darkened even more.
The boy's lamentations had not gone unnoticed by the townspeople. After shuffling back to their homes they had made certain to keep watch on the only road to the town should the tinker dare to return. Instead they were witnessing the grief of one of their beloved little ones. For even the most hard-hearted among them this was too much to bear.
Soon, they began to slowly reemerge from their homes and surrounded the boy who barely took notice of the gathering. One of the women sat down next to the little one and put her hand gently on his shoulder.
"Why are you crying?" she asked.
"That little man called this a Sky Lantern. It sounds so beautiful. But I don't know what a Sky Lantern is," he replied.
The woman looked around to the group and asked, "Does anyone know of this
Sky Lantern? Joe, you're a carpenter. Can you help here?
"All I can think of is those bamboo sticks seem to be some kind of a frame," said the woodworker.
"Perhaps those strings are meant to dangle from the frame, but for what purpose?" said a woman, Melinda. the town's dressmaker.
"But what is the bag for?" said another. "And why is there a candle there? Is it part of this Sky Lantern?"
Soon, the town's blacksmith, a huge man named Benjamin who had worked all his life forging shapes out of nothing, who knew the power of heat and the gentle persuasiveness of the bellows to coax the best potential from the fire emerged through the crowd and simply said, "Wait a minute."
The blacksmith approached the boy, and kneeling on one knee with his his large hand covering the entirety of the boys little head he simply said, "I have an idea. Can I try something?"
"Joe, Melinda, you, you and you, come here, please. I think I know how this works, but I need your help."
The blacksmith, carpenter, dressmaker, the woman who had first sat at the boy's side and many others of the little village began intently studying the components left behind by the tinker. Within minutes they had assembled a device never before seen or even imagined by the villagers. The translucent bag became a square gossamer fabric framed by the bamboo, artistically fashioned by the woodworker that seemed to support the entirety of the apparatus. Suspended by four threads from the frame was a small basket that held the candle, for it appeared, as the blacksmith would say with a chuckle during the process:
"This is the only place I imagine the candle could go."
The townspeople looked at what they had created and each of them began to smile at what they saw, until they realized some components remained on the ground next to the little boy - a small square piece of fabric, the multi colored crystals and four short threads.
"I really hate when there are parts left over," said Benjamin.
"Never good," agreed Joe the carpenter who exchanged a wary smile with his much larger fellow craftsman.
Out of the back of the crowd two of the townspeople emerged who had up to this point remained silent during the apparatus' construction.
Patrick, the villager curator spoke first. "I have read stories of airships that use heated air to lift what are called gondolas, large baskets, to carry people and in one case, even a cow, into the air.
The townspeople began to giggle to think of a flying cow, then abruptly stopped. One never questioned the veracity of the curator. He was a very serious man.
"I believe this is what we have here, in miniature," continued the village keeper of knowledge with a sigh. "Ben you were the first to see this in your minds eye, correct?"
The blacksmith acknowledged the compliment with a simple nod.
It was then the Christina's turn to speak, the village apothecary.
"There are certain salts that burn with different colors like strontium nitrate, lithium salts, borax, copper sulfate, sodium carbonate, potassium sulfate, and some others. Those little strips you see there in the jar are probably magnesium. They will burn the whitest bright white you'll ever see," she could barely hide her excitement. "The little tinker may have left us a collection of these in his haste to leave."
Again, the villagers fought back their laughter. The healer, possibly the most learned among the inhabitants, often seemed to be speaking a different language.
"It would have to be a slow burn. I believe the small patch of linen there is meant to hold the crystals, perhaps suspended above the flame. But the cloth would burn too quickly. I fear we are missing a vital piece," said the town's healer.
At this, Benjamin the blacksmith simply said, "Don't anyone go anywhere" and quickly ran to his shop. Within minutes the people assembled near the boy, which by now included all of the village inhabitants, heard the familiar sounds made by furious banging and clanking of metal upon metal. This continued for what seemed much longer than the normal amount of time Ben would spend on forging shapes out of nothing.
Then, the clanking stopped. The assembled could hear the forge fire breathe its last gasp before returning to its red-ember
ready state.
Within minutes, the blacksmith reappeared, breathless.
"Melinda," said the large man as he recovered. Do you have any sewing needles with you? Strong ones I mean."
"Of course."
Out of a piece of folded leather the blacksmith produced a small metallic square about the size of the orphan cloth, so thin, delicate and pliable it looked as if it could break apart at the slightest prodding.
"Melinda, could you sew the square cloth onto the top of this metal, then use those last four short threads to suspend the two pieces a few inches above the candle?"
"Certainly," said the seamstress.
"That metal is so thin there is no hope it can withstand the stress of a needle's piercing," interrupted the Curator.
Upon hearing this the blacksmith threw his creation to the ground and to the horror of all the townspeople crushed it with his boot heel. He then bent down, grasped the metal square firmly in his large hand, brushed off the dirt and responded,
"This is made of something called steel. It is as dense as iron yet much stronger, which allows me to produce items with less material, so they are much lighter. You are not the only person in this village who reads, curator."
This produced a smile from both the curator and apothecary, and a similar acknowledgment from the large man.
Using her deft skills from years as a seamstress Melinda fashioned the steel and cloth squares into a sort of carrier for the "salts" as the crystals would come to be called. Together she, the carpenter and blacksmith completed the sky lantern to the best of their abilities.
The Sky Lantern now assembled, the blacksmith produced from his leather apron a flint and steel striker.
"Hold this," he said as he handed the little boy a small stick with a frayed end.
It required multiple strikes of the steel against the flint but finally the wood caught the spark and flamed. Cupping his hands around the stick end and blowing gently until the combustion was complete the blacksmith asked the boy, "Would you like to launch this. It is your Sky Lantern you know."
The boy's hand was shaking so violently he said, "I'm not certain I can."
The woman who had been sitting next to the boy since the very outset gently put her hands on his, and his hands now steadied, the little boy lit the candle.
Not a few seconds passed when the translucent bag began to expand beyond its bamboo supports and within a few minutes more the magic of heat and air which the blacksmith and curator were both hoping for magically lifted the creation higher, higher into the air.
The Sky Lantern was now high above the village yet still visible to the inhabitants. Knowing what all the onlookers were thinking Christina the apothecary simply said, "Wait for it."
As if on cue sounds barely perceptible began to emanate from above, crackling sounds, snaps and hisses. And then, then the most beautiful site the little boy had every seen began to appear just below the cloud cover - greens and blues and reds, yellows and oranges and more greens and blues and reds, yellows and oranges followed by what seemed to be every color in between. Soon the dazzling
white Miss Christina had promised joined the symphony of colors bursting above the town. Colors the little boy had never seen and hardly ever imagined blossomed out of the sky.
Miles away a little man sat next to his little untethered donkey and his weathered carriage and watched from afar with pride, the fruits of his benevolent scheme.
"
They figured it out!" smiled the tinker.
The story is told among the people of the village and among inhabitants of towns far and wide that on that day, after the airborne display of colors finally faded, the clouds that for so long had suffocated the landscape parted, allowing sunshine to gently blanket the village and its residents for the first time in what had seemed an eternity.
Yet that was not what was astonishing. What was astonishing was the few clouds that remained produced gentle life-giving showers for days, nourishing the grounds, the flora and the fauna of the region. This along with the sunshine began to slowly turn the landscape from the darkness and dankness - grays, browns and every lifeless color in between that had become the accustomed, to colors rivaling the Sky Lantern display of that miraculous day.
The village of course flourished, the people recognized it was their multitude of talents, personalities and backgrounds that would save them from falling once again into the doldrums of the dark past.
~~~~~~~~~
"And what became of that little boy who started it all, you ask, who found the pieces deliberately left behind by that tinker? My name is Will, I am now the town Curator. I will never forget what my mentor Patrick said years ago on that day of days."
"
Impossible," he said.
And nobody will forget the response from our healer Christina.
"
No Patrick, it's a miracle," she answered.
"So goes the story of the miracle of the Sky Lantern. And there it is, the remnants, here in our village museum, a testament to what can be if we work for and trust in The Miracle. This we have placed right next to our
Pluviculturist display," smiled Will.
"My father would be proud of what you have done here," said the young man standing next to the curator...
"But what's a
Pluviculturist?"
. . . keep coming back
"I greet you from the other side of sorrow and despair with a love so vast and shattered it will reach you everywhere" ~ Loenard Cohen
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