The people in the kingdom worked three days and celebrated
four. They had grand parties and served tea. A special tea, made of mushroom
droplets and elephant blessings. They swirled around each other and talked
about the ants and their antiquities, they talked about the other people they
met, they talk about the various chores they were planning to do. Ah yes, they
loved to plan. Not much was ever actually done,
but one took pride in what he had planned, rather than what he had actually
done.
One forlorn afternoon, when the mushrooms were about as shrivelled
as a dehydrated raisin, a stranger pondered upon the kingdom. He brought with
him a bag that was about as used up as a cow’s udder, a stick that looked like
it came from an elderly panda, and he was dressed like a merchant straight out
of a Venetian gondola. Nobody ever understood what that meant, for no one had
actually been to Venice, but it didn’t matter. For they rarely had newcomers in
the kingdom, and this one seemed to promise great stories to be told of.
The stranger shuffled his way into the square where the
people were drinking tea and in particular everyone was discussing cleaning the
windows in some near, far off future. You see, Windex was having a sale and it
was much better than the generic window cleaners, they said. But never mind
that, for the stranger was drawing nearer and neared. With each step, a strange jingle echoed. It
wasn’t so loud that one could be certain it was emanating from the stranger,
but it was also not soft enough for one to dismiss as their pure imagination.
The people looked at each other…something was up.
Nobody wanted to be the first person to greet the stranger;
for it was customary that strangers begin the greetings. No particular reason
for it, it was just how things worked. So this stranger sauntered up to a
person whose feelers were about as bright as daffodils in an Irish park, and he
said:
“Good Skies, hiju”
“err…fine ‘shroom.” Came the reply.
A hush fell upon the square. Did this stranger not have
mushrooms from where he came? Why does he greet them by the skies? The skies
are always blue, are they not? What good does it do for him to greet them by
the skies? Judging stares befell the stranger. Whether or not the stranger felt
those burning stares, we do not know, for he merely continued his speech:
“I am from the Valley of Deer, North of the Rabbits. I come
in search of a lucky person who will join a most important voyage across the
seas. A journey not fit for any meek persona; I may say. The tides are strong,
and the waves even rougher.”
He raised his voice loud enough for a hundred people to hear
“I offer you the chance of a lifetime; to join me. I shall
be in the tavern for anybody who is interested to join me. I shall reward you
handsomely, have no worries.”
The hush turned to murmured whispers. Louder and louder they
grew, and I suppose you could imagine what they were saying. If the stranger
was uncomfortable, he displayed none of it. Until, a small voice from the crowd
came forth:
“But we don’t have a tavern!”
The stranger turns a strange hue of red and covers his face for a while. He conjures up the most menacing look he could, and says mysteriously:
"That is the question"
