The Story

The wind shifts and someone stands beneath a dry tree. All around is brown, dry grass.

It is a fenced field. It is a slung hole in a fall of netted fences. The fields are cast beneath a long ridge of low, brown hills. It is a hot day

*

The wind shifts and disforms the high line of smoke. The woman stirs up the fire. It is a hot day.

About fifteen kilometers from here is a town. It is no more than several dwellings, two larger buildings, and a gas station. It does have a school in what used to be a small store that sold picture cards and beer. It is a hot day, and a young boy walks slowly toward the school. In one arm, he carries a bundle of dry, small wood; in the other arm he carries a worn book.

For some it is too hot to do anything, but to go to church. It is a building with a high ceiling. It is the coolest place in the town today.

*

The woman stirs the fire and flames jump up from it. When she is satisfied with the flames, she moves outward and walks a radius around the fire, picking up whatever, it seems, displeases her. It is a wonder that she finds anything of substance to burn, but upon finishing her circle, she has an arm full of small wood. She takes this to the centre of her circle and throws this material, piece by piece, onto the bright flames. When her hands are empty, she returns to the shade of the dry tree. The wind shifts, as does the shade.

The woman decides to sit on the hard dirt beneath the dry tree. She leans her head back onto the smooth shell of the trunk. With the bright and frilled apron she wears, she wipes her brow. She leans and closes her eyes.

*

It is unfair to call this place a town. It is no more than several wooden structures and a gas station. Yet, on a government issue map of the region, it is marked with a bright red dot: the symbol of a town, the symbol of a population of more than one thousand people.

The driver tosses the incorrectly folded map onto the cracked leatherette of the seat next to him. He is driving quickly along the road. The road is nothing but cracked and missing tarmac, and it is very dusty. In fact, it is only upon closer examination that someone can tell the road is topped.

Behind the car is a long, still tail of brown dust. Fowllowing the dust back, the wind shifts, and the dust is a long, narrow cloud, aiming off the road.

*

The woman rests and remembers. A long time ago there is a well-dressed man who comes to her village. He claims to be a merchant from the coastal city. He comes to lok at wood carvings.

The village is known throughout the countryside for the skilled carvings depicting apostles and saints. In many churches of the country, these carvings are displayed. They are near life size, and craftily detailed. Some of the carvings are famous as miraculous objects. Some are known to heal the infirm upon touch, others are known for having eyes that tear on days of religious significance. Some are loved for their serenity.

The woman rests and remembers the man who comes to her village. She remembers his voice. She remembers how everyone takes every word he says. The man from the coastal city speaks of a new life for the woman and her neighbours. He speaks of new houses, and the many wonderful things to put into them. She remembers when she rides with him, fast over the fine road, her clothes ablast under the clear and hot sky.

*

Some can see the truth in the wrinkles around the mouth. Some can see the truth in the small holes of the skin on the nose. Some can see exactly when the meat of words rots like something dead in the fenced field.

It is dry and hot here. It takes weeks for flesh to decompose. Usually it is eaten by some animal before it can actually rot.

The driver lights a cigarette, as he races along; the wind sweeping into the open windows makes it difficult to keep a flame on the lighter. All around are dry, brown fields. They are defined by roughly made stone fences. In many of the fields, a pile of material is burning.

The driver thinks about the story. He thinks about the kinds of things he must uncover, so he may order the events. He thinks about the readers in his country, who may not believe the story of this hot and empty place, where the remaining people spend the working hours ridding the land of wood. He thinks about driving through some geographic trance, and steps on the gas and aims for the town marked red on the map.

*

The woman sits under the tree and remembers the many wood houses, and the farms and animals. She remembers the many trees. Children hide in the trees. She remembers puppies she sees when she is very young, the cur nursing five or six closed-eyed forms, underneath the green shade.

The man from the coastal city talks to her about a large, beautiful dog he owns, and how it is always well-mannered. She remembers his words as though they are from some childhood song.

The man frojm the coastal city asks her help to meet the local carvers. He asks her help to arrange the purchase if their carvings. He arranges with each carver to produce more statues. He promises bright lives.

*

Some look into the eyes and wonder about the people seen there. It does not move. It does not tell anything. Some look into the eyes and wonder if they are one of the people there. It is silent, as though enshrined, and offers only appearance.

Ahead, the driver sees the shapes of some small structures, huddled together, encircled by upward lines of smoke. Up above, at about the height of a long ridge of low, brown hills, the lines of smoke form streaming clouds.

The wind pumps into the windows of the fast moving car. The driver wipes his handkerchief across his brow, and sees that it is grimy with the dust of the region. He thinks about using the dust as the main descriptive element for his report on the people here. It is past mid-day, and as the car approaches the town, he tries to imagine the people he will encounter. He tries to imagine the kinds of questions they would be willing to answer.

•
The carvers work day and night. In the village, all the activities are centered on supporting the carvers' work. All thoughts lean toward the production of the beautiful carvings. Everyone has a task toward the nourishment, the clothing, and the contentment of the carvers. The carvings provide everything the people in the village require.

The woman rests and remembers, as a child, the season-long preparations for costume and dance. She remembers the careful pull of skin across the rim of drums, the bright paint on masks and cloth, and the fixed moment of songs.

She rests and remembers carvings in careful lines, and the boys carefully take them from the yard and pack them in crates with handfuls of dry grass. They are delivered to the coastal city. She remembers those that come from other villages to request a carving, and how they are ignored. Those that come tell stories about the carvings that are stolen from the churches throughout the countryside. The miraculous events associated with these carvings become undetailed stories, whcih are told by agents in cities throughout the world. Children in the village know only that these statues bring wonderful objects and curious people to the village.

The carvers work day and night. People enjoy few moments of pleasure together. There is no time for festivals and ceremonies. There is no time for teaching children anything not connected to the carvers' production.

It is a hot day. The woman opens her eyes and stares up at the smoke, still in the air. She remembers a neighbour's beautiful daughter, her abdomen an open slash. Everyone in the village searches for her young lover, and finds him, huddling in a field, crying over the fine necklace he tore from her. He begs the villagers to understand his jealousy, to let him leave and escape all he craves and desires. His words form broken and muted sounds, as the men and women of the village smash him with clubs and stones, as they kick and tear at him. They finally leave him, a dark red, cast in thefield.

*

Some look into the eyes and repeat again and again how bad it is today. Some tell in small phrases how they feel. Some tell all that is bad, and curse those unconcerned. Some speak words made trustworthy by tone and gesture. Some of the older ones speak in words of story and mask. Some, who are afraid, fabricate lies, with the quivering hope that those who listen recognize the encircled truth.

The driver thinks of what to ask the people in the town. He thinks of how efficiently he must enter each personal situation. He needs to find someone quickly, who trusts him, and takes him to those with the will to speak. As he nears the town, he sees a woman. She walks from under a dry tree to a slowly burning pile of small wood. She stirs the fire and flames jump up from it. When she is satisfied with the flames, she moves outward and walks a radius around the fire. As he nears, she lifts her gaze toward the road.

The day is hot. The smoke from the fire rises straight up, and appears to rise as high as the tops of the hills. There, the smoke bends to cross the land. The car slows as it nears. Behind is a long, still tail of brown dust. The woman fixes her eyes to the car.

The driver slows the car and decides to stop. He considers what question would bring him instantly close to this woman. She stands and stares, as the car stops, as the dust-covered man, with fine clothes, climbs over the fence and walks toward her. With the bright and frilled apron she wears, she wipes her hands and face. She straightens her clothes and reaches up to her hair. The wind shifts and she closes her eyes against the dust streaming over the field from the road.