Show of Strength

Show of Strength

Show of Strength

The city, aware of its own beauty and charm, posed for the photographers. Protected as it was by high mountains there was not even the slightest breeze to ruffle its hair. A picture postcard town, perfectly static. The tourists recorded the moment for future reference.

This contrasted with the air of excitement and expectation in the purposeful coming and going of the inhabitants. In every square and garden, on every patch of wasteland and on every balcony or flat-topped roof, rockets were being prepared. Because tonight the city would enter the record books.

It had always been famous for its fireworks, and people would come from all over the country to see the magnificently choreographed displays. But in recent years a number of competitors had sprung up, especially from nearby towns down the valley. Naturally their shows were not as spectacular or well designed, but over the years the gap had begun to narrow. This could not be tolerated. It was a matter of pride, of tradition. It was time to send out a strong message to these upstart villages and to show them who was boss.

It had been decided and decreed that every man, woman and child in the city would be represented by a rocket fired into the night sky, in unison. Any visitor who wanted to join in was also very welcome. Given that the population at the last census was well over nine hundred thousand souls, the Council calculated that close on a million rockets would be exploded in the night sky at the same time. The dramatic event would be seen, and heard, across the whole valley and over the surrounding plains. It was to be broadcast on national and international channels, with an estimated worldwide viewership of scores of millions.

Preparations had been underway for almost a year. Local industries had manufactured hundreds of thousands of rocket launchers, and the gunpowder plants had been working extra shifts to try and meet the demand. It had been a hectic time, not without setbacks, but their efforts had been rewarded; everything was ready for the big night.

Midnight. The alloted moment. As soon as the cathedral bells began to ring, the night sky was turned into an orgy of colour and sound. Rocket upon rocket soared up into the dark, bursting into reds and blues and yellows. Huge blooms that hung for a few seconds as if reluctant to fade punctuated by sharp bright flashes of intense white light. Delicate plumes of scattering gold criss-crossed by sudden shafts of flame. It was beautiful, it was terrifying; it was apocalyptic.

People cheered and clapped and congratulated each other on the undeniable success of the event. And then, once the tremendously loud explosion which ensued had died away, darkness returned. A deeper darkness than before because the night sky was now covered by a heavy cloud of thick smoke which blotted out the stars and the moon.

What they had not expected was that the next morning the blanket of gunpowder smoke would still be hanging in the air, so impenetrably dense that the sun was unable to push through it, had been reduced to a mere vague luminosity. After such an explosion of pride and strength, the city had been thrown into perpetual gloom. Trapped as it was by high mountains, there was not even the slightest breeze to ruffle its hair. The thick grey cloud would not move, was perfectly static. There were no tourists to be seen.