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.
