Stories

Once upon a time there was a world without wind. It was stiller than when the wind lies down, because there had never been a wind. And in the world without wind there was a village in which all was as still as the air in the sky. The smoke from the chimneys rose with great effort straight up. The wash on the clothes line hung down unswerving. There was never a rustle in the trees, except from a squirrel or bird. The birds walked more than they flew, for without wind the air could hardly bear them up. There was no cloud in the sky and there had never been one. There was only drought.

One day a stranger appeared at the edge of the village. He set up an easel, placed a canvas on it, took paint and brush and started a painting of the village. The villagers all went out to see what was going on.

Along the bottom of the canvas the villagers could recognize the silhouette of their village, the houses, the chimneys, the barns, the towers, the withered trees. They were amazed at the skill of the painter. On the canvas their village looked more beautiful than ever. They only wondered why the stranger painted their village along the bottom edge with so much sky above it in which nothing was to be seen.

Then the painter began to paint the sky, but it did not look like the sky above their village. The streaks of the brush on the canvas, the layers of paint, made it look like the air was in movement. And as if white fluff floated through the sky.

Someone commented on it. “The houses look like our houses, and the towers like our towers, but the air in the sky is not like that above our village.” Why should I paint what anyone can see?” replied the painter. “Why not what no eye has seen, and what no heart has conceived.”

Suddenly it began to rustle in the trees. The wash began to sway on the clothes line. The smoke from the chimneys bent over and departed. The birds alit and danced in circles above the village. Large, dark fluffs appeared on the horizon. At a distance there was a thundering like hammers in the air. The fluffs flew over and let drops of water fall. The painter packed his paint and brushes, his canvas and his easel in and departed.