Ishmael
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Nov 24, 2001
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He was an ordinary man that lived in a small village in the shadow of some hills in a faraway place. Middle aged and respected he had risen to be the headman for his village. The village itself was like so many others in the area. The huts were a combination of bamboo, thatch, and wood. Well trod paths of dirt or mud depending on when it had last rained. The land around the village was cleared and fertile. It provided for the village needs and yielded enough surpluses that they could trade for goods with those villages further away less blessed of soil.
Life in the village was much as it was a hundred years ago. The pace of life was slow and events unfolded in a regular pattern. From the first planting to the harvest, to the various holidays and ceremonial occasions all events were planned months, if not years in advance. That's the way things had been for generations in the past and no one foresaw any changes in the future. Visitors were few and always treated with courtesy and hospitality.
One day the village was visited by a group of men. Young men carrying guns. They were welcomed in and shown the traditional hospitality. These men spoke with the villagers of many things. How everyone owned the land. How they were being robbed of the fruits of their labors. They spoke of many things political and foreign to the life of the villagers. Though they didn't understand what most of these men spoke of, they listened with attentiveness. Nodding their heads as these men spoke. Of course, these men believed that the villagers were nodding their heads in agreement, not that the villagers were merely being polite and only signaling that they were listening to the words. Not that the people agreed with them, or even understood. These men demanded that the villagers give them grain to sustain them and their effort, what ever that might have been. The headsman discussed this with the villagers and although they all agreed that these men were rude in their demands, that they would provide for them as they had so many other guests.
Over the next few months the village was visited by similar men, sometimes the same men. All with the same words, all with the same demands. And then one day foreign men came among them. This was quite an event. The headman was an educated man, he'd been to the Catholic missionary school for two years and was quite well rounded. The tall white men he recognized as those quite similar to those that had taught him at the school. But the black men were quite an item of interest to the village, because although they had heard of such a thing, there was a belief that it was just talk, like that of demons and Gods. These men were also armed with guns, but they made no demands. They offered medical care and even provided the children with treats rare and unknown. They asked of the other men that had visited as well. The headsman was a shrewd man and quickly surmised that their interest was less than friendly. He gave vague information to these strangers. Not to protect the other men, but to protect his village. He wanted no warfare to disturb the peace of so many years.
It was quite a balancing act for the headsman. To provide information to both groups, but not so much that either would have advantage over the other. You see, the first men to visit the village were interested in the foreigners as much as the foreigners were interested in them. This dangerous state of affairs continued for quite some time.
Two men on a hill overlooking the village. One with a bolt action rifle and range finding scope, the other with field glasses and a standard issue rifle. For three days they had worked their way to this particular spot. To observe the village and its people. They saw a meeting begin, the headsman walking around and talking to his fellow villagers. As the headsman finished speaking he went to the top of the encircled people and stood in silence to allow others to speak. One mans finger tightened on a trigger.
The bullet struck the headsman in the sternum. There was no dramatic movement of the body. Blood did not gout as one sees in Hollywood features. Like a marionette that had all the strings cut at once, he just crumpled to the ground. His wife and two daughters were moving towards their husband and father before the report of the distant shot ever reached the village. The other villagers stood in stunned silence.
Once upon a time in a far away land a man died for playing both ends against the middle. He was merely attempting to protect his village and it's people. With no evil intent at all. He didn't realize that when events are thrust upon us sides must be taken. And while in the taking of sides he might have come to the same fate, at least he would have died for something. Because in the end, he died for no reason at all.
Ishmael
As a theoretical question, how does the above story relate to France?
Life in the village was much as it was a hundred years ago. The pace of life was slow and events unfolded in a regular pattern. From the first planting to the harvest, to the various holidays and ceremonial occasions all events were planned months, if not years in advance. That's the way things had been for generations in the past and no one foresaw any changes in the future. Visitors were few and always treated with courtesy and hospitality.
One day the village was visited by a group of men. Young men carrying guns. They were welcomed in and shown the traditional hospitality. These men spoke with the villagers of many things. How everyone owned the land. How they were being robbed of the fruits of their labors. They spoke of many things political and foreign to the life of the villagers. Though they didn't understand what most of these men spoke of, they listened with attentiveness. Nodding their heads as these men spoke. Of course, these men believed that the villagers were nodding their heads in agreement, not that the villagers were merely being polite and only signaling that they were listening to the words. Not that the people agreed with them, or even understood. These men demanded that the villagers give them grain to sustain them and their effort, what ever that might have been. The headsman discussed this with the villagers and although they all agreed that these men were rude in their demands, that they would provide for them as they had so many other guests.
Over the next few months the village was visited by similar men, sometimes the same men. All with the same words, all with the same demands. And then one day foreign men came among them. This was quite an event. The headman was an educated man, he'd been to the Catholic missionary school for two years and was quite well rounded. The tall white men he recognized as those quite similar to those that had taught him at the school. But the black men were quite an item of interest to the village, because although they had heard of such a thing, there was a belief that it was just talk, like that of demons and Gods. These men were also armed with guns, but they made no demands. They offered medical care and even provided the children with treats rare and unknown. They asked of the other men that had visited as well. The headsman was a shrewd man and quickly surmised that their interest was less than friendly. He gave vague information to these strangers. Not to protect the other men, but to protect his village. He wanted no warfare to disturb the peace of so many years.
It was quite a balancing act for the headsman. To provide information to both groups, but not so much that either would have advantage over the other. You see, the first men to visit the village were interested in the foreigners as much as the foreigners were interested in them. This dangerous state of affairs continued for quite some time.
Two men on a hill overlooking the village. One with a bolt action rifle and range finding scope, the other with field glasses and a standard issue rifle. For three days they had worked their way to this particular spot. To observe the village and its people. They saw a meeting begin, the headsman walking around and talking to his fellow villagers. As the headsman finished speaking he went to the top of the encircled people and stood in silence to allow others to speak. One mans finger tightened on a trigger.
The bullet struck the headsman in the sternum. There was no dramatic movement of the body. Blood did not gout as one sees in Hollywood features. Like a marionette that had all the strings cut at once, he just crumpled to the ground. His wife and two daughters were moving towards their husband and father before the report of the distant shot ever reached the village. The other villagers stood in stunned silence.
Once upon a time in a far away land a man died for playing both ends against the middle. He was merely attempting to protect his village and it's people. With no evil intent at all. He didn't realize that when events are thrust upon us sides must be taken. And while in the taking of sides he might have come to the same fate, at least he would have died for something. Because in the end, he died for no reason at all.
Ishmael
As a theoretical question, how does the above story relate to France?
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