Cries of grief and true pain were head throughout the village. She was dead. Not only she was dead, she'd been murdered. Someone took her from them. They took her. From all the people in the world, even all the villagers, why did it have to be her?
Old K. Jr. was the one who found her. It was dawning when he brought her desecrated lifeless body to the town's Main Square -the only square, really-, reeking of whiskey.
There was no doubt on anyone's mind it was the work of an outsider. No neighbour of hers would ever conceive hurting the girl in the slightest. Or even say a single unkind word to her, near her. Not a bad thought could cross your mind in her pressence, unthinkable.
A whole bus of tourists had arrived early in the morning. Foreigners. Had it been anyone else's life they took, the culprit would have been searched for and found. Now there was no time and no need for that. They emptied the inn all the strangers were staying in of locals, locked all doors and windows and set it on fire. The life of a bus-full of people for the life of a village. It still wasn't fair trade, but at least it was somewhat closer.
There was a single thought in the common of the village's people. Not a word had been spoken since she had been placed at the bottom of the Town Hall's stairs. There was no need for words anymore. They were no use.
A big stone round fountain, bowl-like but massive, occupied the center of the square. It now needed to be drained. The man who had been mayor until that very moment saw to it. Everyone else went back to their home, found the fanciest glasses they owned and took one per person living under their roof, along with all the alcoholic beverages they could find.
Villager after villager came back to the square, in a silent procession; dropped the contents of their bottles, cans and boxes into the drained fountain and waited for every last neighbour to finish doing the same.
Finally, it was down to K. Jr., who, after emptying his many many bottles and barrels, took out of his dusty overall a tiny dark red plastic bottle and pour it whole.
B., the road sweeper, had been sweeping the emptied bottles, cans and boxes away, forming separate piles. Recycling was a habit that died hard in him.
One by one they dipped their crystal goblets, glass glasses and plastic cups in, and started drinking. Young men and women, old folk and little children alike. When they could barely stand up, they gathered around the corpse and let their collective consciousness along with themselves slip away into nothingness.
She had been the soul of the village. It'd died with her.
Old K. Jr. was the one who found her. It was dawning when he brought her desecrated lifeless body to the town's Main Square -the only square, really-, reeking of whiskey.
There was no doubt on anyone's mind it was the work of an outsider. No neighbour of hers would ever conceive hurting the girl in the slightest. Or even say a single unkind word to her, near her. Not a bad thought could cross your mind in her pressence, unthinkable.
A whole bus of tourists had arrived early in the morning. Foreigners. Had it been anyone else's life they took, the culprit would have been searched for and found. Now there was no time and no need for that. They emptied the inn all the strangers were staying in of locals, locked all doors and windows and set it on fire. The life of a bus-full of people for the life of a village. It still wasn't fair trade, but at least it was somewhat closer.
There was a single thought in the common of the village's people. Not a word had been spoken since she had been placed at the bottom of the Town Hall's stairs. There was no need for words anymore. They were no use.
A big stone round fountain, bowl-like but massive, occupied the center of the square. It now needed to be drained. The man who had been mayor until that very moment saw to it. Everyone else went back to their home, found the fanciest glasses they owned and took one per person living under their roof, along with all the alcoholic beverages they could find.
Villager after villager came back to the square, in a silent procession; dropped the contents of their bottles, cans and boxes into the drained fountain and waited for every last neighbour to finish doing the same.
Finally, it was down to K. Jr., who, after emptying his many many bottles and barrels, took out of his dusty overall a tiny dark red plastic bottle and pour it whole.
B., the road sweeper, had been sweeping the emptied bottles, cans and boxes away, forming separate piles. Recycling was a habit that died hard in him.
One by one they dipped their crystal goblets, glass glasses and plastic cups in, and started drinking. Young men and women, old folk and little children alike. When they could barely stand up, they gathered around the corpse and let their collective consciousness along with themselves slip away into nothingness.
She had been the soul of the village. It'd died with her.
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