Читать книгу Writing the Icon of the Heart - Maggie Ross - Страница 14

Once upon a time there was a terrible drought. The crops failed, the livestock died, the people were in misery. As the drought grew worse, they tried ever more desperate measures. The shamans danced and banged pots, the priests made offerings to the gods, and the children went on pilgrimage to the mountains. A few individuals even shot arrows at a stray cloud, hoping to pierce the membrane that held back the water, or so they thought. Any charlatan who came along claiming tο be able to make rain fall was hired. Always the outcome was the same: he took the money and ran.

One day the villagers spied a beggar trudging down the road, leaning on his stick. “Go away, old man,” they said. “We don’t have any food and water for ourselves, much less for the likes of you. And we’re not hiring any more so-called rainmakers.”

Unperturbed, the old man replied, “Keep your food and drink, and your money. But if you will lend me a hut for three days and leave me in peace, who knows, some good may come of it.”