The Coelacanth of Bedford Falls
One must be careful in these ripe golden fields. When the wheat-heads
ripple in the wind, the locals are apt to say things like "the pigs
are chasing one another," or "I knew if I were drowning, you would try
to save me." Sometimes, too, the last sheaf assumes quasi-human form
- the wolves do the saint's bidding, and anyone who finds it impossible
to grant a pregnant woman's request must throw something at her, or
mice will eat his clothing.
Great magical potency is attributed to the blessed food. In former
times, young men mounted the roof of the village tavern and waved cocks
carved out of wood, at times ingeniously contrived. The advisory committee
usually overlooked the implications, with mumbled blandishments running
from "For him who has everything dreams are not possible" to "A man
is nameless to those who do not know him."
In the evening the finest ox in the village is garlanded with flowers
and green-stuff. The more intelligent girls build barricades in the
night while singing religious and comic songs. In wild urban ravines,
the barren fern blooms at midnight with a flaming flower. Young people
and farm animals bathe in the morning dew, vowing vigorously to shake
off the dust of their crummy old towns.
Look carefully at this fish. It may bring you good fortune. If you're
shopping on-line, analysts say the attitude toward the dead is a mingling
of warmth and cool practical considerations. Only a succession of research
expeditions to the Indian Ocean might provide more tantalizing clues.
After all, the great trick has always been in being able to survive
a mass extinction.
by Michael Puttonen