forget about him soon.
When the children chased him off with their mockery and the pinecones and pieces of bark they threw at him, Little Nimi would run away, whooping. He'd climb the closest tree and from up in the high branches he would whoop at them again, with his one weepy eye and his buck teeth. And sometimes even in the middle of the night, the villagers thought they heard the distant echo of his whooping in the dark.
2
The village was gray and gloomy. Around it on all sides were only mountains and forests, clouds and wind. There were no other villages nearby. Visitors almost never came to that village, and passersby never stopped there. Thirty or forty small houses were scattered on the slope of the valley enclosed by towering mountains. The one pass through the mountains was on the western side and the only road to the village was through that pass, but it didn't go any farther because there was no farther: the world ended there.
Once in a great while, a traveling tradesman or peddler, and sometimes just a beggar who had lost his way, would come to the village. But no wanderer ever stayed longer than two nights, because the village was cursed: it was always eerily silent, no cow mooed, no donkey brayed, no bird chirped, no flock of wild geese crossed the empty sky, and the villagers barely spoke to each other beyond the essential things. Only the sound of the river could be heard constantly, day and night, because a powerful river rushed through the mountain forests. It passed through the village, white foam on its banks, frothing, seething, and bubbling with a low roar, until it was swallowed up again in the bends of valley and forest.
3
At night, the silence was even blacker and thicker than in the daytime: no dog stretched its neck and flattened its ears to howl at the moon, no fox whined in the forest, no night bird shrieked, no cricket chirped, no frog croaked, no rooster crowed at dawn. All the animals had disappeared from the village and its surroundings many years agoâcows and horses and sheep, geese and cats and nightingales, dogs and spiders and rabbits. There wasn't even one small goldfinch. Not a fish was left in the river. Storks and cranes bypassed the narrow valley on their journeys of migration. Even bugs and reptiles, bees-flies-ants-worms-mosquitoes-moths, hadn't been seen for many a year. The grownups who still remembered usually chose to stay silent. To deny. To pretend they'd forgotten.
Years ago, seven hunters and four fishermen had lived in the village. But when the river emptied of fish, when all the wild animals drifted far away, the fishermen and the hunters left too and went to places that were untouched by the curse. Only one old fisherman who keeps to himselfâAlmon is his nameâhas stayed in the village to this day. He lives in a small cabin near the river and holds long, angry conversations with himself while he cooks potato soup for his meals. Even now, the people of the village still call him Almon the Fisherman, though he changed from fisherman to farmer a long time ago: during the day, Almon grows vegetables and edible roots in beds of crumbling soil and cultivates twenty or thirty fruit trees on the slope of the hill.
He even put up a small scarecrow in his vegetable beds because he believed that all the vanished birds and animals might yet return in his lifetime. Sometimes Almon has long, angry arguments with that scarecrow too, pleading with it, scolding it, giving up on it completely. Then he returns with an old chair, sits down in front of the scarecrow, and tries with endless patience to win it over or at least persuade it to change its stubborn opinions, if only a little.
Toward evening, on clear days, Almon the Fisherman usually sits in his chair on the riverbank, puts on the old glasses that slide down his nose toward his thick gray mustache, and reads books. Or he writes and rubs out line after line in his notebook as he mutters to himself all sorts of
When the children chased him off with their mockery and the pinecones and pieces of bark they threw at him, Little Nimi would run away, whooping. He'd climb the closest tree and from up in the high branches he would whoop at them again, with his one weepy eye and his buck teeth. And sometimes even in the middle of the night, the villagers thought they heard the distant echo of his whooping in the dark.
2
The village was gray and gloomy. Around it on all sides were only mountains and forests, clouds and wind. There were no other villages nearby. Visitors almost never came to that village, and passersby never stopped there. Thirty or forty small houses were scattered on the slope of the valley enclosed by towering mountains. The one pass through the mountains was on the western side and the only road to the village was through that pass, but it didn't go any farther because there was no farther: the world ended there.
Once in a great while, a traveling tradesman or peddler, and sometimes just a beggar who had lost his way, would come to the village. But no wanderer ever stayed longer than two nights, because the village was cursed: it was always eerily silent, no cow mooed, no donkey brayed, no bird chirped, no flock of wild geese crossed the empty sky, and the villagers barely spoke to each other beyond the essential things. Only the sound of the river could be heard constantly, day and night, because a powerful river rushed through the mountain forests. It passed through the village, white foam on its banks, frothing, seething, and bubbling with a low roar, until it was swallowed up again in the bends of valley and forest.
3
At night, the silence was even blacker and thicker than in the daytime: no dog stretched its neck and flattened its ears to howl at the moon, no fox whined in the forest, no night bird shrieked, no cricket chirped, no frog croaked, no rooster crowed at dawn. All the animals had disappeared from the village and its surroundings many years agoâcows and horses and sheep, geese and cats and nightingales, dogs and spiders and rabbits. There wasn't even one small goldfinch. Not a fish was left in the river. Storks and cranes bypassed the narrow valley on their journeys of migration. Even bugs and reptiles, bees-flies-ants-worms-mosquitoes-moths, hadn't been seen for many a year. The grownups who still remembered usually chose to stay silent. To deny. To pretend they'd forgotten.
Years ago, seven hunters and four fishermen had lived in the village. But when the river emptied of fish, when all the wild animals drifted far away, the fishermen and the hunters left too and went to places that were untouched by the curse. Only one old fisherman who keeps to himselfâAlmon is his nameâhas stayed in the village to this day. He lives in a small cabin near the river and holds long, angry conversations with himself while he cooks potato soup for his meals. Even now, the people of the village still call him Almon the Fisherman, though he changed from fisherman to farmer a long time ago: during the day, Almon grows vegetables and edible roots in beds of crumbling soil and cultivates twenty or thirty fruit trees on the slope of the hill.
He even put up a small scarecrow in his vegetable beds because he believed that all the vanished birds and animals might yet return in his lifetime. Sometimes Almon has long, angry arguments with that scarecrow too, pleading with it, scolding it, giving up on it completely. Then he returns with an old chair, sits down in front of the scarecrow, and tries with endless patience to win it over or at least persuade it to change its stubborn opinions, if only a little.
Toward evening, on clear days, Almon the Fisherman usually sits in his chair on the riverbank, puts on the old glasses that slide down his nose toward his thick gray mustache, and reads books. Or he writes and rubs out line after line in his notebook as he mutters to himself all sorts of
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