Numbers in the Dark and Other Stories - Italo Calvino [53]
Nevertheless there are those among us who say that the times promised in the Great Prophecy are nearer than ever, not because of the celestial omens, but because the miracles announced by the Gods are now just so many technical problems that only we, and not the Nicer Nut Corporation, can solve. Easier said than done! Meantime, you try and touch the Nicer Nut Corporation! Seems their agents with their feet up on the tables of their offices in the docks on the Great River, glasses of whisky in their hands, are only concerned about whether this new missile mightn't be bigger than the last; in short, they don't talk about anything but missiles either. There is agreement, here, between what they say and what the witch-doctors say: it is in the power of these shooting stars that our entire destiny lies.
I too, sitting at the entrance to my hut, look up at the stars and at the rockets appearing and disappearing, I think of the explosions poisoning the fish in the sea, and of the courtesies those people who decide the explosions exchange with each other between one missile and the next. I'd like to understand more: certainly the will of the Gods is made manifest in these signs, certainly they foretell the ruin or the fortune of our tribe … Still, there's one idea I can't get out of my head: that a tribe that relies entirely on the will of shooting stars, whatever fortune they may bring, will always be selling off its coconuts cheap.
Nocturnal Soliloquy of a Scottish Nobleman
The candle keeps guttering because of the air wafting in through the window. But I can't allow darkness and sleep to invade the room, and I must keep the window open to survey the heath which is moonless tonight, a formless expanse of shadows. There is no light whether of torch or lantern for at least two miles, that's for sure, nor any sound other than the cry of the grouse, and the footsteps of the guard on the castle walls. A night like any other, and yet the MacDickinsons' attack could come before the day dawns. I must spend the night keeping watch and reflecting on the predicament we find ourselves in. A little while ago Dugald, the oldest and most loyal of my men, came up to my room to reveal a problem of conscience: like most of the peasants around here he is a member of the Episcopal church and his bishop has ordered all the faithful to take the MacDickinson family's side, forbidding them to bear arms for any other clan. We, the MacFergusons, belong to the Presbyterian church, but out of an old tradition of tolerance we don't make religion an issue for our people. I told Dugald I considered him free to act according to his conscience and his faith, but I couldn't help reminding him how much he and his family owed to our clan. When that rough and ready soldier left, his white whiskers were dripping tears. I still don't know what he has decided. It's no use pretending otherwise: the ancient conflict between the MacFergusons and the MacDickinsons is about to erupt in a war of religion.
Since time immemorial the highland clans have fought it out amongst themselves along the lines of good old Scottish custom: every time we get the chance we avenge the murder of our kinsmen by murdering members of rival families, while each in turn seeks to occupy and devastate the lands and castles of the others, yet this strip of Scodand has so far been spared the ferocity of a religious war. Of course everybody knows that the Episcopal church has always openly supported the MacDickinsons, and if today these poor highlands are ravaged more by the raids of the MacDickinsons than by the hail, we owe it to the fact that the Episcopal clergy have always made fair weather or foul in this land. But so long as the greatest enemy