Mirwa: Fireworks (Quendi 1st round)

In the creative writing task of the first round the Quendi competitors had to compose a short story about how a Middlearthish place is hidden around the corner near their home, how it is sometimes still visible, how one can realize that the known stories are actually local history. In this post you can read Mirwa's originally untitled "solution" which is based on a true story.

Sajnos a novellák és egyéb írásos kreatív alkotások fordítását nem tudjuk vállalni, de ha valaki kedvet kap hozzá, nagyon szívesen közöljük az eredményt. ;)
Az alábbi történetben Mirwa a "melyik középföldi tájjal azonosítanád az otthonod" témakör kapcsán egy majdnem elmaradt tűzijátékról és a helyiek elhatározása (vagy éppen Manwe akarata?) előtt meghátráló esőről mesél.

Even the mayor of the village was nervous. It was the fourth day of continuous rain and unfortunately it was just a day before the MidSummer Celebration Day, and that evening the Vigil Procession was ready to flow through the narrow streets of the village. The Council had hired the best Fireworks artisans, but they couldn’t do anything against the bad weather that was ravaging the countryside that evening.

Everything was ready for the procession between the two parishes, followed by a big street party. All the people had been busy to prepare the beacons that they use to lit on the top of the hills.

People at the “Little Horse Pub”, sitting in the wooden benches drinking tea and beer, were chatting about the weather. Their main concern was about the Big Fireworks display and the beacons. The rain was the big enemy, and all the village was waiting for a pause. But the pause hadn’t come yet.

The mayor, fearing the sound of the very words he was going to pronounce, finally said: “This year we must cancel the celebration”.

A dark atmosphere, thick as a smoky fog, fell down on the village.

And then, among all the dispair, a single voice of hope from and old wise man: ”In the village records, only one time they had dared to cancel the celebration, and that year the Great War began. The Celebration must take place”.

After these words, slowly but steadily, the hope rose again. People went back with the memory to recall other summers, other rainy vigils turned in starry nights at the last moment.

As the groups met in the village square and the word spread, everything seemed possible, even in the hard rain falling: the air in the village was full of hope (and of the smell of the stuffed onions, the pride of the village kitchens).

“We must go on” said all the people as they were starting to move in the heavy rain. Also the daring people at the beacons were ready, distant feeble lights in the dark.

The first steps in the rain. And then, suddenly, an eagle screamed and the rain, almost abruptly, stopped. Everybody stared at the sky, holding their breath.

Nothing.

And then, a burst of light, followed by another and another. After the lights, the blast of the first fireworks shocked the wet night air. One after another, the beacons bursted among wild cheers from the villagers.

The fireworks exploded in the sky in a variety of shapes and colours while the beacons wildly fired up all the hills surrounding.

And then, timely and appropriately at the end of the fireworks display, the rain started again. The water fell violently from the sky, extinguishing the remnants of the beacons and driving the (satisfied) villagers to their warm and friendly homes. Now everybody was busy at celebrating, eating stuffed onions and drinking beer, ready to remember that extraordinary night in the village history.