Impossible Is Nothing, Apparently — an alternative narrative to a popular tale
Many, many years ago in a far distant land, tucked in the centre of nowhere, beyond the empty place called wilderness, a bunch of weirdos had found home (or so it seemed).
Among their numbers the diversity was unthinkable. There were war-hands and sword-slingers, young lads and lasses, kidibums and kidibobs, and of course the old goons too.
These people had a leader who was much revered by the lot. His name was Mosas. He was white-haired and extremely upright; his skin brazen tough from his numerous wanderings in the wastelands of Midian, and his calves as rough as the steel columns that furnished the ancient palaces of Babylon.
But despite the unsettling appeal of this folk, these were no mere people, and much fright was to be accorded them -for they had laid to waste the most-able armies the east could put together, and flattened the thrones of dynasties. Nothing was spared along their way, not even the iron walls of mighty Herrizo could defend her inhabitants from them.
This was the herald of this unusual people, and the terror of their fame ever spread wide.
But on this particular afternoon many years ago, there was to be a different kind of uprising. Willoko the Notorious (for that was his name), of whom the sons of Campalo all drew wisdom, dared to question the leadership of Mosas. For though it was acknowledged by all that Mosas possessed a strange kind of mystic energy on the field of battle, it was not particularly useful in providing the best of food options, because as you would have guessed, the menu in the desert will not ordinarily include sour sauce and chicken grasse, and much monotony of food had left the folks desiring for something extra (like, spices and onions).
The uprising had long been expected. When the danna flakes that Mosas had summoned some ten years ago began to decompose faster than normal, the whisperings and murmurings followed.
Mosas always knew that his stunt would only last so long, and soon he would need to go back to ‘Nuumole’ for more advise. ‘Nuumole’ was the one who had found Mosas rotting at the backside of the desert when his only companions were the woolen creatures he shepherded.
Now four decades later, this Mose was leading the most terrifying group of humans across the desert into nowhere (or so it seemed).
Mosas called for Hashush his aide; directing him to bring in Willoko, and the heads of each clan.
“you put me in a difficult position Willo” Mosas said
“what would you have us do, Mosas? For we have abandoned all to follow you, but we long for some meat. My third daughter has no idea what a chicken looks like” Willoko replied sharply
“danna is not good enough for you now, huh!” Mosas retorted
“it’s served its purpose, and now you must do something about this, Mosas, or we will do something about you”, and with that Willoko stormed out.
That night Mosas tossed and turned. His bed of rocks felt ever so uncomfortable, and sleep was devoid of his eyes. Mosas could hear the growing chants of the people from down below. Their battle horns echoed loud across the wasteland.
He knew they could never take him on. They feared him too much. They had witnessed his acts of mystery. How that he parted seas with a whiff of his hand, and summoned rivers from boulders without as much as a word. Or even that one time when he caused an entire city to go blind and frogs to appear in their water. He was no mean walkover, and ‘Nuumole’ had seen to that.
Mosas turned to face the south, dropping to his knees. He raised his hands into the skies, and spoke in a strange tongue.
“oh Magnificient ‘Nuumole’, you who existed before time itself, and laid bare the armies of the heathen. You who through your man Mosas, smote the kings of Bajalaga and spoiled the forces of the Bubusakwies. Yes you! I have no doubt in your ability nor your selection, but Great ‘Nuumole’, we are in a betwist. Yes, you and I are in a betwisting quagmire. For these hungry ungrateful scoundrels demand meat. As though their teeth could bare grind flesh. They question your delicious danna-flakes that rain in with the morning dew ever so faithful. Not once has it waned nor delayed. Although frankly, the flavour has changed these few weeks, it isn’t too bad… it’s not horrible, but could you revert to the former flavour. I prefer that”
“Anyway now, oh Ever-benevolent Nuumole, could you cause my skin to become as hard as steel, and frankly unkillable. Because I know that stubborn Willo will not wane till he has had my head. This I beseech thee. Ciao”
And with that Mosas proceeded to arise, when suddenly a loud noise thundered from above him with a voice like never Mosas had heard; it was ‘Nuumole’s’, and He was vexed.
“shut up and kneel Mosas!!”
It was a deafening roar. Howbeit to all others outside that tent, the sound of a whistle it may have seemed to be -if they heard anything at all.
Mosas froze. Never before had he heard ‘Nuumole’ speak so angrily; nor had he replied so simply. He was fond of pageantry and flare, the stuff of gods. The kind that would accompany fireworks and confetti showers. But now he spoke plainly, and frankly, Mosas was more disappointed than frightened. The confetti that came with ‘Nuumole’s’ speeches was always a nice florish.
“Do you think I ‘Nuumole’, the creator of all the worlds, is unable to furnish a table of meat in the desert? Huh? Mosas, are you so naive to think that this would be beyond me? …or have you soon forgotten how through you I lay waste the kingdoms of the Balkans, and sp..”
Before He could finish Mosas interrupted.
“Ahem, I know all about that. But you know, those are victories of war. You’re not particularly good with food, you know. Take for instance what you have done with the danna-flakes recently… what flavour will you call that, huh?”
“Shut up! you know what, Mosa…”, ‘Nuumole’ spoke,
“I blame myself. Tell those bellowing folks outside that tomorrow by this time, they would have meat to eat. Not once, not twice, not for a day, nor a month, not even a year. They would eat meat till it rans out of their noses and they beg for no more. Tell them I said this. Goodnight!”
And with that ‘Nuumole’ was gone.
“Wait! Wait!! Where will you get such meat by tomorrow? Please stop the bluffing and make my skin as hard as steel. That’s not beyond you… hello? Hello?”
But ‘Nuumole’ was really gone. Mosas knew that tomorrow spelled trouble, and either way the people were right -the danna’s taste had changed a bit, and no one was liking the new flavour. Even he Mosas would fancy some meat too.
Mosas came out and from his tent yelled the words of ‘Nuumole’ to the people. Verbatim.
That night he didn’t sleep a wink.
Yet something happened upon the wee-hours of dawn. At about the fourth hour of the morning, the sky began to grow dark.
Rain was not common in the desert, and so Mosas thought,
“’Nuumole’ has probably suckered out, I knew it! He wants to rain forgetfulness on the guys, so they forget they ever wanted meat. Smart move”
But this was no cloud at all. Rather, for through the night, ‘Nuumole’ had caused the east winds to blow from beyond Niger and along the border of Talathaland, an innumerable barrage of turkeys! Fat and flourishing turkeys! A number like never before recorded. And they were headed into the desert, straight into the camp!
I dare say, a number so great they had blackened out the sky.
Mosas now stood outside his tent, and his eyes met the tearing eyes of Willoko, who was overcome with child-like emotion at seeing so much meat ‘flocking’ in.
The entire habitation of weirdos watched in wonder as the birds swooned in. Landing one top of each other, fat turkeys like never ever seen, and they were not a few.
There were turkeys everywhere. One upon another. They covered the entire prairie as far as the eyes could see, a day’s journey in every direction. There was enough meat for years to come.
Mosas let out a quiet laugh and muttered to himself;
“what a show-off, that ‘Nuumole’! -He just couldn’t bring yourself to making my skin steel, huh”
Mosas turned around and beckoned for Hashush; signaling to put the cauldron on the fire. He wasn’t going to pass on some turkey soup.
