Sheimah and the Carpet
Once, long ago in a great land of fairy tales lived a young farm girl. She lived a lonely life. No more company than the animals she cared for. The one change to her daily routine came on sundays. When all of the town near where she resides scurried off to church.
And on Sundays, she would wander off down to the Warehouse of Literature. The Warehouse of literature was a massive stone building, with huge columns of stone holding up its roof.
The Warehouse of literature housed any literature any one happened to drop off. It held some of the greatest poems ever written, along with stories and songs. No literature was ever denied, so it held literature from any author. From the great Williamus Shakspearoh, to the lowly greaseball of metropolis trying to earn a quick buck. Of course it also held works from any where between as well.
On Sundays, Sheimah, thats the farm girl, would wander on down to the Warehouse of literature, and browse. She would spend all day, reading over works of literature, great and small.
One Sunday, Sheimah was browsing through the song section. She came upon an anonymous song, that filled her heart with joy. he didn't know why, nor could she put it into words. But her heart was so much lighter while she read it. And so she read it again. And again. And again. She read it and read it, and not until the keeper strolled by, to tell her it was closing time did she stop.
"Who wrote this beutiful piece of art?" She asked.
"Alas," Replied the keeper, "Had you asked me of any other piece, I shoudl ahve been quite happy to give you a name, or at the very least, a description of the composer." He shook his head and sat down next to Sheimah. "This piece was found on our steps, not four days ago." He picked up the song, and began to reroll the scroll. "It was a rainy day like today, and I had just returned from the market, when i found a carpet, rolled up and laying upon this buildings very doorstep." The old man stood up and put the song back onto its rightful place. "I wondered who would leave old carpet upon this doorstep. And I was just about to wander off and get Big Fredrik to deal with it, when I heard a sigh escape it. I swear to you it sighed." The old man began to pace softly, so anf fro.
"I looked down it, into its center, and saw nothing. But I couldn't shake the feeling. So I unrolled it." He stopped suddenly, and seemed to be listening. Satisfied he began again. "And there, written upon the carpet was this song." He touched the parchment scroll he had just set back. "But oh the horror, here, this old piece of carpet, with such a wonderful song, was written in blood. Not scrawled by a md hand, but done with careful deliberation. It beutiful, but I couldn't bring myself to allow blod inside the halls. So I rolled it back up and took it to my house.
"Long hours I spent, copying the lyrics, to this piece of parchment. At any rate, it is time to close today, and you need to get home before it gets dark." The old man picked Sheimah up, and set her on her feet. "C'mon, I'll hep you to the door."
"I want to see the carpet." Said Sheimah.
"Tommorrow dear, it is time to close today." The old man wandered off towards the door.
"Well, I can't come until next Sunday, but if that is it, then so be it. I must see that carpet!" Sheimah thought to herself. She shuffled off towards the door.
* * *
Next sunday Sheimah was up and out of her house before the church bells rang. She arrived at the Literature Warehouse just as the old man was unlocking the door.
"You are up early aren't you?" The old man slid the bolt out of the door and opened the door. "Come along then. I have the carpet in the back shed. I can't let it in the warehouse, you understand." The old man walked reverantly through the halls, until he came to a small door. "This leads into the back yard, the shed is to your left." With that, he ushered Sheimah through the door. "You can either coem through here, or use the back gate."
Sheimah trembled with excitement as she neared the small shed. Finally, she may get some insight as to what, or who, made such a wonderful song!
She opened the door to the shack, and a large whiff of dust hit her in the face. She sneezed, not once, not twice, but thrice. Each bigger and louder than the last.
