Chapter 299: A True Story
Since the day the Lyra Department of Culture and Arts’ broadcasting station started broadcasting the radio drama adapted from the travelogue collection, every afternoon break time, a crowd of citizens gathered in groups of three or five under every speaker-mounted pole in Lyra city.
The porter hurriedly put down his cargo sack to rest, the horse carriage driver reined his horses letting them stand breathing, the housewives washing clothes at the water well also stopped their hands simultaneously, everyone craned their necks raising their heads pricking their ears listening to the buzzing reading voice emitting from inside the bronze-casted trumpet speaker.
The Lyra citizens ended up being so fascinated by that drama to the point the children playing on the streets also noisily fought each other playing the heroic characters in the play.
Even having heard that there was one time the broadcasting station was cut off midway due to a technical glitch, the next day the City Hall was called out by the citizens sending dozens of complaint letters demanding to continue broadcasting.
Only George alone did not feel happy.
In the Department of Culture and Arts’ shift handover meeting that week, he asked permission to stand up presenting a new proposal. He originally was a person speaking fluently and clearly, but that day he kept hesitating standing up then sitting down several times before daring to open his mouth to speak.
"My colleagues, the drama adapted from the travelogue collection the citizens in the city love and welcome very much, that success I completely do not deny. But there is this matter, a few days ago I had business going down to Millbrook village, accidentally hearing people chatting with each other outside the construction site, I just realized an important thing."
He stopped for a beat taking a breath: "The citizens in the villages located along that canal, the majority have never once set foot stepping through Lyra’s city gate. They only know Lyra’s reputation through the malicious rumors of dishonest merchants, and the rumors are entirely about bizarre monstrous things, monsters with sorcery. They have never come into contact meeting a decent non-human person, nor have they ever heard anyone telling how the people rescued brought back by Lyra city had to live a miserable life previously."
He carefully placed on the meeting table a stack of draft papers: "Therefore I have an ambition wanting to make a completely new radio drama. The script will not be taken from the travelogue book anymore, but will take material from the exact true life stories of the slaves rescued by us."
The meeting room suddenly fell silent for a moment. The person speaking up breaking the atmosphere first was Sane, the Lord who for the entire meeting had lazily sat crossing his legs at the head of the table position, his demeanor looking as if he did not bother paying attention to anyone.
"Just do it."
Kaelen also smiled nodding in agreement, but he carefully instructed George a few principles further. That exploiting anyone’s personal story mandatorily must ask that very person’s opinion first, only when they nod agreeing can it be brought out to tell. Whoever is hesitant not wanting to use their real name the director must automatically change the character’s name. However bitterly people recount their life story then write the script exactly like that, absolutely not allowed to arbitrarily add tragedy or suffering to them just for the sake of making the drama sound better.
George respectfully bowed receiving the word, hugging the draft paper stack walking outside starting the work.
Throughout more than half a month later, every day George patiently hugged a notebook wandering throughout all reclamation groups in the East town. He knocked on every house door, sat flat down before the shelter tent door or beside a half-built raw brick wall, caringly asking people if they wanted to recount their life story for everyone to hear together.
The majority of people hearing the proposal all shook their heads refusing. Some people wanted to forget the past, not wanting to recall painful memories. Some people harbored fear what if telling the story on the speaker then their old master heard it and would come finding catching them back. Some people even after attentively listening to George’s entire explanation still bewilderedly did not understand what benefit they got from recounting their story for a whole other village to hear.
But among them there were also people nodding agreeing to share.
Blacksmith Durk old man was the first pioneer. He sorrowfully recounted his story breaking his back doing the blacksmith profession exhaustingly for a whole lifetime, just because of a debt with compounding interest that in a moment his workshop was seized lost, his wife was also lost, his freedom right to be a human was also lost. Finishing recounting the story, he even carefully shouted instructing George that when writing the script he must record the name of his precious forging hammer really accurately.
Continuing after Mr. Durk was a Beastman family belonging to the Fox clan staying in group twelve. The couple was separated sold switching to two different generations of masters exhaustingly throughout eight whole years, until luckily stepping foot onto the same rescue ship of the Maritime Fleet they accidentally recognized each other and reunited right on the ship’s deck.
The third person agreeing was a young girl living in group nine.
That girl sat cowering silently for a very long time before beginning opening her mouth to recount. She was caught sold away since the year she just turned twelve, the person personally coming leading her away was the iron-faced butler of a powerful lord, he declared saying catching her away was to deduct into the tax debt money her father still owed.
About the old house she did not remember much anymore, only vaguely remembering the house had a wooden door painted bright red. Beside the entrance door was a water well where the iron crank handle had been warped bending, whenever pulling spinning a lap it rubbed squeaking. she still remembered deeply engraved in her memory every time her old father climbed up onto the roof re-roofing the thatched roof, he happily whistled a folk song tune that he personally thought of himself.
That entire village no one knew how to whistle that tune, only the two father and daughter knew it with each other.
"Girl, do you still remember that whistling tune?" George choked up asking.
The girl nodded lightly, then hesitantly softly hummed into sound. That tune was very very short only, only having a mere few sentences, the melody rising falling slowly peacefully like the sound of a passing breeze blowing through the thatched roof. She finished humming the tune then lowered her face looking down, sadly saying that she herself now also did not know whether her father was still alive in the world or not.
She agreed letting George bring recounting her story onto the broadcasting station, only asking the director to have pity changing her real name to Liss.
George locked himself exhaustingly writing the script throughout several sleepless nights in a row at the City Hall. Having just finished writing the first draft, he immediately brought it up submitting for Mayor Elric to read and approve.
The authoritative Mayor having just skimmed reading halfway through the text had to pull a handkerchief out dabbing, finishing reading the silk handkerchief was soaking wet. When returning the paper stack to him, Mr. Elric even had to deliberately turn his face away to another place, coughing pretending as if dust flew into his eyes to hide his emotion.
The people stepping forward receiving voice acting roles in the drama were entirely the local citizens in the city voluntarily volunteering. The role of the hardworking mother in little Liss’s story was undertaken by a clothes washerwoman on Dyer street, her voice raising warmly and inspiringly to the point the listener naturally felt their heart soften.
The role of the cruel human trafficker guy was entrusted to a blacksmith belonging to the Dwarf clan, having a booming resonant voice like thunder. He had a talent for role-playing reaching the level that on the first rehearsal day, little Ivy assigned by the director voice acting the role of little Liss when young was shouted at intimidatingly by him for one sentence, the little girl was so scared she burst into real tears, making the whole rehearsal session having to temporarily pause for everyone to gather around coaxing.
That blacksmith felt so guilty to the point several days later, whenever accidentally facing Ivy at the City Hall he awkwardly shoved handing her a few tiny gifts personally chiseled and forged by his own hands to atone.
While George was busy locking himself writing the script, chief craftsman Borin along with the robust Dwarf clan worker group were also extremely busy constructing pulling the broadcasting speaker wire line all the way to the villages.
They exhaustingly buried tall wooden poles along the newly opened dirt road running parallel to the canal, measuring exactly fifty footsteps burying firmly one pole. On the top head of every wooden pole was nailed fixing several snow-white porcelain insulating knobs fired personally by the pottery workshop in the city.
The wave-conducting copper wire was skillfully hung draped onto those porcelain knobs, pulled extremely taut transmitting from this pole to that pole. At the empty land plot located beside the abandoned windmill of Millbrook village, they erected a wooden pole larger and significantly taller than the rest, on top proudly attaching a brass amplifying trumpet speaker. In the East reclamation town area, every group was favorably attached dividing one speaker.
The first historic evening the trumpet speaker in Millbrook buzzed emitting human voices, the entire village flocked dragging each other out standing crowding tightly under the pole foot.
Remembering previously, the miserable Millbrook villagers originally had the habit of climbing onto the bed sleeping since the sun just hid extinguishing its sunlight. The village was destitute, buying lighting oil was also expensive, these past few months they were embargoed by the damn Merchant Guild bunch not allowed to be sold to, the sky already turning dark then what trick did the farmers know to do besides climbing onto the bed lying to pass the meal.
Yet since the day that magical speaker appeared, arriving at dusk every house every person called each other carrying chairs out to the empty plot sitting waiting. Adults found a spot sitting proudly on chairs, children lay scattered sitting flat on the ground or fought each other climbing up sitting cross-legged on their fathers’ shoulders.
Old woman Agnes was always the person managing to grab a beautiful seat at the position closest to the speaker pole, her aged hands nimbly knitting wool, her ears pricked up listening to the drama, finishing knitting one row she stopped her hands to attentively listen to a climax segment.
The first broadcast drama episode was recounting Durk old man’s life story. The Millbrook villagers hearing the grumpy old blacksmith man grumbling arguing with his own iron hammer held their bellies laughing tilting backward, then hearing the miserable segment where his forging workshop was seized everyone fell speechlessly silent because of pity.
The second episode switched to recounting the reuniting story of the Fox clan Beastman couple. Arriving at the tragically dramatic segment where the two people recognized each other’s faces on the rescue ship’s deck, several housewives in the village competed using their shirt hems wiping tears crying sniffling, several tough men pretended to cough continuously to hide their choking up.
Gradually over time, there were not only Millbrook villagers gathering arriving to listen. The citizens in the neighboring villages hearing the catchy rumors also invited each other wading the long road arriving.
Some people even had to walk wading streams taking up to half an hour, their hands always holding ready a blazing torch so that later when returning there was something to illuminate the way. The dilapidated empty plot beside the abandoned windmill every night was packed tightly with human figures, gathering even more crowdedly than the day the trial court session took place.
The evening broadcasting the third drama episode, Mr. Rudd was also present mixed inside that crowd.
Mr. Rudd originally worked the roof-thatching profession living solitarily in Oakhurst village, a poor small village located about half an hour walking downstream toward the West from Millbrook. The old man this year was already approaching nearly fifty years old, living solitarily alone in the wattle-and-daub house right at the head of the village. That evening he himself also did not intend to go listen to the drama for what, it was only because the neighbor next door kept inviting dragging him forever so he finally had to click his tongue following to have a companion. Because arriving late he could not find any seat, having to stand crossing his arms leaning his back against the ruined brick wall of the windmill located all the way at the very end of the plot.
The third drama episode officially began. The brass trumpet speaker buzzed for a while like clearing its throat, then the warm resonant voice of the washerwoman rang out crisply, slowly recounting about the life of a pitiful little girl named Liss.
Liss’s house had a wooden door painted red. Beside the entrance door was a dug well, the iron well crank handle had been warped bending, whenever pulling spinning a lap it rubbed squeaking.
Mr. Rudd standing crossing his arms closing his eyes leaning against the wall, hearing absorbing this detail his body twitched slightly.
The drama continued raising its voice. Little Liss often sat huddled under the foot of the bamboo ladder, raising her round eyes looking at her father toilingly climbing up re-roofing the roof. Then suddenly inside the bronze speaker echoed a whistling sound, a short folk song tune, only having a mere few sentences, the melody rising falling rhythmically slowly like the sound of a passing breeze blowing rustling through the thatched roof.
Mr. Rudd was startled standing straight up.
The people standing swarming beside him were passionately letting their souls drift listening to the drama, completely not noticing seeing any unusual matter. Only the neighbor inviting him going together that day accidentally turned his head over, panickedly seeing Mr. Rudd’s face had turned pale as a corpse under the flickering light of the torch, his two rough hands were trembling violently uncontrollably.
That whistling tune ringing out was exactly composed thought of by his own hand. He often whistled it every time having to climb high up roofing a house, whistling back and forth throughout ten-plus years, this entire small Oakhurst village no one whistled following standardly that tune. Only his little daughter, the child often obediently sitting waiting under the ladder foot to carefully hand every single grass bundle up for her father to roof, memorized by heart every single musical note.
That biological daughter was named Elsie. Six endless years ago, the beast-hearted human-faced butler of the lord pulled a gang arriving at his house demanding seizing the still owed tax money debt, he alone without support did not know where to dig finding money to pay.
Those people mercilessly dragged the girl away right in front of his face, while his old body was pressed crashed down to the ground by two robust servants, beaten unable to twitch. That freezing winter year, his wife because of pitying her child fell severely ill then closed her eyes passing away. Since that time he just sullenly lived solitarily alone in the house having the red painted door, every day still exhaustingly pulling water up from the well having the warped bent iron crank handle.
The radio drama episode had ended long ago, the buzzing crowd had also strolled walking back almost completely, but Mr. Rudd still stood rooted like being planted into the ground identically at the ruined wall spot. The neighbor shook calling him several times but he still absent-mindedly did not answer, ultimately the person had to click their tongue leaving returning first.
That night, Mr. Rudd decided not to turn returning home.
He just like that walked going against the stream up toward the North, sullenly along the newly opened dirt road running parallel to the water canal, passing the military checkpoint having the red and white painted barrier pole, passing the desolate gravel strip of land, walking endlessly walking endlessly until seeing the majestic city wall of Lyra appearing faintly towering in the dark night screen.
When the sun just dawned brightening the early morning, the first janitor arriving opening the City Hall gate latch astonishingly saw an emaciated middle-aged man standing like a statue right before the stone steps. His clothes were already soaking wet with freezing cold night dew water, his cloth shoes plastered full of mushy mud, his two calloused hands tightly gripping the old cloth hat having frayed torn brims.
That man completely did not part his lips saying anything at all.
He only silently stood there, raising his bloodshot eyes staring intently up at the still tightly closed pitch-black windows of the City Hall, his posture resolute as if having stood rooted like that for a very long, very long time.