"They're stupid, all of them are stupid and lazy," said a stubborn Oliver.
He was perched on top of a tree, observing all the inhabitants of his small village.
"Stupid and lazy," he repeated, annoyed. He hated how they looked at him.
Oliver was a dark-skinned boy with curly hair and an athletic body due to his love for chopping wood in the mountains, exploring trails, and engaging in climbing activities. That had given him well-defined biceps that he liked to show off in the solitude of his room.
Only a few hours remained until his 20th birthday, but he didn't want to be in the village. He preferred to observe from that tree branch. Soon, in those mountains far from civilization, dawn would break, and it would be his 20th birthday.
"Will it be better if I leave?" Oliver said with an annoyed tone. "They believe I will be the savior of the village, that I will make the crops flourish and prevent misfortune. Stupid people, leaving everything to the mercy of fate, to the gossip of an old woman who occasionally gets minor events right."
It was his habit to climb up there before dawn.
"Oh my God! Oliver, come down right now," his mother's voice shouted.
Oliver bit his tongue hard and suppressed the urge to scream.
"I don't want to, Mom," he replied, repressing the urge to shout.
"It's your birthday, the village is organizing a whole event for it. You must be respectful and attend."
"I don't want to, mother. They're all useless, expecting me to restore the village," he muttered.
Then, he recited the prophecy:
Listen, oh mortals! to the prophecy that springs from the lips
of the old witch, bearer of ancient secrets.
The crops, under the influence of pagan gods,
shall become bountiful, pouring forth abundant meals.
And in the years to come, the village shall unfold,
like a seed that sprouts and rises with divine fervor.
Its growth shall be exponential, a torrent on the rise,
until it reaches the heights of power and greatness.
But in the designs of destiny, a name shall emerge,
Oliver, the prodigious child, the new creator of life.
In his hands lies the key to transformation,
guiding the people towards the splendor of a resplendent kingdom.
Under his gaze, the land shall be adorned with lushness,
and the fruits shall multiply with prodigious abundance.
The village shall flourish, uniting its voices in harmony,
while the new kingdom rises with divine majesty.
He recited all this mockingly, laughing and imagining how those people had been wishing for his 20th birthday, but he didn't feel special at all. However, his mother downstairs did think so, and a lot.
"Oliver, come down this instant or face my consequences. I haven't spent 20 years teaching you leadership, agriculture, mathematics, and reading for 2 years of my life to wipe your ass in vain," she shouted furiously.
Oliver rolled his eyes and leapt from the height to the ground, landing unharmed and creating a huge crater in the ground.
Hours later, he stood in front of the entire village, watching as the most beautiful women in the place performed a choreography, undoubtedly aiming to be related to him. He observed everything bored, not hiding his displeasure. He didn't like people worshiping him as if he were a god.
"Is it to your liking, young sir?" said Mayor Franchezca.
Franchezca had been serving as the mayor for about two years, but she was equally as inefficient as the others. Everyone expected him to step up and run for office, to change the fate of the town. The only thing they did was try to ingratiate themselves with the child who would anticipate the misfortunes and save them from oblivion.
"No, and no. All that money could have been used for the crops," he said, annoyed.
The regret of having said that. By his side was the town scribe, Mr. Hive, a childhood companion of his, but since he had learned to write, he had recorded any sentence of his to keep it for posterity.
"Too cool as always. The maker fulfilling his prophecies, as always," the boy said, expressing himself with his square glasses and his tattered notebook. "Say something else, another truth that people don't keep to themselves."
However, Oliver decided to keep his mouth shut. His mother was on the other side of town talking to the local botanist, Mr. Herbicio. She was distracted because ever since Oliver's father had passed away 10 years ago, she had been infatuated with the botanist. However, he didn't approve of that union.
The person who had encouraged his mother to have him seen was him, and the person who had always urged his mother to prepare him was him. Because his late father was a lumberjack just like Oliver, and he disapproved of all that wasteful optimism.
"That witch is just taking advantage of everyone," his father used to say during Oliver's daily lessons.
His father had died because the town doctor hadn't educated himself, believing that misfortunes would come when Oliver turned 20 and everything would be resolved. The same went for the other professionals in town. The blacksmith only made the ordinary, the teachers didn't educate themselves beyond the basics, and the spirit of exploration did not exist in their town.
"Useless," he said, furiously recalling those memories.
He had risen from his chair, but at that moment, the young Cool boy stood in his way.
"Are you leaving the town?" the boy said coldly. "Just when they need you the most after all this wastefulness," he said.
Both shared the same opinions. However, Oliver was fed up with so much foolishness. The witch never manifested again; she had mysteriously disappeared many years ago.
Oliver was about to respond to the boy, but he decided against it and left. He passed through the drunken dancers, ignoring his mother's pleading cries as she realized he was leaving. First, he quickened his pace, then ran intensely all the way home. There, he grabbed the backpack he would take on his journey and left the town.
However, as he ventured deeper into the forest, admiring the mountains, he came across Cool. The boy was dressed the same way and perched on a large cliff. He was Hive's younger brother.
"If you leave for good, the town will fall into anarchy," the boy said calmly, stepping down from the high cliff.
Oliver looked at him. They were alike in that sense, both were athletic, had great endurance, and were very intelligent.
"Well, I leave them in your hands. Do your best to make them prosper, but I won't fulfill that prophecy," he said, annoyed. "Because of it, my father died, because of it, the town is so closed off, and because of it, my life has been a joke. I want to go where no one knows me or my name."
Young Cool shrugged.
"I don't care, I can take care of the town. Come back in 20 years, and you'll see what I've achieved. Do you trust me?"
Oliver looked at the young boy. He was shrewd and very cold, hence his name. Since he could remember, he had been in his classes, and what he hadn't understood, the boy had taught him, along with his hatred for the town. However, he had grown up in anonymity, without the social pressure he had grown up with.
Before leaving, he nodded and bid farewell to the boy with a modest salute.
Twenty years later, now a feudal lord of his own kingdom, he returned to his town. Oliver had lived countless adventures, faced countless bandits, defeated chimeras, and tamed his own dragon. He was the hero of the continent. But he remembered his promise and returned to the mountains, that part of the world he had wanted to forget. He returned with his children and grandchildren.
"What the devil!" exclaimed his entire entourage.
What he observed upon arriving near his town was a great city. The boy had far surpassed his expectations.
"Is this your town?" asked his eldest son, named Oliver Jr.
"Let's find out!" exclaimed Oliver.
—Son estúpidos, todos ellos son estúpidos y holgazanes —dijo un Oliver obstinado.
Estaba en la copa de un árbol, observando a todos los habitantes de su pequeño pueblo.
—Estúpido y holgazanes —repitió molesto. Odiaba cómo lo miraban.
Oliver era un chico de tez morena, cabello enrulado y un atlético cuerpo debido a que le gustaba ir a cortar leña a las montañas, explorar senderos y realizar actividades de escalada. Eso le había permitido tener unos buenos bíceps que le gustaba lucir en la soledad de su cuarto.
Faltaban pocas horas para su cumpleaños número 20, pero no quería estar en el pueblo. Prefería observar desde aquella copa del árbol. Pronto, en aquellas montañas alejadas de la civilización, amanecería y sería su cumpleaños número 20.
—¿Será que si me voy, será lo mejor? —dijo Oliver con un tono molesto—. Ellos creen que seré el salvador del pueblo, que alzaré y volveré fructíferas las cosechas, que evitaré los males. Estúpidos, dejan todo a merced de un destino, de unas habladurías de una vieja que acierta algunos eventos mínimos.
Era su costumbre subir ahí antes de que amaneciera.
—¡Dios mío! Oliver, baja ahora mismo —gritaba la voz de su madre.
Oliver se mordió la lengua con fuerza y contuvo las ganas de gritar.
—No quiero, mamá —respondió reprimiendo las ganas de chillar.
—Es tu cumpleaños, el pueblo está organizando todo un evento por ello. Debes ser respetuoso y cumplir con asistir.
—No quiero, madre. Todos son unos inútiles que esperan que restaure el pueblo —masculló.
Entonces, recitó la profecía:
Escucha ¡oh mortales! la profecía que brota de los labios
de la vieja bruja, portadora de secretos ancestrales.
Las cosechas, bajo el influjo de los dioses paganos,
se tornarán generosas, derramando comidas abundantes.
Y en los años venideros, el pueblo se desplegará,
cual semilla que germina y se eleva con ímpetu divino.
Su crecimiento será exponencial, un torrente en ascenso,
hasta alcanzar las alturas del poderío y la grandeza.
Pero en los designios del destino, un nombre se erige,
Oliver, el niño prodigio, el nuevo hacedor de vida.
En sus manos está la clave de la transformación,
guiando al pueblo hacia el esplendor de un reino resplandeciente.
Bajo su mirada, la tierra se vestirá de frondosidad,
y los frutos se multiplicarán con prodigiosa abundancia.
El pueblo florecerá, uniendo sus voces en armonía,
mientras el nuevo reino se alza con majestuosidad divina.
Todo esto lo recitó de manera burlona, riéndose imaginando cómo habían estado esas personas deseando que cumpliera los 20 años, pero él no se sentía nada especial. Sin embargo, su madre abajo sí lo pensaba y mucho.
—Oliver, baja en este mismo instante o te atendrás a mis consecuencias. No he pasado 20 años enseñándote liderazgo, agricultura, matemáticas y a leer para que pases 2 años de mi vida limpiándote el culo en vano —gritaba ella furiosa.
Oliver torció los ojos y se lanzó desde lo alto hasta el suelo, cayendo ileso y abriendo un enorme cráter en el suelo.
Horas después estaba delante de todo el pueblo viendo cómo hacían una coreografía las mujeres más bellas del lugar, seguramente con el objetivo de emparentarlas con él. Todo lo contemplaba aburrido, sin disimular su desagrado. No le gustaba que la gente le rindiera pleitesía como si fuera un dios.
—¿Es de su agrado, señorito? —dijo la alcaldesa Franchezca.
Franchezca llevaba unos dos años ejerciendo de alcaldesa, pero era igual de ineficiente que los demás. Todos esperaban que él decidiera postularse y cambiar el destino del pueblo. Lo único que hacían era intentar congraciarse con el niño que anticiparía las desgracias y los salvaría del olvido.
—No y no. Todo ese dinero lo podrían haber utilizado para las cosechas —dijo molesto.
Lamento haber dicho eso. A su lado estaba el escribano del pueblo, el señorito Hive, un compañero suyo desde la niñez, pero desde que había aprendido a escribir, había anotado cualquier frase suya para guardarla para la posteridad.
—Demasiado genial como siempre. El hacedor cumpliendo con sus profecías, como siempre —dijo el chico, manifestándose con sus gafas cuadriculadas y su cuaderno harapiento—. Diga otra, otra verdad que la gente no se guarda.
Sin embargo, Oliver decidió cerrar la boca. Su madre estaba al otro lado del pueblo hablando con el botánico del lugar, el señor Herbicio. Estaba distraída porque, desde que el padre de Oliver había fallecido hace 10 años, ella estaba coladita por el botánico. Sin embargo, él no aprobaba esa unión.
La persona que había alentado a su madre a que él fuera visto era él, y la persona que siempre le había instado a su madre a prepararlo había sido él. Porque su fallecido padre era un leñador igual que Oliver y desaprobaba todo ese derroche de optimismo.
—Esa bruja solo se está aprovechando de todos —decía su padre cuando a Oliver le daban sus lecciones diarias.
Su padre había muerto porque el médico del pueblo no se había instruido, pensando que las desgracias llegarían el día que él cumpliera 20 y todo se solucionaría. Lo mismo pasaba con los demás profesionales que había en el pueblo. El herrero solo fabricaba lo rutinario, las maestras no se instruían más allá de lo básico y los ánimos de exploración no existían en su pueblo.
—Inútiles —dijo furioso recordando aquello.
Se había levantado de su silla, pero justo en ese momento el jovencito Cool se interpuso en su camino.
—¿Te vas del pueblo? —dijo el niño con frialdad—. Cuando más te necesitan después de tanto despilfarro —dijo.
Ambos compartían las mismas opiniones. Sin embargo, Oliver estaba harto de tanta necedad. La bruja ni siquiera volvió a manifestarse nunca más, había desaparecido misteriosamente hace muchos años.
Oliver iba a contestarle al chico, pero decidió no hacerlo y se marchó. Pasó a través de las personas que bailaban borrachas e hizo caso omiso a los gritos suplicantes de su madre al percatarse de que se iba. Primero aceleró sus pasos, luego corrió con intensidad hasta su hogar. Ahí sustrajo la mochila que se llevaría para el viaje y se marchó del pueblo.
Sin embargo, mientras se iba adentrando en el bosque e iba observando las montañas, se topó con Cool. El chico tenía las mismas vestimentas y estaba posado en un gran risco. El chico era el hermano menor de Hive.
—Si te marchas definitivamente, el pueblo caerá en la anarquía —dijo el niño bajando tranquilamente del alto risco.
Oliver lo miró. Ambos eran iguales en ese sentido, hacían deporte, tenían gran resistencia y eran muy inteligentes.
—Pues los dejo en tus manos. Haz lo posible para que prosperen, pero yo no voy a cumplir esa profecía —dijo molesto—. Por ella, mi padre murió, por ella el pueblo es tan cerrado y por ella mi vida ha sido una estupidez. Quiero ir a donde nadie me conozca ni sepa mi nombre.
El jovencito Cool se encogió de hombros.
—No me importa, puedo hacerme cargo del pueblo. Ven en 20 años y verás lo que he logrado. ¿Confías en mí?
Oliver miró al jovencito. Era avispado y muy frío, por eso su nombre. Desde que tenía uso de razón, había estado en sus clases y lo que no había comprendido, él se lo había enseñado, así como su odio al pueblo. Sin embargo, él había ido creciendo en el anonimato, no tenía la presión social con la que él había crecido.
Antes de marcharse, asintió y se despidió del niño con un modesto saludo.
Veinte años después, cuando ya era todo un señor feudal de su propio reino, regresó a su pueblo. Oliver había vivido incontables aventuras, se había enfrentado a innumerables bandidos, derrotado quimeras y dominado su propio dragón. Era el héroe del continente. Pero recordó su promesa y regresó a las montañas, esa parte del mundo que había querido olvidar. Regresaba con sus hijos y nietos.
—¡Qué demonios! —dijo todo su séquito.
Lo que observó al llegar a las inmediaciones de su pueblo era una gran ciudad. El chico había superado con creces sus expectativas.
—¿Este es tu pueblo? —preguntó su hijo mayor, llamado Oliver Jr.
—¡Averigüémoslo! —exclamó Oliver.
Cover and Banner made in Canva; Image generated in Canva by AI, Separators made in photoshop
This is very delightful to read, the name Mr Hive made me chuckle and got mind thinking about our blockchain.
Cool achieved his goal, he took his town forward. When Oliver returned after twenty years. He found that Cool, succeeded in the development of his town.
An interesting story that reminds us of the adventures of the hero and that every human being, after the years and adversities, change. Greetings
saviour. Oliver therefore wants to leave the village and that is exactly what he does on his 20th birthday. There are, however, some issues that unfortunately distracted this reader. I will share some key anomalies with you and hope that you can appreciate the way in which they tend to impact the enjoyment of your piece.Your story appears to have a decent blend of narrative, action, and dialogue, is unusual and somewhat interesting, @ricardo993. Oliver sees the prophecy as ludicrous and feels that the villagers have lost impetus and motivation to succeed through their own endeavours, as they place too much reliance in the safety blanket of their
(1) Oliver is perched on top of a tree, a couple of hours before dawn. This would make it very dark. It is darkest just before dawn as the light from the sun has not yet become visible over the horizon. How does Oliver therefore observe everyone in the village in the dark? How does his mother see him high up in the tree and hold a conversation with him? Why is she even awake?
(2) In the passage below you suddenly switch for one paragraph from 3rd person to 1st person and it is disconcerting.
(3) Oliver is 20 years old when he leaves the village. He returns 20 years later with his children and grandchildren. Given that he would have had to find a wife and then have children, even if he met someone immediately, we would be expecting his eldest child to be maybe 19 years old and that child would have to be a father for Oliver to be a grandfather. This would put Oliver's son at having kids when he was 17/18 years of age. While possible, it is not immediately as believable as if you had instead made his absence extend to 25-30 years.
(4) With the villagers having such a strong belief in Oliver and the prophecy, we wonder how they managed to switch allegiance to Cool. This part is never explained. Given the emphasis you placed on the prophecy by virtue of the real estate you dedicated to it in your post, it would seem that this piece should at least be explained. A little more story development could have fleshed this out.
(5) Just a consideration: the prophecy could be seen as a somewhat blasphemous parody which some readers may find slightly offensive.
Thank you for writing in The Ink Well. We do look forward to your stories each week.
Hehehe they got me with so many details. The second point they mention, I should correct it, I made a mistake. The story inspired me in Terry Pratchett's style, but something different came out.
I kept the other details to myself, because this story also has more to it. Oliver and the villagers are not normal humans, that's why the jump from the treetop to the ground, that's why Cool was waiting for him so quickly on the outskirts of the village. They are not ordinary human beings, as for the children and grandchildren, it can be explained, but they gave me many ideas regarding that, as well as the story apart from Cool.
Thank you very much for keeping an eye on it, that's why you are my favorite community, those comments are worth gold. Greetings
withholding info because the story will be part of a larger piece one day, fair enough. From an Ink Well perspective though that makes it a little more challenging to curate.We enjoy reading you, @ricardo993. We don't spend this much time on a detailed comment unless we think the writer is worth it. If you are
I've read Pratchett & Gaiman's Good Omens so I get what you are doing now, but even Pratchett lays the groundwork for the reader to appreciate the tongue in cheek humour in his stories by providing a blurb on the back cover, and some back story 😂... I admire writers who experiment and push themselves to create beyond their comfort zones. The time spent invested in providing a detailed response is because I believe in you and care about your work as a writer.
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