Froheburg was a simple village. Nestled in the shadow of a
single hill, it had a school and a butcher and a movie theater and even a fast
food restaurant. The village was composed of a fairly diverse population and
many people owned pets, with the majority of pet owners being dog owners.
Importantly, the majority of Froheburg’s general population was not dog owners.
There were no dog parks in the village. Froheburg taxpayers did not feel a dog
park was the best use of government money. Instead, the town was enjoying the
new, publicly funded statue of Manchester United footballer Eric Cantona. Dogs
were encouraged not to defecate near the publicly funded statue of Eric
Cantona.
The grass of Froheburgian lawns was unique in that it was
all dead and brown from the unregulated urination of the village’s dog
population.
A few miles from the town proper, where the grass began to
get a little bit greener, a single hut stood. It was a rickety hut, built
centuries ago, with planks that were rotting before construction began. It
housed a single occupant, although sometimes its drooping eaves gave shelter to
another lone being, who only waited and never entered. Crowds of people would
gather near the hut, but they would always keep a safe distance between
themselves and the decaying pile of lumber.
Today the man who lived in the hut was named Walter. Walter
had wanted to become the man who lived in the hut on the mountain since he was
a young boy. And now he was that man. He stayed in the hut during the entirety
of the night. Promptly with the rising of the sun, Walter would squeeze himself
through a gap between a pair of slats in the front of the hut. He would stretch
for roughly five minutes. Then he would walk. He would walk around the hill
with no break until the precise moment the sun set. He would then return to his
hut, squeezing himself through a different gap between a different pair of
slats in a different location on a different wall of his hut. Then he would eat
his only meal of the day, a rustic but extensive feast provided to him by a
generous benefactor living in the village.
Everything Walter did was part of a long ago enshrined
tradition. Even his route around the hill was the result of an infallible
custom. He would walk three times clockwise (his hut serving as the “12”
position of the clock face of course) around the hill, staying roughly two
hundred meters from its peak. Then he would walk counterclockwise, this time
about four hundred meters from the hill’s peak. Then he would sprint as fast as
possible to the peak of the hill and cartwheel head over heels all the way down
to the bottom. Then he would walk back to his hut and repeat the procedure.
Walter was what he always dreamed he would be. His parents
were immeasurably proud of him. His village was understandably grateful that he
was able to fulfill such a necessary service.
Walter’s position was greatly envied among Froheburgians.
Crowds would gather to pay their respects to their greatest citizen. Heirs to
the title would spend years waiting outside the hut, observing a master at work
until their call to duty was announced.
Walter was protecting a great good from a terrible evil.
That is what was contained deep within the hill. It was the greatest, best
thing and it had to be kept out of the hands of the worst. So it was buried
beneath this great hill eons ago and a watchman was posted to keep guard over
it. It’s an important job…
Actually, the hill contains some really evil, powerful, bad
and evil thing. The hill and Walter serve to keep this evil where it belongs:
buried under a hill in near some indistinct, pee-stained village. And it’s
super important. Maybe. Nobody in Froheburg is really sure. But it’s really
important.
Never, in the recorded history of Froheburg, has anyone come
to dig up their hill and either destroy the good that it protects or release
the evil that it contains.
Walter knows why.
Should he smile from pride or cry in shame?
