torsdag den 7. november 2019

Susan in Paris 4

The  photo-prompts from  23. October turned into a very long tale. I'll have to post it in more than one installment. I hope to publish a little part of the story every day.

 After the visit to the flea market they drove on, down interminable roads, through fields of sunflower and corn, the sun was bright and hot, and both Susan and Linda slept curled up in the backseat of the car. Susan held the still swaddled gargoyle cradled in her arm all the time.
 A rapping at the windows woke up Susan, Linda slept on. Mum and Dad spoke to a customs officer, showed him their their passports, answered No or Nein to a couple of questions, and were waved on.
"Did you get us a stamp?" Susan asked.
"No sorry, Susan, I forgot to ask."
"Oh, well," Susan said, "I'll just have to satisfy myself with the ones from the service stations."
 She and Linda each had a small play passport from a gas station back in Denmark. It had a data page in front with spaces for name and so on, and the rest were blank pages, much like a real passport, and you could have a stamp from most any service station and customs officers all over Europe. And when you returned home and showed the passport to the service station manager, you were given a small prize.
Not much later Dad left  the highway and they entered a small German town. It looked like something from a fairy tale, timber-framed houses with flowers everywhere. Dad obviously knew something, as he drove straight for an inn near the river. It was a charming little house, all the wooden parts were painted a dusty spring green the walls were white and the roof was covered with green tiles. This green white theme repeated itself in the awnings, the flower pots and even the covers on the beds. It was so like a castle, that they began feeling a bit royal the moment they went through the door.
 Susan and Linda did not agree on who were going to sleep in what bed, They both wanted the one with a canopy. But in the end Susan just gave in. "Oh you take the canopy bed, Linda. I'm going to lie on my bed by the window, and pretend I'm a werewolf waiting for the full moon to rise over the city."
 Linda smiled. "I'm going to be a Princess waiting for my knight on a white horse then. You've better take care. He has a silver sword and a wonderful shield."
 Susan sat down on the bed by the window and was about to unpack the gargoyle, when Mom came in. "Are you ready, girls? No, I can see that you're not. Comb your hairs, pack your tote bags and wash your hands. It seems there's some kind of moon festival going on in the city."
 "Yes Mom!" Linda and Susan said as one. And hurriedly they did as Mum had told them. Susan put the bestiary, her drawing stuff and after a short pause also the gargoyle into her tote bag. Linda of course packed the Mario game and drawing stuff as well.  Soon they were done and walked out on the terrace.
 They walked down to a park by the river. The drums could be heard from far off over the waters' sounds. They arrived at a big, free space, probably the market square. It was bordered by trees on three sides, and the river on the fourth. Today it was topped with fresh gravel and flagpoles were put up from which pennants with strange signs flew in the breeze.
 "That looks a lot like Chinese letters." Linda said. "Just like the writings on the rice bowls you brought home from China, Dad. Am I right?"
 Dad had been a sailor before he met Mum, and they had many wonderful things at home from his travels. Also rice bowls and chopsticks, which Dad had taught them to use.
 "Yes," Dad said, "they do look Chinese to me as well, but they could be Japanese as well. They look very much the same to me."
 A bell was struck, or maybe a gong. After a while a loud male voice rose above the crowds: They could see a man dressed like an old fashioned town crier, carrying a megaphone on a small platform in the other end of the field. "And now we give the stage over to a Japanese dancing and drumming team all the way from Australia: The Prosperous Mountain Lion Dance! Give them a hand!"

I'm almost sure the Kanji on their tops say "Prosperous Mountain"
 And to the applause from many hands the drummers came running in, They were dressed in very colourful clothes, flowery pants and yellow tank tops with Japanese signs on them. A boy and a girl began drumming away and another boy dressed in traditional black Japanese dress began playing a flute. After a short while two persons with monstrous lion heads entered the scene. They staged a play in time to the music, but the symbolism and meaning were lost on most of the spectators.
 The drummers stopped, the lions stood still, and the Town crier announced in his megaphone: "The Lion dance is traditionally a new year's dance, supposed to bring good luck. During the next part of the dance, the lions are going to bite some of you. They are not trying to hurt you, but to ward off evil spirits. Do not be afraid to touch the Lions or to be touched by them!"
 The boy with the flute began reciting something that sounded like a poem, it could have been a cooking recipe or a spell for all they understood. But as he recited, the drummers began drumming wildly, the lions reared and began a stirring dance, moving their lower jaws, snapping after the spectators and generally behaving like wild, dangerous beasts. 

 Susan stood still, lost in the splendor of the dance, when suddenly one of the lions sneaked up close and bit her soundly in the arm. Susan gave a short, shrill scream, and almost dropped her bag. She thought she saw a triumphant grin on the face of the lion before it whirled away to snap its painted jaws on another hypnotized victims.

...to be continued.

4 kommentarer:

  1. Oooooh.
    Soon please. I am loving this. So much.

    SvarSlet
    Svar
    1. Thank you EC. I have realized that if I am ever going to catch up with the WfW I have to publish an installment each and every day. Let's see what happens.

      Slet
  2. Did he do that on purpose, trying to get the gargoyle? Now i will wonder. Your stories are so interesting and fun!

    SvarSlet

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