The mountains were wide and ranging, one peak in particular experienced as awesome—nearest the city, dominating the landscape.

The People called it the home of the Tongue of Lightning.

The storm was born in those mountains, nurtured in its valleys, and released its mature fury down the slope of the home of the Tongue of Lightning—the city being caught in its horrible grip.

None had seen a storm of such ferocity—streets flooded, head-high—shops ruined—park lands scoured to the base rock.

There had been a series of storms in the months preceding but none of the Elite scientists expected this savage monster…

The People said the Tongue of Lightning had sent the storm as a warning.

The Elite in the city had informed the People about the truth of the matter—Wizards are Fantasy—storms are natural phenomena, scientifically measurable occurrences of atmospheric variables.

So, why, the people asked, did the Elite meteorologists not predict this craven usurper of normality—why had the experts predicted a lessening of the stormy episodes?

Why had this last storm ripped buildings to shreds and not killed a single person?

The Elite proclaimed wonder at the lack of deaths, attributed it to statistical variations in people’s behavior that had meshed in just the right way.

The People knew better—the Acolytes had warned them, instructed them in methods to save their lives, even though their livelihoods had been nearly wiped out of existence.

The Acolytes also had contact with the Tongue of Lightning—met with him in the mountains—learned from him what they then, secretly, taught the People.

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He didn’t particularly like the appellation Tongue of Lightning—he was just a man…

A man who had been part of the Elite, arranged for his own “death”, paid to have a public memorial service, was already in the mountains when the service was conducted.

It had taken him twenty years to make his irrevocable decision—withdraw and fight the Elite—empower the People.

Perhaps they could be saved with a living Myth, their latent powers of reason having been stunted by the reign of the Elite.

The man had one friend who helped him find his Acolytes—one woman who could still be rational yet play to the People’s superstitions—a woman who also had “died” yet decided to travel to another country to pursue her life of freedom.

There were nineteen Acolytes—people of good will and lively belief in the powers of the Tongue of Lightning.

They learned from their Wizard and devotedly instructed the people in calm, patience, and silence—letting them know there was a Plan for their Salvation—a way to escape the strangle-hold of the Elite…

The man had lived in the mountains for nine years—years of calculation, planning, and preparation.

With the help of his Acolytes, he’d obtained all the materials needed to seed the mountains with equipment designed to store some of the electromagnetic energy of passing storms, each bout of severe weather adding to the hidden reserve of power.

He cursed the Elite for their subjugation of the People but was grateful for the beginnings of his scientific training that the society had afforded him.

The beginning of his doubts came when he’d been ordered to stop certain of his investigations—methods for utilizing the energy of sunlight to power the electric grid, having other scientists go so far as to publicly denounce his findings as “bad science”—unsupportable hypotheses that could never be actualized.

The other scientists worked for businesses that provided electric power from methane produced by animals. Animals that were raised in massive herds—herds cruelly penned-in to capture their natural release of methane—herds which also provided a staple of the society’s diet.

He’d stopped all his research—started his plans for saving his People from the ignorant and greedy Elite.

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The Chairman of the Board sat in his office dealing with the reports of damage and sending proclamations out to the People about the plans for reconstruction.

He silently thanked fate for the foresight of his scientists—those who recommended the headquarters of the Elite be constructed to withstand storms like the one just passed.

He finished his sending of proclamations and spoke to the woman seated on the other side of his desk:

“This is a wonderful opportunity.”

“It is?”

“Use your brain—we promise them reconstruction and plead for their understanding as we enforce stricter laws for their protection during this time of crisis…”

“Have you seen the handouts with the predictions from the Tongue of Lightning?”

“I don’t have time for such drivel.”

“He predicted you’d enforce new laws, said the People may not have died from the storm but would from the new laws…”

“So some crank in the mountains says things—does he have any power?”

“He certainly has a following…”

“Well, those followers can learn another lesson in Reality—make a note for a meeting with my legal staff. We need a few hundred arrests, perhaps a few executions to curb this desire for salvation from a demented charlatan.”

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The man sat in his cave—the one no one else entered—what his Acolytes called the Holy Place.

He opened his wooden refrigerator and grabbed a clay pot of cool tea—poured some into a glass, a gift from his Acolytes—one of the gifts they gave him in adoration. Other gifts were those he requested, across the years—gifts that had permitted his creation of the means for the salvation of his People.

He sipped and pondered:

Almost time…

Acolytes well along in preparing livable spaces…

Equipment ready…

Need to firm-up plans for evacuation…

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The Chairman publicly denounced the Tongue of Lightning, expressed his extreme reluctance at carrying out the lawful execution of certain individuals who had spread dangerous rumors concerning the purported wizard’s plan for their salvation—had a group of distinguished scientific advisors speak to the impossiblility of worse storms—the scientific proof that better weather was assured by the cycles of nature.

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The man readied his scientifically-created generators—prepared to cause worse storms—announced to his Acolytes the Time of The End.

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The Chairman relayed his order to the Elite—any defectors to the People’s cause would be publicly executed.

The Acolytes relayed their orders to the People—lay low and mentally rehearse the evasion procedures.

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The first three storms unleashed by the Tongue of Lightning were bad but not devastating—just powerful enough to keep the minions of the Elite busy with flood-diversions and protection of Elite buildings.

The final storm, occurring after the People had escaped the city, drove every member of the Elite, along with their aides, into the Central Headquarters—corralled them into the only safe building left—brought them into isolated survival…

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The People settled in their new, most-primitive homes—joyous and free.

The Elite survived the storm but had to subsist, as best they could, in their Central Headquarters—penned-up and defeated.

The Tongue of Lightning prepared for his most arduous task—educating the People in the Way of Truth—slowly and painstakingly disabusing them of their superstitions and leading them toward a new life—eventually revealing to them that, apart from his knowledge, he was just like them…

By Alexander Zoltai

From: United States

Website: https://nfaa.wordpress.com/