Shennong
New member
As Nashville lost power for the second time in 12 hours, hundreds of passing trucks sputtered and died. The steering columns locked up of those worst-affected, sending the trucks careening into freeway barriers and grinding to a halt in a mess of collisions and twisted steel. Of these, one truck was special. It carried cargo loaded months ago and left un-inspected since it departed New Delhi. Once it came to a halt, the truck driver frantically began trying to rouse his phone from its frozen state, trying to get through to his insurance before everyone else around him choked the lines. It was, of course, no use. The phone was dead. The cell towers were dead. All lines in and out of Nashville were dead. And while he stared at his phone, the occupant of his trailer quietly lifted the latch, jumped down, and began the long walk downtown.
But this wasn't where the quiet figure's story started.
His story begins 4 hours from now, as Nashville began to wake up, and Taipei's night markets were beginning to wind down.
Linjiang Night Market
Taipei, Taiwan
About 10pm local time, 8am Nashville
A fine mist hangs in the air above the bustling street, scattering the polychromatic light of a thousand neon signs advertising the chance to purchase anything legal and many things that weren't. Amidst the crowd of shoppers forced into neat columns by the narrow walkways between market stalls, an old man walks as fast as his sore feet, tired muscles, and aching joints would allow, which is to say very slowly. He wears a long sheet of rough canvas wrapped around his body and tied in a knot. His sheet is dirty from a long day spent toiling in the dirt under wild trees, twisted from harsh conditions in the first few years of their life, but nevertheless doted upon by this ancient farmer. Slung over one shoulder is a cauldron full of water that he manages to spill very little of, despite his meandering footsteps. The cauldron hangs from a bamboo stick, at the other end of which hangs a bindle carrying all his other earthly possessions, mostly cups, but also a flint, steel, tinder, and kindling. Under his other shoulder, he carries a bamboo hat that he wove himself. It spent all day protecting his nearly bald head from the harsh sun, but now he uses it to carry a pile of slightly damp leaves, freshly picked from his beloved trees.
Finding a corner of an intersection between the main market street and a side street with just enough room, he sets down the cauldron and builds a fire at its base. A couple officers of the law see him and cross the market to confront him, but before they could speak, he gave each of them a cup of tea from his cauldron. Out of politeness or some other force, they paused for a moment and drank the tea. By the time they finished, they had forgotten his infraction and had begun chatting with each other, and the members of the crowd growing around the old farmer's cauldron.
Whenever anyone around the old farmer was without tea, Shennong works tirelessly to provide it for them. But once all were taken care of, he sits on the ground and closes his eyes, giving all outward appearances of slumber, except for the occasional moments where he awakes to tend the flame under his cauldron. But in truth, he never slept. Instead, he quietly listened to those around him, their desire to bear all suddenly lubricated by his wild tea.
One topic worked its way into every conversation. The revelation that gods walked among mortals, and all the implications it had. Something had happened in America, he gathered. It was being broadcast on every television and radio station and was all over the internet, none of which were things Shennong was aware of. Instead, he got his news from the lips of others, and trusted them to filter out the chaff that wasn't worth his time, even it meant also having to hear the news through the lens of mortal insecurities. And right now the biggest insecurity was the threat of imminent war. Within America, but also between the other countries of the world, as the fragile balance of power suddenly shifted to countries with more gods.
Shennong quietly worked until the stalls of the night market began to close around him. He served his last cup of tea to an elderly man who had made the trip just to see the old farmer. They chat for some time, in the way of those who had outlived their usefulness and who now had nothing better to do. It was the early hours of the morning when he bids the man farewell and packed up his things.
If it had been any other day, he would have made the trek back to his sacred trees. However, the evening's conversations painted a clear picture of what he must do, even if it was more than a day late and on the wrong side of the world.
Shennong begins a long trek south to Kaohsiung. It takes him days hiking by the side of the highway. From time to time, someone stops. He gives them tea, and they drive him part of the way. But eventually he makes it to the biggest port in Taiwan, out of which 9 of every 10 silicon chips are shipped, and nearly all of the most complex ones. But the old farmer knows nothing of this. He serves tea to passers-by and chats. He listens to their concerns and speaks only to mention his desire to reach the mainland. After days of chatting, one person offers him a ride on a container ship, which he graciously accepts.
The trip to the mainland is not far, but is delayed for several days as rising tensions make the South China Sea a hotbed of political tension. Several inspectors board the ship and check containers, but they remain deadlocked until one inspector sits down with the captain of the ship and the old farmer makes them both tea. The tension between them dissipates and they talk for some time, and eventually come to an agreement. And so, theirs becomes the final ship to cross into the mainland before the eruption of all-out war.
Shennong resumes his hike, visiting the mountains of Yunnan, the place of his birth, and the origin of tea. He spends a few days in quiet contemplation of the difference between the two. Though he is already months late, he knows that there is no sense in rushing. He continues through Sichuan, and then the long march westward. He finds himself walking along a road that seems to bifurcate the earth, stretching to both the western and eastern horizons. Along this road are a constant stream of trucks driving empty westward, and full of coal as they return to the east. Traffic jams are frequent, and the old farmer spends time making tea for the truckers as small communities pop up as the row of trucks waits to resume their journey.
Shennong finds himself, half a year later, crossing into Nepal, and then into India. None of the border guards fuss too much about his complete lack of documentation. All it takes is a cup of tea before they find themselves quite unfussed with much, even as their nations teeter on the edge of hostilities.
A cloud of smog cast a pall over the megacity of New Delhi. Though it burned his eyes, the old farmer simply wet a corner of the sheet that wrapped his old body, and used the corner as a mask as he continued ever onward towards the Raisina Hill, and the South Block of the Central Secretariat. Though it had been some thousands of years since they had last spoken, Shennong knew that if the existence of gods were public now, his old friend would be doing everything he could to keep the peace.
There were guards, of course, between him and the highest echelon of India's government. But while none of them wanted to grant him access, they also saw him as completely harmless and graciously accepted the tea he gave them. Before long, they knew him better than they did anyone whom they were guarding, and let him pass without documents or even a word spoken.
Shennong finds Krishna entertaining diplomats from India's most powerful neighbours. Without missing a beat, the old farmer brews and serves them tea. This batch plucked from teas he passed in Nepal. Though the tea soothes all those present, the diplomats maintain enough clarity of the larger situation to know that any peace they negotiate will be short-lived. At the end of the day, they leave one by one, until only Shennong and Krishna remain, sipping tea. They each speak their own language, but understand each other well enough.
I can do nothing for you, old farmer.
You can do one thing. You have done it before when the situation called for it. Doing it this time will save the world.
You can't know that, because I don't know that.
I don't know. I believe. And so should you.
A long silence passed between them as they sipped tea.
How long do you need?
How long will it take me to reach Nashville?
The way you travel? More than a year.
Then I need more than a year.
Fine. You have one chance. After this, you are on your own.
Without another word, Krishna stands and walks behind Shennong, placing his hands on the old farmer's shoulders. Then he stares at the clock on the wall, which stops.
After a moment, the clock begins to wind backwards. The diplomats return and go through all of the same motions except in reverse. Time rewinds faster. Days fly by, and then months. Until the clock resumes its natural forward motion once again.
Central Secretariat, South Block
New Delhi, India
Six months before the Nashville Incident
With a grateful nod, Shennong leaves a tightly-packed brick of tea with Krishna as he begins the long trek south to Mumbai. As ever, he stops to serve tea to those who want it, and manages to hitch a ride most of the way. He sets up a shop outside Jawaharlal Nehru Port and waits for weeks before someone offers him a ride. The container ship stops at nearly every port along the way, but eventually reaches Mobile, where the old farmer quietly slips inside of a container bound for Nashville, carefully bypassing the notoriously tea-hating US border guards.
And so the story ends as it began, with Shennong roused from quiet meditation inside his container, and slipping out without the trucker noticing.
Parthenon
Nashville, USA
Minutes after the second Nashville power outage
For several blocks now, the old farmer had been following another man dressed almost as simply. The two of them seemed to be the only people out for a walk in the middle of the night during the second Nashville outage. But while the old farmer had an air of quiet contentment, the younger man seemed increasingly frustrated. It took some effort, but Shennong quickened his pace and got ahead of the younger man as they passed the darkened Parthenon. The old farmer held up a hand, signaling the younger to stop.
Fritz almost said something, but decided better of it as the old man set up a little cauldron and threw in some leaves.
"I don't have time for this," Fritz said after his patience ran out. The man wordlessly gathered a cup of the tea and put it into Fritz's hands.
"Fine," Fritz almost spat, then blew on the tea for a few moments until it stopped steaming. Then he took a sip, and though he held onto it desperately, his frustration nevertheless slipped away. "This is good tea."
The old farmer gave no acknowledgement, for he knew that it was good tea. He gathered a cup for himself and sat quietly.
"We seem to be headed in the same direction," Fritz said when the silence was too much to bear. "You've been following me for a few miles now."
"Longer than that," the old man replied.
"Where are you going?"
"Wherever you are. For wherever you go, conflict is sure to follow."
But this wasn't where the quiet figure's story started.
His story begins 4 hours from now, as Nashville began to wake up, and Taipei's night markets were beginning to wind down.
Linjiang Night Market
Taipei, Taiwan
About 10pm local time, 8am Nashville
A fine mist hangs in the air above the bustling street, scattering the polychromatic light of a thousand neon signs advertising the chance to purchase anything legal and many things that weren't. Amidst the crowd of shoppers forced into neat columns by the narrow walkways between market stalls, an old man walks as fast as his sore feet, tired muscles, and aching joints would allow, which is to say very slowly. He wears a long sheet of rough canvas wrapped around his body and tied in a knot. His sheet is dirty from a long day spent toiling in the dirt under wild trees, twisted from harsh conditions in the first few years of their life, but nevertheless doted upon by this ancient farmer. Slung over one shoulder is a cauldron full of water that he manages to spill very little of, despite his meandering footsteps. The cauldron hangs from a bamboo stick, at the other end of which hangs a bindle carrying all his other earthly possessions, mostly cups, but also a flint, steel, tinder, and kindling. Under his other shoulder, he carries a bamboo hat that he wove himself. It spent all day protecting his nearly bald head from the harsh sun, but now he uses it to carry a pile of slightly damp leaves, freshly picked from his beloved trees.
Finding a corner of an intersection between the main market street and a side street with just enough room, he sets down the cauldron and builds a fire at its base. A couple officers of the law see him and cross the market to confront him, but before they could speak, he gave each of them a cup of tea from his cauldron. Out of politeness or some other force, they paused for a moment and drank the tea. By the time they finished, they had forgotten his infraction and had begun chatting with each other, and the members of the crowd growing around the old farmer's cauldron.
Whenever anyone around the old farmer was without tea, Shennong works tirelessly to provide it for them. But once all were taken care of, he sits on the ground and closes his eyes, giving all outward appearances of slumber, except for the occasional moments where he awakes to tend the flame under his cauldron. But in truth, he never slept. Instead, he quietly listened to those around him, their desire to bear all suddenly lubricated by his wild tea.
One topic worked its way into every conversation. The revelation that gods walked among mortals, and all the implications it had. Something had happened in America, he gathered. It was being broadcast on every television and radio station and was all over the internet, none of which were things Shennong was aware of. Instead, he got his news from the lips of others, and trusted them to filter out the chaff that wasn't worth his time, even it meant also having to hear the news through the lens of mortal insecurities. And right now the biggest insecurity was the threat of imminent war. Within America, but also between the other countries of the world, as the fragile balance of power suddenly shifted to countries with more gods.
Shennong quietly worked until the stalls of the night market began to close around him. He served his last cup of tea to an elderly man who had made the trip just to see the old farmer. They chat for some time, in the way of those who had outlived their usefulness and who now had nothing better to do. It was the early hours of the morning when he bids the man farewell and packed up his things.
If it had been any other day, he would have made the trek back to his sacred trees. However, the evening's conversations painted a clear picture of what he must do, even if it was more than a day late and on the wrong side of the world.
Shennong begins a long trek south to Kaohsiung. It takes him days hiking by the side of the highway. From time to time, someone stops. He gives them tea, and they drive him part of the way. But eventually he makes it to the biggest port in Taiwan, out of which 9 of every 10 silicon chips are shipped, and nearly all of the most complex ones. But the old farmer knows nothing of this. He serves tea to passers-by and chats. He listens to their concerns and speaks only to mention his desire to reach the mainland. After days of chatting, one person offers him a ride on a container ship, which he graciously accepts.
The trip to the mainland is not far, but is delayed for several days as rising tensions make the South China Sea a hotbed of political tension. Several inspectors board the ship and check containers, but they remain deadlocked until one inspector sits down with the captain of the ship and the old farmer makes them both tea. The tension between them dissipates and they talk for some time, and eventually come to an agreement. And so, theirs becomes the final ship to cross into the mainland before the eruption of all-out war.
Shennong resumes his hike, visiting the mountains of Yunnan, the place of his birth, and the origin of tea. He spends a few days in quiet contemplation of the difference between the two. Though he is already months late, he knows that there is no sense in rushing. He continues through Sichuan, and then the long march westward. He finds himself walking along a road that seems to bifurcate the earth, stretching to both the western and eastern horizons. Along this road are a constant stream of trucks driving empty westward, and full of coal as they return to the east. Traffic jams are frequent, and the old farmer spends time making tea for the truckers as small communities pop up as the row of trucks waits to resume their journey.
Shennong finds himself, half a year later, crossing into Nepal, and then into India. None of the border guards fuss too much about his complete lack of documentation. All it takes is a cup of tea before they find themselves quite unfussed with much, even as their nations teeter on the edge of hostilities.
A cloud of smog cast a pall over the megacity of New Delhi. Though it burned his eyes, the old farmer simply wet a corner of the sheet that wrapped his old body, and used the corner as a mask as he continued ever onward towards the Raisina Hill, and the South Block of the Central Secretariat. Though it had been some thousands of years since they had last spoken, Shennong knew that if the existence of gods were public now, his old friend would be doing everything he could to keep the peace.
There were guards, of course, between him and the highest echelon of India's government. But while none of them wanted to grant him access, they also saw him as completely harmless and graciously accepted the tea he gave them. Before long, they knew him better than they did anyone whom they were guarding, and let him pass without documents or even a word spoken.
Shennong finds Krishna entertaining diplomats from India's most powerful neighbours. Without missing a beat, the old farmer brews and serves them tea. This batch plucked from teas he passed in Nepal. Though the tea soothes all those present, the diplomats maintain enough clarity of the larger situation to know that any peace they negotiate will be short-lived. At the end of the day, they leave one by one, until only Shennong and Krishna remain, sipping tea. They each speak their own language, but understand each other well enough.
I can do nothing for you, old farmer.
You can do one thing. You have done it before when the situation called for it. Doing it this time will save the world.
You can't know that, because I don't know that.
I don't know. I believe. And so should you.
A long silence passed between them as they sipped tea.
How long do you need?
How long will it take me to reach Nashville?
The way you travel? More than a year.
Then I need more than a year.
Fine. You have one chance. After this, you are on your own.
Without another word, Krishna stands and walks behind Shennong, placing his hands on the old farmer's shoulders. Then he stares at the clock on the wall, which stops.
After a moment, the clock begins to wind backwards. The diplomats return and go through all of the same motions except in reverse. Time rewinds faster. Days fly by, and then months. Until the clock resumes its natural forward motion once again.
Central Secretariat, South Block
New Delhi, India
Six months before the Nashville Incident
With a grateful nod, Shennong leaves a tightly-packed brick of tea with Krishna as he begins the long trek south to Mumbai. As ever, he stops to serve tea to those who want it, and manages to hitch a ride most of the way. He sets up a shop outside Jawaharlal Nehru Port and waits for weeks before someone offers him a ride. The container ship stops at nearly every port along the way, but eventually reaches Mobile, where the old farmer quietly slips inside of a container bound for Nashville, carefully bypassing the notoriously tea-hating US border guards.
And so the story ends as it began, with Shennong roused from quiet meditation inside his container, and slipping out without the trucker noticing.
Parthenon
Nashville, USA
Minutes after the second Nashville power outage
For several blocks now, the old farmer had been following another man dressed almost as simply. The two of them seemed to be the only people out for a walk in the middle of the night during the second Nashville outage. But while the old farmer had an air of quiet contentment, the younger man seemed increasingly frustrated. It took some effort, but Shennong quickened his pace and got ahead of the younger man as they passed the darkened Parthenon. The old farmer held up a hand, signaling the younger to stop.
Fritz almost said something, but decided better of it as the old man set up a little cauldron and threw in some leaves.
"I don't have time for this," Fritz said after his patience ran out. The man wordlessly gathered a cup of the tea and put it into Fritz's hands.
"Fine," Fritz almost spat, then blew on the tea for a few moments until it stopped steaming. Then he took a sip, and though he held onto it desperately, his frustration nevertheless slipped away. "This is good tea."
The old farmer gave no acknowledgement, for he knew that it was good tea. He gathered a cup for himself and sat quietly.
"We seem to be headed in the same direction," Fritz said when the silence was too much to bear. "You've been following me for a few miles now."
"Longer than that," the old man replied.
"Where are you going?"
"Wherever you are. For wherever you go, conflict is sure to follow."
