Long ago, neither here nor there nor elsewhere, two kingdoms went to war. One of these kingdoms was called Triassia. Suddenly all the soldiers of Triassia had work: training companies of boys to be warriors like themselves. The blacksmiths of the land labored day and night, making pikes and battle axes and armor. In the capital city, all of the nobles grew even grander in their finery, and even fatter. As for the farming people in the countryside, they were taxed more heavily than ever, and many starved. The smoke of brush fires and cannon loomed over the battlefields. Finally a sulfurous brown cloud covered all Triassia. A month went by, and never did the smoke clear away. The crops all failed. Many infants sickened and died. Now I must tell you that in that land, a mad hermit lived in a pit yurt, out on the alkali wastes. During the time of the endless smoke, he emerged from his hermit hole and walked among the farm people in his filthy rags. He talked to poachers and to herdsmen, to oat merchants and to hovel squatters, to milkmaids and to peddlers. He was mad. He'd talk to anyone. And he'd talk about one thing. The Hermit claimed that the sky had fallen, that there was nothing beyond the He believed that the sky had fallen specifically on him. Sometimes sobbing, sometimes gasping for breath, he bewailed his fate and asked strangers for aid. Get it off he would cry. Lift it from my back! Cut it loose from my hair! It chokes me! It smothers me! Don't just stand there! Help an old man! A grizzled barley farmer took his pipe from his mouth and spat on the dirt. Fool, he said to the Hermit. You're dreaming! The sky can't fall. still up there, somewhere, in back of all the smoke. You're the fool, muttered the Hermit. It's stuck to my head with cloud glue! It trails behind me for miles! Look for yourself! have you all gone blind, as well as mad? The farmer threw horse turds at him, and the Hermit took his complaints elsewhere. When the sky-crazed Hermit realized that none of his countrymen would help him, he walked to the capital city and demanded an audience with the King himself. Stay quiet, you old loon, a palace guard told him. Even if the King would see you, how could you prove what you say? The Hermit flew into a rage. This is too important for proofs and arguments! The sky will die down here! It must be hung up again! If the sky dies, so will we! The King must be told! In time, the story of the mad hermit found its way to the King's court, and to the ears of the King. The King ordered that the Hermit be invited into the palace. When this was done, the Hermit was bathed, deloused, and dressed in clean clothes. With his long, white hair and deeply lined face, the Hermit looked quite distinguished. Every Sunday afternoon, in the castle courtyard, the King heard grievances and handed down judgments. Monday was whipping day. The Hermit was placed on the Sunday agenda. While the King stood on a balcony, the Hermit described his difficulty with some eloquence. Great King, he pleaded, only you can put an end to this disastrous war. Only by your fiat can our nation redirect its energies to the urgent project of rehanging the sky. …