Culture Matters

Tales of Christmas past

DARA E HEALY

THE CITY was deserted. Old newspapers floated, spun and darted along the dirty pavements. Water lapped at the former treasury building. Christmas trees covered in mud and broken lights lay on the ground, frozen in time. Ghosts of indigenous warriors pierced the water with their oars in rhythmic, powerful strokes. Birds of carrion reclaimed the capital, gruesome reminders of that part of the city once called Corbeaux Town.

Zane walked along the empty streets, remembering. The devastation had been swift. It was Christmas, so the city was decorated with twinkling lights. Slowly, quietly the ocean reclaimed the land. The city drains, already heaving with plastic waste, muddy sludge from decimated forests and legions of rats, finally belched it all out. The rain fell for days. The water rose several feet, covering parks, flowing into shops, offices and homes.

The residents of the city fled. Initially, some vowed they would stay, climbing onto rooftops, watching in dismay as trucks and large Santa Claus balloons floated past.

In the end, with no electricity or safe drinking water and the stench of human waste and death everywhere, they left. Outside the city, new closed societies established their own secure worlds. Many were protected by trained, armed members.

Zane headed uphill. The heat of the sun grew more intense, shining a path through the desolation. He passed other travellers but avoided eye contact, fingering his hunting knife. This new world was even less welcoming than the previous one. This quest was not his idea. It was the dream. For the past few months, every night it was the same. A young man was bent over, moving his hands and bobbing his head. As Zane approached, the young man would look up and smile. In the dream, he knew this young man was the one to help them reclaim their humanity. His smile was dazzling, and these days, no one smiled.

The land sloped steadily upwards. Large treetrunks stood watch, as vines and underbrush snapped at his legs. A sound emerged from behind the trees. Zane stopped beating away mosquitoes and swearing. Could it be music? The sound grew louder, guiding him. Suddenly the land flattened and the forest opened up.

There in front of him was a young man, head bent, his hands moving swiftly, playing a tenor pan. Zane looked at him in awe; he had never seen anyone play so fast. Well, except for the man who invented the tenor pan, creating an instrument that transformed the global music industry.

The young man stopped playing. He looked up and smiled, so dazzling that Zane took a step back.

'I've been waiting for you,' said the young man.'

'For me?'

'Yes, well, I didn't know who would come, but I'm glad it's you.'

The young man stepped forward.

'I'm Tony, great-grandson of Tony Williams, pan arranger, tuner...'

Zane interrupted him. 'Yes, I know. You're fast, like him. And the face, it's the same! What you doing up here?'

The young man stared off into the surrounding h