(043)
As is often the case, the origin of any great thing can be traced back to something tiny, and for this story it is no different.
A low rumble in the distance like thunder in a bottle, so quiet you could be forgiven for missing it entirely. It grows steadily from something passing to something pressing until three dark vans emerge onto the grass, aligning in a row at the edge of the field. They sit idle for a moment as each window hums to the top and seals shut, hot smoke pumping into the air from their growling engines, then one by one they stop. Their doors open and a group filters out – 9 in total – all dressed similarly in black and grey. For 5 minutes they exchange nods and brief discussions, sip flasks of coffee or roll their own cigarettes, but after that the work begins.
Someone opens the back of the first van and the rest fall in line, creating a chain across the field from his starting point. They begin passing black, rubber squares to the end, which they connect to each other, forming a web that spreads over the grass like black moss. One square – dropped close to the water’s edge as the structure nears completion – is followed closely by the sound of something hopping from the reeds into the markedly shallow water below.
A haze of dust gathers in the air around them as they work, but it doesn’t slow their progress.
The second van is opened and a stack of 12 identical knee high platforms are removed and carried towards the water. The platforms are meticulously fastened together to create a stage and then topped by wooden sheets. Four pillars of metal scaffolding are erected – one in each corner, and as beams are added to the top a frame begins to take shape. They move with a mechanical efficiency, sweat dripping freely from their bodies in the midday sun. The whine of drills and the clanking of hammers is only punctuated by the occasional bark of confirmation or request. More people arrive with more vans, each of whom begin working on a separate task. Some take shade beneath the trees where they can, but the pace is as unrelenting as the heat.
A small crowd gathers on the path to see what’s going on, disperses and allows a new one to develop, but they pay them no mind. Generators whir and more scaffolding appears. Stacks and stacks of box speakers are added to the stage and placed strategically along the boundaries. A miniature gazebo is put together across from it, beside a sycamore tree, and a mixing deck with hundreds of knobs and dials is placed inside for an engineer to manage the levels. Unseen by the workers in the branches above, 5 pairs of panicked eyes watch on.
The flurry of activity continues long into the darkness, until a fence is constructed to encase it all in. The lights are turned off, the music is silenced, and the dwindling crew retire to their tents for a well earned rest, without knowing what tomorrow would bring.
Left standing outside of the perimeter, chained in unwitting protest to the fence is the sycamore tree. A decision made in haste, with no real thought behind it.
Such a tiny thing.
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