The frosty bite of the
rain woke him rudely from his slumber. Around him, the water level began
rising. With nary a grumble, he started what would be yet another long haul,
along with his countless companions, to somewhere drier, where they would not
be flooded out of their mobile homes.
This
was becoming a more frequent happening. Not only did the rain fall frequently,
it fell more heavily too. Previously harmless droplets of rain began to elicit
pain. Yet the snail had not the voice to call out, no way to express his pain.
He contemplated shirking back into his warm shell to seek relief from the pelts
of water, yet he realised the dangerous possibilities
of being flooded out. He had no choice but to begin the arduous journey, one
that would be filled with numerous potential dangers.
The
opposite side of the road beckoned eagerly to him. The grass wasn’t as flooded,
and it wasn’t as crowded with other snails as the side he was on. His
companions didn’t exactly think differently. The faster ones had already begun
the long trudge across in the driving rain.
He
glanced at the opposite side of the road again. It no longer seemed to beckon
eagerly. Now it seemed as if it were squinting mockingly at him, as if it
believed that he would never make it across. Yet there was truth in that
mockery. There was a pavement, another patch of grass, and yet another pavement before he would even make it to the edge of
the road, and he already had numerous unnamed cousins lying vanquished,
squashed flat on the ground, shelled homes shattered, before they even made it
to their side of the road.
He
dismissed the negative thoughts. After all, countless ancestors have survived
the journey. That was how he came to be in the first place. For every crushed
snail there was on the pavement, there would be countless other brave souls who
made it across. He resolved to be one of those.
It
seemed like a huge plethora of thoughts to pass through his mind. Yet, at the
pace he was travelling, he could afford to think
things through at his own pace. Before he knew it, he’d already crossed one
pavement and the entire grass patch without incident.
Ahead
lay the footpath beside the road. Once in a while a late-night in-the-rain
jogger would sprint past, deftly sidestepping the three or four other cousins
who were halfway across. Each breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as the huge
pounding feet missed them. He took a deep breath, and crossed.
Thirty
mortal minutes later, he was three-fourths across. Together with the other
three, they breathed a collective sigh of relief as a party of four joggers
lumbered past without hurting anyone. They silently praised the alert frontrunner who shouted out “snails!” to warn the rest
behind her.
Just
when the last one was about to reach the edge of the footpath, the inevitable
happened. A clumsy-looking heavily-built guy lumbered down the footpath, with
nary a glance to his feet. The last one braced himself in anticipation, heart
pounding wildly. It’ll either be a narrow escape, or a grisly mess. The latter
couldn’t be prevented. Our snail lamented the loss of another comrade.
It
wasn’t the time to wallow in self-pity. The flood waters were rising. They had
to get to the other side fast, and this was their last lap. He led the rest
this time around. Thanking the heavens that this was a late hour, where traffic
was few and far between, he commenced the march to the other side, keeping his
ears open for traffic approaching from afar.
The
snails had the innate disposition to estimate the approach of motorcars. From
afar, they gauged the distance from the wheels of the cars, and from there made
the judgement to stop or carry on. One false move,
and it would be a death quicker, yet less grisly than the foot-inflicted one.
And
so the first car approached. One with a gleaming blue light atop its roof. Its
headlights seemed to glow with a sardonic smirk, a tyrant wielding his
unlimited power over his subjects. He made the decision to stop dead in his
tracks, and awaited proof of the prudence of his decision. The left tyres of the taxi whizzed past his head by a whisker,
leaving him with an adrenaline rush not unlike that of our feelings after a
roller-coaster ride. Perhaps this was the heaven’s way of providing the snails
with their own amusement park rides?
It
never was safe in the middle of a road, especially when you are a snail. And
obviously he endeavoured to complete the
half-finished march. Three other cars and two motorbikes whizzed past hardly
causing pain, other than the accelerated heartbeats. Four to start with, one
crushed on the pavement, the remaining three were almost through to the other
side.
There
shan’t be another heartbreak. I cannot bear
describing the crushing of another of his comrades. And so the three made it
across to the other side, much the same except for the experience gained in
crossing the huge road in the driving rain. To him, up close, this side no
longer seemed mocking to him. He had conquered the odds. The mocking face now seemes like a sheepish grin to him. He has survived another
flood. Time to carry on with life.
Once
safely in the depths of the unflooded grasses, he
shrank back into his home, glad to be spared the
continued pelting of the raindrops.
This
account is dedicated to the snails that perished in the recent late night downpours
that have inundated large parts of the country. Perhaps we can learn from the
indomitable spirit of our protagonists.
© dejectium 2003
dejectium out
16 march 2003
0226 hrs gmt +8