THE GNOME PROJECT

Kimo arched his back and set his elbows on his board, hands folded loosely, looking out towards the horizon, a thought slowly coming into focus.

"You know," he said, "I've seen this before."

__________

One early morning, a man did something different.

The tribe who lived together in this isolated mountain village had followed the same morning routine longer than their grandparents could remember. Day after day, year after year, generation after generation. No one ever questioning where the practice came from or when it began. It was simply one of the things that the people had always done.

Some would walk and some would get on their horses, and every morning they would all go down to the river as one. Their spiritual leader, wearing his brightly colored ceremonial cape with a high feathery collar, led the ceremony that ended with each of them throwing three small specially selected stones into the river, each conversing privately with their God. They would then make their way back up the hill to their homes and begin their day.

But there was a man who one morning decided to do something different. To those assembled, there is no explanation as to what moved him. Some say he had a dream. Others said it was some bad fish the night before, or perhaps he ate a hallucinogenic plant. Some still call it "the Splash Heard Round the World."

The following morning, the people of the village gathered at the edge of the river — some with wraparound shawls to shield them from the chill of the early fall morning, the horses anxious to get some exercise, their three stones in their sacred stone pouches tied ceremoniously to their belts. They waded into the river up to their knees, the children up to their waists. The holy man spread his arms, letting the drape of his cape fill in dramatically, and gave the sacred sign. Their first pebbles were thrown.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Then — Ker-plop!

A huge brick. Quite a splash.

The people looked around, surprised and alert. For as long as anyone living could remember, this had always been a small pebble endeavor. River-stones of a size that would fit into their specially crafted pouches. Pouches that were, by the way, made specifically for this ritual. As a matter of fact, there was an entire industry in this village built around making these pouches — but that is not the point of this story.

The brick thrower came from a family that was known and respected by the people of the village. Leaders in important matters. They owned the mill that ground the wheat that employed many of the workers. They also happened to own the place where the bricks were made.

The villagers pretended not to notice this shift in splash intensity.

The priest, in his rehearsed yet convincingly heartfelt way, continued. He read the ceremonial bulletins, and then, his fingers rippling outward in an excellent imitation of the tips of a rooster's wings — an extension of his red velvet cape — gave the sign for the next two rocks to be tossed in.

Ker-PLOP! Bigger than before.

Then another, KER-PLOP!  Even bigger yet! 

The holy man's eyes narrowed. He had seen this before. A challenge. He quickly quieted the surprised and confused villagers with a stern look of authoritative understanding and, with a more vigorous flap of his arms than usual, signaled that the day's ceremony had ended. Dismissed, the village turned back to the shore and the trail leading home.

The people were in shock. As they slowly climbed from the river, sneaking glances at each other and at the man who threw the bricks,  they realized something had happened that none of them could quite name.

The older men in the village, set in their ways and upholders of tradition, were outraged. This had been the custom for as long as stories of their origins had been told.

The young men, still working in the fields from sunrise to sundown, saw things differently. A brick instead of a stone made sense. The gods would pay closer attention. Perhaps reward each of them proportional to the size of the stone. Some even suggested creating a structure to launch large boulders from the hillside quarry into the river. The splashes being bigger, louder, brighter, stronger — more glorious. How could their god ignore this?

The women of the village saw things differently still. The river was a long way off. It was the women who carried the water from the river every day, and the children to and from the river for the morning ritual. It was also their task to carry the sacred stones.

One of the women said to her friend as they were rolling out tortillas: "You know what this means, Dolores. Our daily walk to the river is going to be three bricks heavier."

The brick thrower wondered how many more times it would take before people started to get on board.

He was also wondering what it would be like to become a very rich man.

__________

Kimo watched a pelican work its way down the line, skimming the face of a slow roller without a wingbeat.

"Anyway," he said, as he turned and began paddling.