Rupert's Umbrella Adventures

Prologue

Once upon a time there was a village which sat on the edge of a cliff. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember -- so long, in fact, that some of the wise men (or wise cracks, as often turned out to be the case) said it hadn't been built, but instead had _grown_ there, like a vine crawling up the trunk of a mighty oak. Some of the more daring villagers had even begun nailing planks down off the edge. They were generally considered crazy.

You see, not only was the cliff face sheer and almost vertical, but there was a tremendous canyon wind which blew past the cliff every single morning. When it came, anything that wasn't nailed down would find itself flying off to who knows where. Every morning the farmers had to check and make sure their livestock was all safely locked up. (Once Farmer Jones had a hefty sow that burrowed its way out of its pen. Next morning it practically could have sprouted wings, it flew so fast. Farmer Jones' children giggled with delight, at least till they realized they wouldn't be eating any bacon for a fortnight or two.) And each morning not a soul ventured outside until the wind had blown its way through.

Until one day in the fall.

On that particular morning, young Rupert woke up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Now, not a soul knows what got into poor Rupert's head at that time, but what we do know is that he put on his white slacks and red button-up shirt, donned a top hat (though nobody knows where on earth he could have gotten it), grabbed the big, black umbrella that lay in the corner of his aunt and uncle's cottage, and went outside.

He was, of course, the only one. Strolling down the street he went, cocksure as a peacock, nose pointed up to the sky. He waved at the children peering out at him with wide eyes from each window. He tipped his hat to the furrowed brows of the men and women standing behind the children in each house. He smiled.

And then, when he reached the end of the street, which also happened to be the edge of the cliff, he stopped and opened his umbrella. And waited.

Some say he was whistling; others say he was praying. Whatever he was doing, it wasn't thirty seconds before the wind came a-gusting through the village. The dust billowed and swirled around his feet, with twigs and leaves fluttering up and out into the great blue yonder.

Rupert held his umbrella up. And then, with a last wave goodbye, he jumped up and was carried off on the wind. And never was seen again.

There are those in the village who'll tell you that his umbrella fell apart and that he plummeted to his death thousands of feet below. And there are those who say he kept going higher and higher until the sun melted his umbrella, like Icarus. But I think they're wrong. If you ask me, Rupert went on flying until he passed the edge of the world. Maybe someday he'll come back and tell us what he's seen. Maybe even bring somebody back with him.