Festival Of What?

• Armaan Kapila, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2016

The Festival of God they called it because God was good and the festival was about goodness. Every year the townspeople would gather in the main square, enthusiasm and anticipation swelling amongst the crowd, seeking an escape. A release. It found it at the 11th hour when the festivities began and the people erupted in a thunderous celebration of equality and freedom and other good things.

“Hey mister, did you see that good thing I did yesterday?”

“So sorry mister, I must’ve missed it being busy with that really good thing I was doing.”

Streets were packed with the locals screaming and chanting slogans and songs about how the world was pure; purged of all wickedness so that, naturally, the good could awaken. The local bar flowed with the sweet yet strong stream of the most divine alcohol and if one were to move along they’d find themselves at an intimate hall. The less flamboyant setting did little to dull the zeal of the day as a young man in a crisply pressed suit stood before the beaming crowd, speaking of the great history of their people. How their ancestors didn’t hesitate to adopt the purpose bestowed upon them by God, how the Festival of God quickly followed to celebrate their achievements.
“Our ancestors were good. But there was a time when the bad poisoned us, yet we triumphed in our mission for God and by God!” He effused with unrestrained passion and as if he stared into a rather large mirror, the crowd echoed his sentiments. They cheered and raved, cheered and raved, cheered and raved.
And if one were to continue further on, passed this realm of colour and rejoice and all other good things, they would enter a place that seemed quite less so. It wasn’t alive in celebration but rather it seemed to wallow in something like sorrow. Or perhaps boredom. Its dull façade was undeniable and within this paradise of decrepitude a young, malnourished boy hurried with all the ferocity of one that couldn’t be dissuaded by whatever obstacle approached him. Turning a corner his eyes swam with exhilaration as he saw colour, life and happiness in their merry congregation. He hadn’t met either of them for some time so unsurprisingly he was enthralled at the notion of meeting all three together. He hoped they’d like him. But didn’t want to tell Papa. Papa was always stressed these days. Tired.
The boy bolted ahead. A gate rose up from the horizon. A formidable figure guarded it. The boy stopped in his tracks, gazing up at the monster before him.

“Where are you going, boy?” His voiced dripped with disdain. He knew where this boy had come from

“To meet my friends.” The young boy felt his stomach complain. “Actually, I’m quite hungry as well.”
“
"Leave. This festival is not for you.”

“Festival?”

The guard scoffed. “Of God. Goodness.”

The boy left, broken and wondering why, if they were celebrating goodness, hadn’t he met him yet.