“We should only allow one person from each home to work there,” said one of the elders, eventually. “Others can maintain our traditional homesteads — at least.” The others nodded, welcoming this compromise.
They had already accepted the inevitability of the factory. The elders of neighboring villages continued discussing what the changes would mean for their future.
“What if it becomes impossible?”
They’d already witnessed the effects of foreign commercial fishing’s blasts, dynamite and bottom trawling. Their fishermen’s catch decreased day by day, year after year.
The new factory complex was almost complete.
“What if everyone will have to work at the factory?”
“We’ll lose everything passed down from our ancestors.”
“We should record our knowledge,” the eldest, most respected, elder suggested. “This new way of life won’t last. One day we’ll need our ancestors’ help.”
They agreed that the quiet man who likes solitary walks at sunset and speaks in rhymes would best capture their soon-to-be history.
“How will I describe the sunset?” the quiet man wondered aloud, when bestowed with the honor of his new role.
“The sunset will always be there,” they assured him.
“But what will they see?” he asked.