Cheeze Tayles for Hap, Vol 1a

In my travels in search of cheese, I came across many a strange tale among the peoples I encountered. In this volume I will relate the stories and legends that I learned, that seem to have no direct bearing on cheese or my quest at all. Allow them to provide background, to help you get a sense of the places through which I sojourned and the lore of the natives. Perhaps there is wisdom to be garnered; perhaps merely ethnographic detail; but the telling must be re-told, and the narratives extended into our worlds. Was it Wiesel who said that God created humans because s/he loves stories? Well, let the legends continue as we attempt to image this creator...

I first set out, dear reader, in a northeasterly direction from base camp (near the stock yards, where my cupboards longed for cheese). For many weeks I trekked alongside a tremendous body of fresh water, and through partially settled forests. It was there where I was chased by a strange people, all white with shorn hair, wearing "bomber" jackets and combat boots. They brandished automatic rifles and kept shouting about the "race war" or something of the sort. At any rate, I wanted no intercourse nor commerce with such a tribe, as they were clearly not amenable to inter-tribal interactions. I pressed on, across prairies and wetlands passing nary a soul along the way. Eventually I arrived at an amazing metropolis, which the locals had christened Detroit.

It was here that I heard this tale:
I learned of a child who had been raised in a vacuum cleaner factory. From birth the child was rarely taken outside the factory walls; its mother--for reasons unclear to me--was obliged to remain close to the shop floor at all times. Here the child was showered incessantly with the pleasant hum and constant howl of vacuum cleaners. Around the clock the new models were being tested. As each one cleared the assembly line it was put through the same regimen. Day in and day out the vacuums hummed.

As a result, the baby never learned to cry. As the old wives tale goes, the best way to hush a crying child is to run the vacuum. Well, it held true in this case, and with the continuous rumor of cyclonic machines, this young mother was quite blessed. Never did the child cry, being soothed and distracted by the hum of the machines. The child grew to young adulthood in this way. Never a tear shed.

This story was relayed to me to explain the activities of a powerful group whom I encountered during my stay. The Cult of the Tearless Wonder had arisen around this child, as it grew, as legend spread of the one freed from the sufferings of this world. Comparisons were made to Siddhartha or the Christ child. Here was one uniquely blessed, unaware of pain and sorrow, consistently at peace! The Cult arose at first as a group of awestruck observers, then rules and traditions were created--you know, dear reader, how these sorts of things go. Soon the sick and lame were brought to be healed by the Tearless One, and miracles were reported. Legend grew.

When I arrived, certain quarters of the city had banned any displays of pain or discomfort, with elaborate systems of fines and punishments should one slip up. Darker stories circulated as well, of the fearsome underside of the group, of the Band of Perpetual Weepers, kept in chains, tortured, forced to cry continually to preserve the balance. Strange stories of the sacrifice of crying infants abounded as well. Mothers scared their children into hushed silence if they threatened a cry with warnings of being taken by the group for its ceremonies.

Needless to say, I was quite unnerved. After a few days rest, I secured my provisions and continued on. There was no cheese here, nor, I should dare say, if there were would I want to partake of it.