Chapter Twenty-One: Daychore
“One more tale before I go,” Rainy said with quiet certainty, her voice carrying across the gathering. The villagers, their faces a mixture of anticipation and unease, fell silent at her words. She could feel their watchful eyes upon her, the weight of their doubt pressing in from all sides. This tale, she knew, would ease their concerns, quiet the whispers, and finally erase the suspicion that clung to her like a shadow.
She cleared her throat, letting the moment hang in the air, then began:
“Daychore Rigger had always noticed that spot in the sky. You know that one spot. It didn’t move. Not even a little. It was like the sky had a piece of lint stuck to it, and no one else could see it. Daychor didn’t know if it was a sign from the heavens or just a stubborn cloud, but he figured, hey, it’s probably important.
By day, Daychore worked for The New Idea Company, which, ironically, had no new ideas at all. They just had a lot of barns to tear down. But after the eleventy-1th barn, Daychor started wondering: “Is this all there is to life? Just knocking down barns and living in a dusty haze?” Is there no really new ideas?
One afternoon, as he was dismantling another barn, the new idea struck him like a lightning bolt. “A tower!” he yelled dramatically, startling his goat. “I’ll build a tower! That’ll solve everything!”
The villagers, some still skeptical, leaned in slightly, intrigued by the softness in her voice. Rainy continued, her words flowing like a gentle stream.
“So, one evening, after a particularly long day of barn demolitions, Daychore called a village meeting. The village pig farmers—affectionately known as "the pigs"—gathered from all over the countryside. Farmers, blacksmiths, goat herders, even the cobbler showed up. They all crowded together, unsure of what Daychore was about to announce.
The villagers were thrilled by his new idea. Not. They were mostly confused, but they had gathered for a meeting anyway, because what else did they have to do? Daychore stood on an overturned barrel, which immediately collapsed under his weight. He didn’t even flinch.
“We’ll tear down the barns, use the wood, and build a great tower! A tower that will let us see the spot in the sky! I mean, we’ll finally know what it is, right? Maybe it's a new idea.”
They were all generally used to Daychore’s eccentric ideas, and hey, they were fun to think about. So they always gathered to hear him out. Most were skeptical again of this new idea, some were confused, but they humored him. “What’s the worst that could happen?” they thought. “It’s just Daychore.”
The villagers all stared at him blankly as they usually did.
“A tower? Like… a really tall one?” asked Bertha, the blacksmith, who was balancing a chicken wearing boots on her shoulder.
“Yes!” Daychore shouted. “We’ll use the old barn wood! Build a tower that will take us all the way up to a new idea!”
“Uh-huh,” said Marvin the cobbler, who mostly made shoes for pets, including Bertha's chicken. “And what’s this ‘new idea’ you speak of?”
Daychore scratched his head, trying to sound profound. “A way where we don’t tear down barns anymore! We’ll be able to look out over the land! The wind will guide us! The spot in the sky will reveal a place to us with no barns!”
The villagers exchanged uncertain glances. “But, does your idea involve tearing down barns?” one asked. “Because tearing down barns is what we do best.”
Daychore was determined. "yes, well tear down barns and build a tower with them".
A tower? They didn’t really understand, but they did understand one thing: Daychore had hope. And if he had hope, maybe they could, too.”
Rainy paused for effect, allowing a smile to curl at the corners of her lips as the villagers exchanged puzzled looks. She continued.
“So, they pitched in. They tore down barns, raised their children together, and shared picnics beneath the framework of what would soon become their great tower. The tower leaned at such a ridiculous angle that even the pigs in the field were like, “Yeah, that looks unsafe.”
The tower wasn’t pretty. It was rickety and thin, held up by guy wires and a lot of faith. It creaked and groaned in the wind, threatening to fall apart at any moment. But nobody cared. They worked, they laughed, and they dreamt together of new ideas.
“Well, it’s not much of a tower, but okay,” said Bertha. She starred at the completed tower in amazement. “Just try not to fall off, alright?”
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of hard work, the day had come. Daychore climbed to the top, with boards and planks passed up by his closest companions. As the wind howled around them, they reached the spot. It was as it turned out… an old, rusted and rotten barn, hanging upside down behind a cloud. Daychore blinked in confusion. “This… this is it?” he muttered.”
The villagers chuckled softly, their tension easing slightly. Rainy’s voice softened further, the rhythm of her words like the gentle sway of a breeze.
“But the villagers below cheered.’ She went on, “He couldn’t help but smile, hearing the cheer of his friends below. It was faint, but the sound of it made his heart swell. He knew they were all in this together.
He shook himself, "No, no", Daychore thought. “The answers to life are still right here!”
As Daychore climbed higher still, he found himself on what could only be described as his own front porch. Somehow, his farmhouse had been hoisted to the top of the tower. “How in the world…” Daychore muttered, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. But there it was, perched awkwardly at the top, as if the universe had decided that this was the new normal.
Inside, Daychore found his house was not quite how he had left it. An old man was sitting in a chair, staring out into space with glazed eyes. The woman, his wife, sat beside him, quietly munching on bread. She didn’t even look up when Daychore entered. “Where am I?” he asked, bewildered.
“Inside,” she replied with a shrug, never missing a bite. “You’re inside the house, obviously.”
“I mean, how?” Daychore stammered. “Why is my barn on the tower?”
Daychore, still in disbelief, noticed something even stranger: three sets of children’s sneakers lined up in front of the fireplace. Neon green, hot pink, and sparkly blue. “Wait a second… these are my kids’ sneakers. But… I don’t have any kids!”
“Oh, those?” the wife said, her mouth full of bread. “Yeah, those belong to the kids you haven’t had yet. You know, the ones who’ll show up any day now. Probably after the pigs do their thing.”
Daychore stood frozen, trying to make sense of what was happening. This wasn’t the great revelation he had hoped for. But then, as if to answer his confusion, the old man, with surprising agility, slipped off his blanket and rolled through the cellar door. He disappeared into the shadows, falling through the clouds below. Daychore rushed to the edge, but it was too late. The old man was gone, the faint sound of his joyful singing carried away by the wind.
“Well, about time,” the woman said, looking up just long enough to wipe her mouth. “He’s been waiting twenty years to do that. Had to wait for you though you know.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Daychore muttered. “This place is falling apart worse than below.” “And, my future children… they’ve already got shiny shoes. What does that mean?”
“Pigs? What pigs?” Daychore blinked.”
Rainy let the silence linger for a moment, watching the faces of her audience. She could see the lines of worry slowly fading, replaced by the faintest traces of a smile.
“Just then, the roof exploded open, and three pigs came tumbling in, one of them landing in a giant bowl of bread crumbs. “What the—” Daychore started, staring at the pigs.
And the pigs didn’t just sit there. They stood up, stretched, and casually began to walk around the room as if they owned the place. One of them walked up to Daychore, gave him a polite sniff, and then walked past him, snorting in approval. “You really did it now, didn’t you, Daychore?” the pig seemed to say with a smug look in its eyes.
The wife looked up, shaking her head. “Well, Daychor, I think you’ve really done it now. You’ve built a tower so ridiculous that pigs are falling through the roof.”
Daychore stood up straight, staring at the chaos around him. The pigs, the sneakers, the crumbling tower. His grand plan had unraveled, maybe a grand piano would fall on him next.
But as he stood there, surveying the mess, something inside him clicked. Maybe the new idea wasn’t about building a tower to reach the sky. Maybe it was about being here. With the people who mattered. His family, his village. The ones who believed, even when the idea seemed silly.
Daychore smiled, watching the pigs roll around in the bread crumbs, and then… he couldn’t help it. He started laughing.
“Yep, this is it,” he said. “This is the best thing that’s never happened to me yet”. He said, “maybe it’s not about reaching the sky after all. Maybe it’s about sticking together, even when pigs fall from the sky!”
And with that, he joined his wife, and the children who weren’t even born yet in a dance of total absurdity, laughing with the villagers as the pigs continued to oink and run in circles.
The world might have been upside down, but for the first time, it didn’t matter. Life was weird, but it was also hilarious sometimes. And maybe, just maybe, that was the best new idea of all.”
Rainy let the last words hang in the air, a quiet breath that filled the space with a kind of peace.
The villagers sat in stunned silence for a moment, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight. Then, as if a spell had broken, a ripple of laughter swept through the crowd. First one chuckle, then another, until the entire gathering was roaring with mirth. Rainy, standing at the center of it all, let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Her story had done its work—not through profound wisdom or life-changing insight, but by simply reminding them of something they often forgot: the joy of the absurd.
The Village Blacksmith, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, shook his head. “A tower for pigs and sneakers and falling barns,” he wheezed. “Daychore sounds like he’s got half the sense of a goat, and yet... I feel like I know him.”
“Know him?” The Villages Cobbler snorted, leaning on his walking stick. “I am him! Been tearing down barns all my life, waiting for a spot in the sky to give me a clue!”
The children giggled uncontrollably, their laughter spilling over as they started mimicking pigs rolling around in imaginary bread crumbs. Even the most stoic farmers cracked smiles, their gruff exteriors softened by the infectious humor of the tale.
Rainy watched them all, a warmth blooming in her chest. These were her people—not bound by blood, but by the shared humanity of laughter, struggle, and the absurdity of life. For all their suspicions of her, for all the rules they imposed, she realized they weren’t so different from Daychore and his villagers.
“Tell us another!” a young boy called out, his voice bright with hope.
“Another, another!” the children echoed, their energy unstoppable now.
Rainy smiled and raised her hands for silence. “No, no,” she said, her tone teasing but firm. “You’ve had enough tales for one night. Too many stories, and you’ll start dreaming of towers and pigs in your sleep. And I won’t be blamed if you wake up tomorrow trying to tear down your parents’ barns!”
The crowd laughed again, but this time, the sound was softer, more settled. Rainy could feel the weight of the day catching up to them all. She let the moment linger before speaking again, her voice quieter now.
“Truly,” she said, “the best stories aren’t about what makes sense or what teaches us a lesson. They’re just about sharing a laugh. Because laughter... well, it’s the only tower we really need, isn’t it? It lifts us higher than any barn wood ever could.” Rainy knew this was wrong. She felt ashamed for not holding fast to the truth that none of these stories mattered, they were all a waste of time. Only the real stories that drew you into the light had value.
The villagers murmured their agreement; yes these were the only good stories. Their smiles lingered as they began to rise and stretch, ready to head back to their homes. The fire crackled softly, sending sparks into the cool night air as the crowd began to disperse.
As Rainy gathered her shawl around her shoulders, one of the elders approached. “You’ve got a way with stories, girl,” she said, her tone gruff but warm. “Not everyone can take a village from suspicion to laughter in one sitting. You keep that up, and we might just ask you to stay.”
Rainy laughed a quiet, knowing sound. “Perhaps” she said. The elder smirked, and wandered off into the night.
Rainy stood alone by the fire for a while, watching the stars come out one by one. Somewhere, far above, perhaps there was a spot in the sky that held answers—or perhaps there was nothing at all. Either way, she had found what she needed tonight: connection, laughter, and the simple, sacred act of storytelling, even if the real stories weren’t accepted.
The weight of their doubt, their suspicion, seemed to lift as if carried away by the very breeze that had inspired her words. Rainy knew, without needing any further confirmation that the tale had worked. They would no longer see her as an outsider, a threat to their ways, but as one of them—a storyteller who understood that even the smallest stories held a piece of truth, a piece of home.
With a small smile, she stood up, ready to leave. Her heart lighter than it had been when she arrived, for in the end, it wasn’t about convincing them. It was about sharing a moment of connection—a reminder that sometimes, the simplest things are the most profound.
With that thought, she turned toward her tent, her steps light and her heart lighter still.
She cleared her throat, letting the moment hang in the air, then began:
“Daychore Rigger had always noticed that spot in the sky. You know that one spot. It didn’t move. Not even a little. It was like the sky had a piece of lint stuck to it, and no one else could see it. Daychor didn’t know if it was a sign from the heavens or just a stubborn cloud, but he figured, hey, it’s probably important.
By day, Daychore worked for The New Idea Company, which, ironically, had no new ideas at all. They just had a lot of barns to tear down. But after the eleventy-1th barn, Daychor started wondering: “Is this all there is to life? Just knocking down barns and living in a dusty haze?” Is there no really new ideas?
One afternoon, as he was dismantling another barn, the new idea struck him like a lightning bolt. “A tower!” he yelled dramatically, startling his goat. “I’ll build a tower! That’ll solve everything!”
The villagers, some still skeptical, leaned in slightly, intrigued by the softness in her voice. Rainy continued, her words flowing like a gentle stream.
“So, one evening, after a particularly long day of barn demolitions, Daychore called a village meeting. The village pig farmers—affectionately known as "the pigs"—gathered from all over the countryside. Farmers, blacksmiths, goat herders, even the cobbler showed up. They all crowded together, unsure of what Daychore was about to announce.
The villagers were thrilled by his new idea. Not. They were mostly confused, but they had gathered for a meeting anyway, because what else did they have to do? Daychore stood on an overturned barrel, which immediately collapsed under his weight. He didn’t even flinch.
“We’ll tear down the barns, use the wood, and build a great tower! A tower that will let us see the spot in the sky! I mean, we’ll finally know what it is, right? Maybe it's a new idea.”
They were all generally used to Daychore’s eccentric ideas, and hey, they were fun to think about. So they always gathered to hear him out. Most were skeptical again of this new idea, some were confused, but they humored him. “What’s the worst that could happen?” they thought. “It’s just Daychore.”
The villagers all stared at him blankly as they usually did.
“A tower? Like… a really tall one?” asked Bertha, the blacksmith, who was balancing a chicken wearing boots on her shoulder.
“Yes!” Daychore shouted. “We’ll use the old barn wood! Build a tower that will take us all the way up to a new idea!”
“Uh-huh,” said Marvin the cobbler, who mostly made shoes for pets, including Bertha's chicken. “And what’s this ‘new idea’ you speak of?”
Daychore scratched his head, trying to sound profound. “A way where we don’t tear down barns anymore! We’ll be able to look out over the land! The wind will guide us! The spot in the sky will reveal a place to us with no barns!”
The villagers exchanged uncertain glances. “But, does your idea involve tearing down barns?” one asked. “Because tearing down barns is what we do best.”
Daychore was determined. "yes, well tear down barns and build a tower with them".
A tower? They didn’t really understand, but they did understand one thing: Daychore had hope. And if he had hope, maybe they could, too.”
Rainy paused for effect, allowing a smile to curl at the corners of her lips as the villagers exchanged puzzled looks. She continued.
“So, they pitched in. They tore down barns, raised their children together, and shared picnics beneath the framework of what would soon become their great tower. The tower leaned at such a ridiculous angle that even the pigs in the field were like, “Yeah, that looks unsafe.”
The tower wasn’t pretty. It was rickety and thin, held up by guy wires and a lot of faith. It creaked and groaned in the wind, threatening to fall apart at any moment. But nobody cared. They worked, they laughed, and they dreamt together of new ideas.
“Well, it’s not much of a tower, but okay,” said Bertha. She starred at the completed tower in amazement. “Just try not to fall off, alright?”
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of hard work, the day had come. Daychore climbed to the top, with boards and planks passed up by his closest companions. As the wind howled around them, they reached the spot. It was as it turned out… an old, rusted and rotten barn, hanging upside down behind a cloud. Daychore blinked in confusion. “This… this is it?” he muttered.”
The villagers chuckled softly, their tension easing slightly. Rainy’s voice softened further, the rhythm of her words like the gentle sway of a breeze.
“But the villagers below cheered.’ She went on, “He couldn’t help but smile, hearing the cheer of his friends below. It was faint, but the sound of it made his heart swell. He knew they were all in this together.
He shook himself, "No, no", Daychore thought. “The answers to life are still right here!”
As Daychore climbed higher still, he found himself on what could only be described as his own front porch. Somehow, his farmhouse had been hoisted to the top of the tower. “How in the world…” Daychore muttered, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. But there it was, perched awkwardly at the top, as if the universe had decided that this was the new normal.
Inside, Daychore found his house was not quite how he had left it. An old man was sitting in a chair, staring out into space with glazed eyes. The woman, his wife, sat beside him, quietly munching on bread. She didn’t even look up when Daychore entered. “Where am I?” he asked, bewildered.
“Inside,” she replied with a shrug, never missing a bite. “You’re inside the house, obviously.”
“I mean, how?” Daychore stammered. “Why is my barn on the tower?”
Daychore, still in disbelief, noticed something even stranger: three sets of children’s sneakers lined up in front of the fireplace. Neon green, hot pink, and sparkly blue. “Wait a second… these are my kids’ sneakers. But… I don’t have any kids!”
“Oh, those?” the wife said, her mouth full of bread. “Yeah, those belong to the kids you haven’t had yet. You know, the ones who’ll show up any day now. Probably after the pigs do their thing.”
Daychore stood frozen, trying to make sense of what was happening. This wasn’t the great revelation he had hoped for. But then, as if to answer his confusion, the old man, with surprising agility, slipped off his blanket and rolled through the cellar door. He disappeared into the shadows, falling through the clouds below. Daychore rushed to the edge, but it was too late. The old man was gone, the faint sound of his joyful singing carried away by the wind.
“Well, about time,” the woman said, looking up just long enough to wipe her mouth. “He’s been waiting twenty years to do that. Had to wait for you though you know.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Daychore muttered. “This place is falling apart worse than below.” “And, my future children… they’ve already got shiny shoes. What does that mean?”
“Pigs? What pigs?” Daychore blinked.”
Rainy let the silence linger for a moment, watching the faces of her audience. She could see the lines of worry slowly fading, replaced by the faintest traces of a smile.
“Just then, the roof exploded open, and three pigs came tumbling in, one of them landing in a giant bowl of bread crumbs. “What the—” Daychore started, staring at the pigs.
And the pigs didn’t just sit there. They stood up, stretched, and casually began to walk around the room as if they owned the place. One of them walked up to Daychore, gave him a polite sniff, and then walked past him, snorting in approval. “You really did it now, didn’t you, Daychore?” the pig seemed to say with a smug look in its eyes.
The wife looked up, shaking her head. “Well, Daychor, I think you’ve really done it now. You’ve built a tower so ridiculous that pigs are falling through the roof.”
Daychore stood up straight, staring at the chaos around him. The pigs, the sneakers, the crumbling tower. His grand plan had unraveled, maybe a grand piano would fall on him next.
But as he stood there, surveying the mess, something inside him clicked. Maybe the new idea wasn’t about building a tower to reach the sky. Maybe it was about being here. With the people who mattered. His family, his village. The ones who believed, even when the idea seemed silly.
Daychore smiled, watching the pigs roll around in the bread crumbs, and then… he couldn’t help it. He started laughing.
“Yep, this is it,” he said. “This is the best thing that’s never happened to me yet”. He said, “maybe it’s not about reaching the sky after all. Maybe it’s about sticking together, even when pigs fall from the sky!”
And with that, he joined his wife, and the children who weren’t even born yet in a dance of total absurdity, laughing with the villagers as the pigs continued to oink and run in circles.
The world might have been upside down, but for the first time, it didn’t matter. Life was weird, but it was also hilarious sometimes. And maybe, just maybe, that was the best new idea of all.”
Rainy let the last words hang in the air, a quiet breath that filled the space with a kind of peace.
The villagers sat in stunned silence for a moment, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight. Then, as if a spell had broken, a ripple of laughter swept through the crowd. First one chuckle, then another, until the entire gathering was roaring with mirth. Rainy, standing at the center of it all, let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Her story had done its work—not through profound wisdom or life-changing insight, but by simply reminding them of something they often forgot: the joy of the absurd.
The Village Blacksmith, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, shook his head. “A tower for pigs and sneakers and falling barns,” he wheezed. “Daychore sounds like he’s got half the sense of a goat, and yet... I feel like I know him.”
“Know him?” The Villages Cobbler snorted, leaning on his walking stick. “I am him! Been tearing down barns all my life, waiting for a spot in the sky to give me a clue!”
The children giggled uncontrollably, their laughter spilling over as they started mimicking pigs rolling around in imaginary bread crumbs. Even the most stoic farmers cracked smiles, their gruff exteriors softened by the infectious humor of the tale.
Rainy watched them all, a warmth blooming in her chest. These were her people—not bound by blood, but by the shared humanity of laughter, struggle, and the absurdity of life. For all their suspicions of her, for all the rules they imposed, she realized they weren’t so different from Daychore and his villagers.
“Tell us another!” a young boy called out, his voice bright with hope.
“Another, another!” the children echoed, their energy unstoppable now.
Rainy smiled and raised her hands for silence. “No, no,” she said, her tone teasing but firm. “You’ve had enough tales for one night. Too many stories, and you’ll start dreaming of towers and pigs in your sleep. And I won’t be blamed if you wake up tomorrow trying to tear down your parents’ barns!”
The crowd laughed again, but this time, the sound was softer, more settled. Rainy could feel the weight of the day catching up to them all. She let the moment linger before speaking again, her voice quieter now.
“Truly,” she said, “the best stories aren’t about what makes sense or what teaches us a lesson. They’re just about sharing a laugh. Because laughter... well, it’s the only tower we really need, isn’t it? It lifts us higher than any barn wood ever could.” Rainy knew this was wrong. She felt ashamed for not holding fast to the truth that none of these stories mattered, they were all a waste of time. Only the real stories that drew you into the light had value.
The villagers murmured their agreement; yes these were the only good stories. Their smiles lingered as they began to rise and stretch, ready to head back to their homes. The fire crackled softly, sending sparks into the cool night air as the crowd began to disperse.
As Rainy gathered her shawl around her shoulders, one of the elders approached. “You’ve got a way with stories, girl,” she said, her tone gruff but warm. “Not everyone can take a village from suspicion to laughter in one sitting. You keep that up, and we might just ask you to stay.”
Rainy laughed a quiet, knowing sound. “Perhaps” she said. The elder smirked, and wandered off into the night.
Rainy stood alone by the fire for a while, watching the stars come out one by one. Somewhere, far above, perhaps there was a spot in the sky that held answers—or perhaps there was nothing at all. Either way, she had found what she needed tonight: connection, laughter, and the simple, sacred act of storytelling, even if the real stories weren’t accepted.
The weight of their doubt, their suspicion, seemed to lift as if carried away by the very breeze that had inspired her words. Rainy knew, without needing any further confirmation that the tale had worked. They would no longer see her as an outsider, a threat to their ways, but as one of them—a storyteller who understood that even the smallest stories held a piece of truth, a piece of home.
With a small smile, she stood up, ready to leave. Her heart lighter than it had been when she arrived, for in the end, it wasn’t about convincing them. It was about sharing a moment of connection—a reminder that sometimes, the simplest things are the most profound.
With that thought, she turned toward her tent, her steps light and her heart lighter still.