Mad as a Hatter
Prologue
The man was stooped with age, weathered and worn like a flag forgotten in a storm. His clothes where tatters, his beard the same. His hair grew unevenly on either side of his head, the middle shone with baldness. He stitched methodically, as if to the metronome of his failing heart.
This was to be his final masterpiece.
Slowly, gradually, the light faltered and left his cottage. Like the light seeping from his eyes. The room was dim, the room was cluttered. Coat racks held out his life's unsold work.
Under his soft hands, rags drew together, became a small, motley clothe mountain. A rim, like a moat, was stitched to his base. He held up the hat and studied it, a wry smile on his face. He tried it on.
Then,something amazing, unexpected happened. He felt as though he where held in conversation with his niece, the last human he had spoken to. But his niece had grown weary of the old man, and rarely responded to his ramblings. The hat, however, did. Òyour time is almost here, old man. You are growing frail. Rest now, and reflect. You were loyal. You were brave. Now you are only tired....Ó
The shock toppled to the floor. The old man did not look shocked, but rather a thin, pleasant smile wafted across his face. His eyes fluttered shut. He fell against the hard wood of the table, and dreamed the eternal dream of the light his eyes could no longer absorb.
The sorting hat was born.
Prologue
The man was stooped with age, weathered and worn like a flag forgotten in a storm. His clothes where tatters, his beard the same. His hair grew unevenly on either side of his head, the middle shone with baldness. He stitched methodically, as if to the metronome of his failing heart.
This was to be his final masterpiece.
Slowly, gradually, the light faltered and left his cottage. Like the light seeping from his eyes. The room was dim, the room was cluttered. Coat racks held out his life's unsold work.
Under his soft hands, rags drew together, became a small, motley clothe mountain. A rim, like a moat, was stitched to his base. He held up the hat and studied it, a wry smile on his face. He tried it on.
Then,something amazing, unexpected happened. He felt as though he where held in conversation with his niece, the last human he had spoken to. But his niece had grown weary of the old man, and rarely responded to his ramblings. The hat, however, did. Òyour time is almost here, old man. You are growing frail. Rest now, and reflect. You were loyal. You were brave. Now you are only tired....Ó
The shock toppled to the floor. The old man did not look shocked, but rather a thin, pleasant smile wafted across his face. His eyes fluttered shut. He fell against the hard wood of the table, and dreamed the eternal dream of the light his eyes could no longer absorb.
The sorting hat was born.