The Sky above the River Pax

The young village on the river Pax was a place of hope and good fishing. Initial settlers had been so amazed by both the magnitude and the variety of the river’s produce, that little time was lost before a township had reared itself above the currents.
A small fishing fleet was constructed from the regions well-wooded heartland, and the town’s inhabitants proceeded to sit back and enjoy their bounty, adopting a lazy country attitude with dinner tables covered in fish.
About a decade or so into the fishery’s development, late-night dockworkers began to catch sight of a strange glimmering in the river’s charcoal depths. Inexplicable in terms of salmon, or sturgeon, or trout the phenomenon generated a great deal of talk in a community in which most things were known and familiar. Some blamed drink, others suspected some peculiar chemical event, and still others insisted that the devil himself had wormed his way out of hell just to sit around and smoke cigars with the fishes. More likely, it seemed, that was just a reflection.
Curiosity persisted, and soon the day arrived when fishermen joyously flooded the square, and the city council was convened by the discovery. Council members sat bemusedly in their seats as a particularly gruff fisherman shouted that he had discovered a cache of stars on the floor of the river Pax and went on to yell of how enormously pretty he thought they were. This point was proved remarkably well when the man opened his fist, and everyone saw what had been found. All the children present in the crowd laughed for joy, and even the stone-faced council members smiled.
For the villagers on the river, beauty and plenty went hand in hand. Fish markets lined the streets with their catch, and everyone’s eyes shone with glittering starlight. For years no one could quite see what was amiss until all at once, as if on some eternal queue, the woodworkers, who had become marginally prosperous following the completion of the town and fleet, began to carry small wooden boxes with which to more easily manage their stars. The council immediately recognized the wisdom of this, and soon such articles filled the streets.
Boxes struggled to accompany the glory of the stars with ever more intricate designs and ever-finer locks. Over the years it became reassuring to know that one’s stars in their immeasurable value, were safe in a nice box, and there was no reason to worry. When boxes became old, their youth entombed in rot, disastrous visions greeted any thoughts of transferring them. So much so that the city council issued an ordinance to the effect that it was better to simply place the old boxes in new boxes than it was to expose beauty to the world and risk such loss.
There came a time in the now ancient city on the river Pax, when no one could remember the stars. Twisted masses of wood and rope lurched madly through city’s streets, and rumors spoke of men who give their lives and those of others for boxes never to be opened.
The heartland had been exhausted of wood, and there was extensive fear as to whether a sufficient supply could be imported to feed the boxes. The council had withdrawn and everyone else struggled to survive and guard their box. The docks were torn down and the old buildings cannibalized so as to provide the needed wood. The staggering, drunken system seemed to suffocate them, until finally one of the greatest, most profanely massive things collapsed on itself setting the streets awash with light.
For a time no one knew what to do with the discovery. No one could understand such an alienly pleasant sight. Then finally, a son of many gruff fishermen scooped up the countless stars and lifted them up to the sky above the ruined city, and it was beautiful again.