Eli Straw was a reserved, eccentric individual who lived in a little, abandoned community that had been parched by the sun and dried by drought. With a tangle of straw-colored hair that never seemed to stay combed, he had a thin physique that reminded me of a scarecrow. The townspeople called him “Straw” because he was so lightweight, dry, and easily ignored, resembling the yellow stalks that covered the dusty streets. This was partly due to his surname.
Eli maintained the town’s last remaining windmill by keeping an eye on the decreasing wheat crop and fixing its creaky blades. Once, the area was beautiful, with golden fields as far as the eye could see, but years of heat and silence had caused the earth to break. Only hatred flourished at this point.
Eli was considered strange by the community. He didn’t talk much, he walked by himself, and he wrote bizarre things in a leather diary that nobody ever read. He was alone, without family or friends, and he had no say in the neighborhood meetings. However, they were unaware that Eli had formerly been a talented inventor until a fire destroyed his workshop and aspirations years ago.
The fire was not his responsibility. However, in a community where resentment blossomed more readily than flowers, someone had to assume responsibility. Eli was that person. According to them, he created something that was overly large and risky. According to them, he disregarded warnings. They claimed he made no effort to rescue the youngster.
He did.
However, rumors are more difficult to extinguish than flames.
Thus, Eli remained silent.
Not before the day the windmill caught fire.
On a hot, dry summer day, the air folds and everything snaps. A bolt of lightning from a nearby transformer struck the sails of the historic windmill. The fire started quickly—within minutes—and the sky above it followed suit, with the smoke rising like a black flag.
As if it had been waiting all these years, the fire moved swiftly, leaping across fields. The town was overcome by fear. Water was requested by the mayor. The fire trucks were too far away. Families left. Not Eli, though.
He ran toward it.
He didn’t consider. With his notebook in hand and his eyes blazing not from the smoke but from a deeper source—a memory—he simply moved.
Eli constructed a gadget many years ago, when the first fire struck. A cooling drone system capable of dispersing water mist across acres in minutes. In theory, it worked. However, it had never been permitted to fly. The town council had turned it down as being “too ambitious.” He had hidden the plan in that notebook and kept the prototype in his barn under lock and key.
He opened it now.
Eli’s drone, a weird mechanical bird made of scavenged metal and fan blades, soared into the sky as the flames approached. It took off after making a whirring and clicking sound. As the machine danced through smoke, releasing waves of vapor over the flames, slowing them, and turning the air heavy with mist, the townsfolk were astounded.
Even though it wasn’t enough to put out the fire, it was enough to rescue the town.
The fire was brought under control by nightfall. The ash fell like a light snowfall. The windmill was no longer there, but the houses had made it through. What little remained of the crops were still there.
For the first time, the mayor had nothing to say. Eli became the focus of attention, as though folks were seeing him for the first time. Not as a spirit. Not as a scarecrow, but as a person. A head. A rescuer.
He didn’t expect any gratitude. He just gave the mayor the notebook and left.
Engineers from the capital came weeks later to examine the drone. They discussed grants, patents, and potential. Slowly, the town started to recover, and this time Eli’s name was uttered with pride rather than in hushed tones.
And somewhere, in a little barn at the outskirts of the town, a new machine started to come into being under Eli’s watchful care.
The lightest items, such as straw, can occasionally be the source of the largest flames.
Also, the most silent individual sometimes has the most intriguing story.
