In a lavender valley of the Wonderverse, there lived a people called the Resonants, whose bodies sang constantly.
Knees clicked greetings.
Elbows whistled when nervous.
Stomachs made little kettle songs before meals.
And every sunrise, the whole town sneezed at once because the pollen there was made of glitter and optimism.
No one apologized for any of this.
If your ankle popped during a wedding vow, the guests smiled and said, “A sturdy promise.”
If your stomach growled during a council meeting, the scribes noted, “The body requests lunch. Wise body.”
But there was one sound the Resonants treated as a grave breach of manners.
A small puff from the mouth after drinking fizzy moon-tea.
A burp.
Whenever it happened, everyone froze. Teacups trembled. Harps stopped mid-chord.
The burper would leap to their feet and cry, “A thousand pardons! My internal wind escaped the upper gate!”
Then all present had to chant, “You are forgiven by the Committee of Air,” while a child rang a tiny bell shaped like a turnip.
No one remembered why.
They only knew this was Proper.
One day, a traveler arrived from the Marsh of Honest Creatures, where etiquette was simple:
“If you did harm, repair it. If you made a noise, continue living.”
At supper, the traveler drank moon-tea, burped, and calmly said, “Nice tea.”
The room collapsed into scandal.
The Mayor fainted into the pudding.
A violinist played one shocked note and retired on the spot.
Three aunties whispered, “No excuse me? No excuse me?”
The traveler blinked. “Excuse me for what?”
“For… for… the sound!” gasped the Mayor, revived by cinnamon.
The traveler looked around at the clicking knees, whistling elbows, bubbling noses, and seven simultaneous stomach songs.
“You all sound like a forest made of soup,” the traveler said gently. “Which is wonderful. But why is that sound a crime?”
The town elders opened the Book of Manners, a massive volume passed down for centuries.
Inside, on the sacred page of Air Etiquette, they found the original rule, nearly faded:
“When sharing tea in close quarters, if a bodily sound startles someone, reassure them kindly.”
That was all.
No apology. No shame. No Committee of Air. No turnip bell.
Just reassurance.
A silence fell over the hall, followed by a single rebellious knee-click.
Then someone’s stomach growled.
Then an auntie, trying not to laugh, accidentally burped.
Everyone turned.
She stood slowly, eyes wide, then shrugged and said, “Nice tea.”
The hall erupted.
People burped tiny burps and giant dragon burps. They laughed until their elbows whistled. The turnip bell was repurposed to announce dessert. By midnight, the Mayor issued a new etiquette decree:
“In the Polite Republic of Bellies, we apologize for cruelty, not digestion.”
And because they were still the Resonants, and still loved ceremony, they added one optional phrase for all future bodily surprises:
“Behold, a body.”
Which, the traveler agreed, was much better than “excuse me.”
