No one in Redshire or Blueshire knew who built the Wall.

Some said it had appeared on its own. Others believed it had once been no taller than a child. The elders spoke quietly of older days when neighbours leaned over it, shared stories, swapped loaves and argued without anger.

Then the shouting grew sharp, and the mud began to fly.

Whenever someone felt brave or annoyed, they scooped a handful of mud and threw it across the Wall. A little stuck. Then more. Each angry handful dried in the sun and formed a new layer. The Wall rose quietly while both shires were too busy shouting to watch it grow.

In Redshire the mud was a bright warm red. In Blueshire it was a cool deep blue. Each side believed their colour was special.

As the Wall climbed higher, people took more steps back to get a better throw. Then a few more. Before long the crowds stood far from the Wall and far from each other. The fields near the Wall grew empty while the distant fields filled with noise.

A few folk stayed close. They did not shout much. Some did not throw mud at all. They felt the Wall tremble under their hands when the wind blew. They heard stones creak with old age. They had a strange feeling that something was about to happen.

High above the Wall sat the Hogcats.

They were round creatures with soft fur and pink snouts and long whiskers. They wore velvet waistcoats and small top hats that tipped to one side when they laughed. No one knew if they were cats or pigs or something in between. People simply called them the Hogcats.

The Hogcats never threw mud. They sold it.

They owned the shire newspapers as well. Redshire read The Scorch, filled with fiery stories about the dangers of Blueshire. Blueshire read The Howl, filled with noisy warnings about the threat from Redshire.

The stories fed the shouting. The shouting fed the mud. The mud fed the Wall. The Wall fed the Hogcats, who sat above it all with full plates and fuller bellies.

One soft morning, while the sky was still pale, the ground gave a small shiver. The people near the Wall felt it first. Dust floated down in a slow gentle dance. The old stones gave a long sigh.

The Wall leaned.

It leaned toward the distant crowds who had stepped back and back until they could barely see the Wall they argued about.

The moderates near the base stepped away at once. They had never wandered far, so they were safe.

The distant crowds did not notice the danger. Their eyes were on each other, not on the Wall.

With a deep rumble that rolled across both shires, the Wall fell. It crashed outward and flattened the farthest fields of Redshire and Blueshire, the fields where the shouting had been strongest.

A great cloud of dust rose into the sky. Red dust. Blue dust. Twisting together in the morning light.

When the cloud settled, the colours were gone. Only the natural brown of simple mud remained. The same brown on both sides.

A Redshire elder knelt beside the fallen stones. She scooped up a handful of the brown dust and watched it slip through her fingers.

“All this time,” she said, “we were throwing the same mud.”

A Blueshire mason brushed the dust from his sleeves.

“It seems so,” he said. “We only painted it different colours.”

The Hogcats, surrounded by rubble struggled in the ruins of their balconies. Their hats were bent. Their waistcoats were torn. They squealed for servants and shouted for attention, but no one answered.

The people were looking at each other for the first time in many years. They saw faces instead of colours. Voices instead of threats. Neighbours instead of enemies.

The Wall was gone. The shouting had faded. Only the choice of what to build next remained.