The Circle of Truth - The Wooden Hut

Inhabitants of the village awoke to yet another frigid winter morn. The mountainous terrains were garbed like brides, their countenances beaming with effulgent brilliance and unadulterated innocence. The Sun, still reticent, took refuge behind these resplendent brides. Unbeknownst to the villagers engrossed in their daily preparations, this day held particular significance for many in the West—it marked the 201st commemoration of Jesus Christ's birth.

With keen enthusiasm, the villagers orchestrated their customary rites. They embarked on a two-hour pilgrimage to a temple perched atop a modest hillock, where they venerated their deity. Winter's harshness curtailed their temple visits to a monthly occurrence. En route, they encountered a cadre of iconoclasts—youths who questioned traditional dogma—engaged in enigmatic activities. These skeptics were dispersed at various locales, some near the cascade and others at the hillock's base.
Time unfurled, its diurnal and nocturnal phases interweaving as they inexorably progressed. The iconoclasts toiled through the season's most inclement conditions, engrossed in undertakings beyond the villagers' comprehension. After a succession of snow-laden cycles, temperatures finally began their upward trajectory. The mellifluous symphony of cascading water and avian songs heralded the advent of spring.

Spring unfurled its verdant tapestry in sync with the villagers' customary pilgrimage to the Hilltop Temple. This year, however, a novel spectacle awaited them. A pair of iconoclasts occupied a makeshift wooden abode at the base of the hillock. Dismissing it as another subversive jest from the nonconformists, the villagers commenced their ascent, traversing the jagged stone stairway reminiscent of a sinuous, obsidian serpent.

A mere quarter-hour shy of reaching the temple, the villagers were startled by an anomalous sound. Glancing downward, they beheld a sight that defied credulity: the wooden structure was ascending the hill. Paralyzed in awe, they watched as the hut glided effortlessly skyward, arriving at the summit adjacent to the temple within minutes.

Indeed, the iconoclasts had managed to scale the elevation in a fraction of the time traditionally required, thanks to their innovative conveyance.

The maverick orchestrator of this mechanical marvel ought to have elucidated to the villagers the principles underlying its operation—how they harnessed the cascade's waters to power a mechanical elevator designed to expedite the journeys of the elderly and young alike.

Regrettably, instead of laudation, he met with exile, accused of dabbling in maleficent sorcery. His cohort was similarly ostracized, their engineering feat discredited as an unstable venture, perilous regardless of its magical or mechanical origin.

The valley was awash in a vivid tapestry of blossoms and kaleidoscopic hues. Under a radiant and scorching sun, the harvest season had reached its culmination, heralding the advent of festal celebrations.

Buoyed by the hope of possible absolution, the ostracized iconoclasts arose on this special day—a day set aside to extol newly anointed heroes. Cautious optimism suffused the rebels as the village chieftain proceeded with the ceremonial accolades. But when the laurel of "Hero" was bestowed, it was not upon a face they recognized.

Indeed, the honored individuals had used the wooden hut that rendered them pariahs. The structure, once decried as an unstable folly or a product of dark sorcery, was now revered for its efficacy in ferrying the elderly to the temple precincts in mere minutes. The irony was palpable.