I was struck with the vision of a great burning tower. Glowing red like a sun in the night sky, its light illuminated a bloodly shadow upon everything. The great tower could have been mistaken for a revelation, the in-breaking of heavenly things. But those with suited vision saw it for what it was, and they could barely believe. The smoke clogged sight and suffocated breaths of every creature. I stepped into its gaze, afflicted by its absolute wave of heat, asking, “Why?”

Immediately captured by a memory, of its days of glory, I recalled. The days where water flowed abundantly and fruit sprung in every season. How lovely were those days. The days where it stood and we never questioned its standing. Built before I and many were born, its presence alone humbles a foolish man. Formed from large stones of an indescribable mosaic texture, and great columns impossible for any man or our craftiest mechanisms to labour. Filled with ancient sigils of a forgotten language, it both puzzled and cleared a tormented soul. And it never felt as a daily commodity, and you dared not approach such a holy sight, with an etched round divet cordoning an unspeakable barrier. There was no rule or punishment for its crossing. This law has filled our minds. A visitor from another land may join us, enamored by its poise, surely writing of it to tell a friend at home. The glorious tower will stand for ages, we sincerely believed.

How could stone or slate catch aflame? What awful blindness of nature let its great wonder cinder. How could our provident days be cut short? What a fruitful life we had led in its standing. But no one has violated it, walked within its borders, or have even thought of spitting on it (Faugh!) or blaspheme its side with a nail. The people understood what was right, and did it with joy.

A man from a far country entered our town to once in his life lay his eyes on the behemoth. He said, “I have studied all the senses, the history of earth and its people for ages. I am a student of master Nekros, in the city of Great Vasiliea. Never have I been so emboldened by a work of man. Who made this?” None answered, threatened by his unusual appeal. “What do we know that you do not know already?” finally responded one of our elders, after much prodding and pestering. The man concluded to leave unanswered. Our wonder attracts the strangest visitors.

After the first harvest, we piled our enormous wealth of grain and rice into the barn. No one stole as there always enough for everyone. We spent afternoons lounged in the shade of our spire. At sunset, we sang songs and ate bountifully, and loved one another completely. Those were the days.

We wished the tower were not only what we could see. It burnt to a disfigured bundle of black wood and rubble, quarter of the altitude it once reached. All the ash blew away except for grains sowed into the seams of our clothing and all that could soak into our rugs. We lost resolution, failing to foresee the weather. Our crops withered and no shade came upon us on the hottest summer days. It was no longer fit to sing and we protected what we had before the doom of the harsh winter.

There then came a man into our city. “I am the Tower!”, he shouted shrewdly. “And believe me.” “Do you have seeds for our crop other than plain rice and grain, or soil and rain for our shortest of harvests, or do you wish to pay a tax to see the ruins of our once great tower?”, asked our wisest elder. “I am the tower”, the man repeated. We chased him far into the country, throwing stones and mocking his dirty feet. He ran for so long that he disappeared into crowds of Vasiliea. Our wonder attracts the strangest visitors.