They found the great pillar of light in the morning, it being extremely difficult to miss. Falling from the heavens, it emanated such tremendous light that their shadows fell long, dark and deep. Five feet wide and pulsing with angelic beauty, it was the verisimilitude of heavenly light. It appeared for no particular reason in the centre of town one morning, and despite the best efforts of the townsfolk to dig below and topple it, its fundament could be neither unearthed nor dislodged.
As it happened, the pillar’s appearance caused a great deal of consternation among the men and women of the town. For, you see, the presumably divine beam had elected to position itself in the very middle of the town square – the centre of trade, movement, and festivities for the entire community. Passersby rash enough to glance in its direction were rewarded with temporary blindness; loved ones were rendered indistinguishable in a sea of silhouettes; the night-sky itself became nearly bright as the noon-day sun, and many people began to find sleep an impossibility.
Nor did it bear even the slightest trappings of divine charity: no wealth, wisdom, or even warmth emanated from the luminous thing. It seemed totally and utterly devoid of any effect whatsoever, beyond a persistent and infuriating brightness, to the point where some adventurous children even managed to vault through its epicentre – with no apparent alteration to their bodies, minds, or souls. As miracles went, it was both a dud and a nuisance.
A council was convened to discuss the problem of the “pillar of blight”, as it had come to be known. It was destroying the village economy, morale, and overall aesthetic harmony. Who among the pantheon of gods could have been sufficiently stupid, or malicious, to conjure such an undesirable miracle? Not content to sit idly by and suffer perpetual illumination, the village elders discussed various plans of action.
At first the council considered draping a large hemp cloth over the luminescent beam. This was quickly discarded when it was pointed out that the pillar was originating from a distance many hundreds of miles above the town (if not more). It went without saying, at least to the haberdasher present, that they lacked the necessary materials to create a cloth that could cover the whole sky.
The second proposal, made by the foreman of the nearby mine, involved drilling a circular ring around the pillar to a depth of approximately four hundred thousand miles (give or take a hundred thousand), so that a cavity could be opened into hell itself, wherein the beam could fall and disperse itself harmlessly. The council deemed the suggestion altruistic, since it was held almost unanimously that the poor bastards down there could really use some sun, but ultimately elected to abandon it (on account of certain logistical problems concerning the depth involved, the physical properties of light, and the minority opinion that hell did not exist).
The final solution, proposed by the resident optician, was no less simple than it was retributively brilliant. The man described the construction of a gigantic pagoda, with a level roof, built for the sole purpose of supporting a mirror slightly wider than the circumference of the “pillar of blight”. Placed at the centre of the beam, the mirror would not only shield the villagers from the execrable light, but also reflect it back to those who had sent it, with redoubled intensity.
It did not take long for the council to see the obvious merits in this proposal. And so, with much excitement and a fair dose of irreverence, the town set to work building what would henceforth be known as the “Pagoda of Darkness”.
