The Lost Key

No one knew how old the village was. Few believed it lived since the beginning. Others differed, but not very much.

The villagers were simple people. They had enough, and perhaps they could have more, but they aspired to want less. When they prayed, they prayed for all. They believed, yet they would urge their young to seek; and the seeker was one who had questions. Sparingly they spoke, and intently they listened. Often they would go to faraway places where nothing was heard except the murmurings of Divine. Once they come back, they would pen down what they had heard.

And their experience would become part of their age-old repository of knowledge that sustained them for eons. They had a veritable treasure - their lore and myths were layered and lyrical, their epics were as vast as the oceans, and their philosophy had depth unfathomed. The books cultivated them, and they preserved their books, in a place securely locked by a key others knew nothing about. Only the villagers had the key; only they had access to the treasure.

In beginning of when the time started to rot, came from the West the barbarians, crossing the river, those who knew neither music nor sculpture. Blinded by the certainty of their faith, they had no eye for subtlety and symbolism. Apart from them, no one expected them, and no one was ready for them. What followed was a chaos unseen by any, and by the time it subsided, the world had changed for ever. 

The village is still there, though it looks very different. Poor villagers, who now speak a strange tongue with considerable difficulty, know that the treasure is still there, but can only peep from outside, for they have lost the key.