The Old Man and His Stairway

There was once an old man who lived in the heart of a small, quiet town. He wasn't anyone special, just another old man whom no one took much notice. He wasn't particularly tall, perhaps around 5'7'' or 5'8''. He wasn't particularly strong, enough to work at his carpentry shop, but not strong enough to do anything more rigorous. He wasn't particularly handsome neither; his hair reached down to his shoulders and his mustache missed the shaving day too late. His eyes were hazel-brown, but many others had the same color. Yes, certainly an average, old man by appearance. An old man by age, but not of his mind. Whenever he spoke, people listened. They gathered around him like a pack of vultures on a carcass. He weaved stories, stories full of meaning, vitality, and life, thread by thread, and created masterpieces. The people were captured by what he had to say. Some people, however, laughed and mocked the old man, saying his age had finally caught unto him. The mayor and his colleagues criticized the old man, telling him that his words were poison and that he was corrupting the people's mind with fantasies. These people's words carried much power and influence. Soon, only a hand full of people continued to listen to his story. The old man wept every time one less person presented him/herself to him. He wept every time one of the influential people led another away from him. But he did not stop talking. He did not stop telling people his stories and what he had to say. 

Now the town lacked one crucial resource that caused much anger and quarrel among its inhabitants: water. There was hardly any rain that would fall upon the roofs of the houses and make little melodies. There were hardly any children who would come outside and jump in the mud and return dirty. The only water that people knew existed was on top of a mountain, a mountain that soared above the clouds. There were no paths to the top. Wild animals lurked behind the trees. The rocks on the sides of the mountain were sharp on the edges and slippery to the feet. But above all, the mountain was too high. Many tried in the past to climb to the top, but only a few, very few, ever managed to reach the top. They never came back down with enough water to share with the others. The only way for the people in town to get any source of water was to wait for the rains to come. But as mentioned before, those rains hardly came. One morning, as people rose from a thirsty night to start their work, they notice the old man walking towards the base of the dreaded mountain. Under his arms he carried several long boards of wood. Hammers and nails stuck out of his pockets. One of the men cried out from within his house, "Where are you going with those tools and boards, old man?"

The old man stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned towards the voice and smiled. He replied, "Wait and see. I will create a path to the mountain. Once I finish, all will drink and never go thirsty." 

Upon hearing this, most of the town's inhabitants roared with laughter. Some rolled on the floor, double over and their arms wrapped around their waists. Some mocked the old man, calling him crazy and foolish. Some, those who had previously influenced others to stop approaching the old man to hear his stories, sneered at the poor, weary old man and pointed their fingers at him, yelling to others, "See? This is what happens to a man who, instead of tending to his duties, fills his head with non-sense and fantastical ideas and stories. There's only one place such people go to: Nowhere." The old man paid no heed to them. He continued to walk towards the mountain, his steps as light as ever, but as powerful as ever too, for he knew, he knew, that amongst the people who laughed at him and mocked him, a few people stood behind their doors and silently encouraged the old man as soon as he announced his grand scheme.

Days passed, weeks passed, months passed, but the old man never stopped working. He continued to lay the planks down on hard ground to make a stairway to the top. Sometimes the soil under a plank would fail and he would have to re-nail the plank down. Sometimes wild animals came and destroyed some parts of the wooden stairs. But the old man never stopped working. Day by day, he laid the planks down on the ground and slowly ascended the mountain. He  He worked all day and all night, but it still seemed as though it was an infinite ways away from the peak of the mountain. Many people continued to laugh at the old man as he rose everyday with a couple of planks under one arm and with tools under the other. The council members and the mayor grew irritated at the old man exponentially. They cursed at the old man and told others to not even pay any attention to the old man and his crazy dream. They spread rumors about him, telling people that the old man was possessed by an evil spirit and that was the reason why he was building a stairway to the peak. Some people, who at first believed in the old man's dream, began to doubt.

Soon, years passed by. There was still a long way until to reach the top, but the old man had persisted and worked long enough to see the fruit of his labors. His stairway reached a great height. Soon, the old man would complete his mission. Soon, all would finally be able to drink the water from the top of the dreaded mountain with more ease. The people began to see the old man's progress. It was impressive work indeed. People couldn't see the end of the stairway even when they raised their chins to look up. Many began to wonder if they had misjudged the old man. Those who kept their faith in the old man from the beginning gained another boost of encouraged and continued to believe that the old man would one day, very soon, would succeed. Only a few members continued to hold their disdain and criticism of the old man. Their judgments soon turned to anger. That anger soon turned into hatred. They couldn't stand what the old man was doing. Filling people with false hope, and telling them lies. It was preposterous! Then finally, one of the members of the council spread the ultimate rumor: The old man was planning to make the stairway, but would not allow others to ascend them. He would keep the water at the peak to himself, never to share it with others. The rumor spread like wildfire on a hot, dry plain. People grew angry at the old man. They cursed at the old man and threw stones at him whenever they saw him. Some people even rushed to the stairway and damaged it, pulling out the planks off the ground on which the old man had worked for so long. But nothing that the people did stopped the old man from continuing to build his staircase. Nothing. 

One day, however, the council had had it with the old man. They rushed up the mountain and found the old man continuing to work on laying the planks down. They beat him, tied him up, and dragged him down the stairs. One person remained behind the crowd. Starting from the last plank that the old man had planted on the side of the mountain, he burnt them. The fire from the first plank quickly caught the one below, and so on. By the time the council and the old man reached the bottom of the mountain, a trail of fire winded down from a height beyond the clouds, burning brightly, ever so brightly, never ceasing to burn everything that the old man had worked for the last few years. A trail of tears slid down the old man's cheek as he watched his work, dream, and hope slowly turn into nothing but ashes and dust. Three days. If only he had three more days. Three more days, and he could have reached the top. That night, the old man passed away. The old man's body was weak and limp, and the added stress and rigor from his work had chipped away at the old man's health. Perhaps he died from the beating. Or perhaps he died as he saw the last of his work rise up in smoke and die down in ash. Perhaps both. By that night, most people, though few to begin with, who had believed in the old man from the start, fell away, finally realizing that perhaps the old man really was just foolish. But a few, a select few, very few, merely wept for the old man, mourning how he was so close from finishing his masterpiece.

Three days after the death of the old man, a young boy crawled out of his bed and out his house for some fresh air. He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the tiredness form last night's sleep. Just as he opened his eyes, his mouth dropped as well. He rushed back in, jumping on his parents' bed, screaming at the top of his lungs, "You have to see it, you have to see it" One, two three people peeped from their windows from the commotions. Then four. Five. Ten. Twenty. Soon, the entire town rushed towards what the boy had seen. Everyone, especially the council members, could not believe what was laid out in front of their eyes. There it was, among the trees, the rocks and above the clouds, a trail of wooden stairs ascended from the peak of the mountain and down the base. No one could keep their jaws from dropping. A miracle had occurred. It was clear that the stairway, that which the old man had worked on, that which one of the council members had burned, still remained intact, and even completed. No one dared to approach the first flight of steps. Some thought it was an illusion. Others thought they were still dreaming. The council members, however much they were amazed, soon declared that it was the old man's evil spirit that had come upon the town and had placed an illusive curse on the people's eyes, so that the stairway "seemed to exist". Many believed the council members and returned to their homes, muttering and cursing as to why the old man would not leave them be, even from his grave.

But the select few, the few who believed in the old man and his work from hence the beginning, remained at the foot of the stairs. They remained, but none dared to take the first step. What if it were a dream? What if it really were just an illusion? But one child amongst the group finally gathered enough courage to step in front. With his body shaking like a tree in a storm, he raised his leg, shut his eyes, and stomped unto the first block of wood. He opened his eyes. His foot was not on the brown dirt and jagged rocks that which consisted the mountain, but on the smooth, clean wooden plank that which the old man had laid. The boy began his ascension. The rest began to follow suit. It took many gruesome hours before the boy and the rest of the people reached the peak. When they finally reached the top, there they saw the old man, still old, yet his spirit was as young and vigorous as ever. He smiled upon them and greeted them with open arms. He addressed the people who, despite all the protests and doubts from the town, persisted through and reached the top. “Welcome, my dear, dear friends. From henceforth none will have to suffer the pain of thirst. Come forth and drink, so that you may never grow thirsty again.”

And there it was, behind the old man. There it was, a lake of pure, blue water clear enough to reflect the heavens above it. The people rushed towards the water. No other water ever tasted to cool and refreshing. And the old man was right. Then one of the people asked, “Old man, but what about the others from the town below? Should we not bring water down to them, or at least let them know of what has happened?”

The old man shook his head, his face turning a little more grave. “They have already seen what has happened. They know water exists here. If they do not come up to seek and find what they desire, even after seeing the miracle that has occurred before their very eyes, no amount of telling will change their minds and hearts.”

He rose to his feet and placed one of his hands on the person’s shoulder. A look of hope spread across his face.  “But that does not mean we should ever stop trying. Let a few of you go back down and tell of what has happened. Who knows, maybe some people will heed. Some won’t. But whoever chooses to come up here, we shall welcome them to the fullest.”