There was a stone hall by the river, built low and thick against the weather. People came to it from the surrounding lands, not because it was beautiful, but because of what happened inside.
In the center of the hall stood an iron cylinder, heavy and ringed, set into a cradle of stone. A rod fit closely within it. When black powder was poured inside and set alight, the rod leapt upward with force enough to shake the beams. Sometimes it struck the roof. Sometimes it bent. Each time it fell back hot and useless, and the air filled with smoke.
Those who watched were impressed.
They spoke of power. They spoke of what might be done if the force could be made larger still. They learned to pack the powder more tightly, to seal the iron more carefully, to send the rod higher with each attempt.
And each time, when the smoke cleared, the hall was quiet again.
Nothing moved. Nothing remained.
They returned the next day and began again.
Among them worked an older smith. He did not stand nearest the cylinder when the fire was lit. He watched the rod fall back. He listened to the silence afterward. When the others spoke of height and force, he asked different questions.
“Why does it end?” “Why must we start over?”
The questions were not welcome. The demonstrations were convincing enough.
One evening, after the others had gone, the smith returned alone. He brought no extra powder. He brought a wheel—thick, balanced, and heavy enough that it resisted stopping once it was set in motion. He fixed it to the rod with a joint of iron and cut a narrow opening in the cylinder, so air could enter and leave in a controlled way.
When he lit the fire, the rod rose only slightly.
But the wheel turned.
It did not turn far at first. When the rod fell, the wheel kept moving, carrying the motion forward. When the fire was struck again, it met a system already in motion. The turning became steadier.
The smith did not rush it.
At times the wheel shook, and he waited. At times it slowed, and he waited again. He learned that if the fire came too soon, the motion fought itself. If it came too late, the motion faded. Only when the timing was right did the force strengthen what was already moving.
When the others returned, they were unimpressed.
“It is weaker,” they said.
The smith said nothing. He ran a belt from the wheel to the river pump outside. Water began to rise from the riverbank, steadily, without pause. He turned another shaft, and a stone began to grind grain—not quickly, but without stopping.
The power no longer arrived all at once. It remained.
In time, the hall was no longer known for flying rods. It was known for turning wheels. Mills were built elsewhere in the same way. Pumps followed. Work that once required constant effort continued on its own, so long as the fire was tended and the motion preserved.
The stories of the old demonstrations grew exaggerated, then childish. What endured were the machines that turned each day and asked no attention beyond their care.
Long after the smith’s name was forgotten, his lesson remained.
Force that arrives only once must always be summoned again. Force that can be carried forward becomes part of the world.
And so it is said that in a later age, people again learned how to summon great power—this time not from powder and flame, but from patterns and symbols. The demonstrations were astonishing. Ideas leapt high and fast. And again, much of the force vanished as soon as it appeared.
The question returned, as it always does:
Who will build the wheel? Who will learn when to strike the fire? Who will make the motion last?
For the world is not changed by what rises highest, but by what keeps turning.