Constance, in questing for Joy through the southern, had tripped across the most precious, the most pertinent in every, in the universe, whilst crossing a dry riverbed. It contained within a refined casket of golden wood, fashioned and carved about with Baboons at Dawn, chattering to the Eternal. It had stumbled across her in the darkness when the starlight had been blocked by a cloud of uncertainty.
It is known that Baboons discuss the Eternal Truths as they watch the sun rise, therefore Constance reasoned, there must lie within the casket the Truths discovered and discussed. Of course, she must not open, or they might escape and dilute.
She took it, wrapped in a soft cloth within a rough cloth, and hidden by balancing upon her head, thinking to hide the treasure in plain sight.
She rode west, in the opposite direction to home, in an attempt to throw off any of the following. She dyed her hair, cut it short and curly, then affected a false moustache and beard. Putting her armour away, she donned a flowing cloak and waterproof sou’wester. On the third day, when she had shaken off the tail, the headlights of the suspicious car were diminished away and the person walking behind, looking over the top edge of a huge newspaper, had fallen into some roadworks.
The workmen laughed before they realised that the person needed an ambulance and then helped the paramedics lift carefully whilst the person groaned in pain. The newspaper was ruined by falling into some pooling water at the bottom of the trench, where the top surface of a huge orange pipe had been revealed by the diggers.
The Diggers often dreamed of finding buried treasures deep in the ground although they knew that it was highly unlikely. Sometimes, whilst dutifully digging, a sparkle of light from some glass shard or opalescent gravel would catch their attention and their hopes and dreams would soar beyond the hole in which they worked, riding on the riches of some golden torque or a misplaced diadem.
When they returned to the family residence or shared accommodation, they would relate the tale of the shiny find, which, revealed, became a sharp nuisance and their dreams would radiate outwards for a small while.
The bus lane had been closed off for these roadworks, and so the traffic was moving very gently. Constance turned her bicycle towards home. Travelling by bicycle was faster than using public transport but it contained dangers all of itself. Sometimes the saddle got wet in in inclement weather and took ages to dry out and in the rain a line of spray climbed up her back because the mud guard had broken. On this day all was well in bike world.
She went off road after a little while and the tyres of her bike got thicker and more spikey or rough. The suspension improved and the frame strengthened.
On reaching Az she presented to the Council of Joy Discovery or CJD.
Do we have to know the truth? Can we take it? Are we not happier in our bliss of ignorance? Asked the wise council.
It is for the best when all is said, said Constance, It may cause us pain to have our eyes opened, but at the end of the marathon we shall all benefit. I hope.
You hope! Where is the proof? Upon which assumptions is this explosion of understanding stood. Are these eternal truths or just for the Christmas? Argued the CJD
I admit that I do not, said Constance, though I bring these revealed to boost the joy quotient of all assembled and exposed. I throw my trust to the wind.
When my trust is in the wind, like a kite, then I must pull upon the string to depart upwards motion. I shall run upon the sand with my arm above trailing and a proud parent watching. The tail of my trust, a ribbon with bright bows of confidence equal spaced along the length and a final fluttering of belief at the very terminal.
The Trust, parti-coloured in quadrant parted, each bold with pigments rare to match the colours of our irises, in shimmering array.
OK then, I’m sold, said the head of the CJD, signing the parchment permit with a flourish.
The Guardians of the Cave 