The blackened monastery lay on top of the hill like a wounded panther. Lighting struck and set it ablaze. The people of the town took it as a sign that they had offended god. Those who could, left their homes, those who were too poor to leave, stayed in the rotting houses that wound down from the peak. Every year those who stayed grew older and poorer, many died. The dying town on the hill became a spectacle for tourists. People came to take pictures of the decay. They liked to look at the old fashioned people with their old fashioned homes, as they went about their drudgery. They were unaware of the beliefs that festered in the hearts of those who remained. God had forsaken them; he had torched their monastery, the sanctuary where they had been married, where their children had been christened, where they said their prayers for their dead. I thought it was abandoned. It looked dead. Many of the houses had been torched. There was no one about. I took my camera. I wante...