The scales had always stood in the square, older than memory. They tilted in strange ways. Weighing not the physical, but what lay neath the surface.
What is the measure of a man? The scale’s measure had rang true for a millenia.
One fine autumn afternoon, when the air sang with crispness and well after the trees had dropped their clothing, a traveler arrived into the village.
He bore no signets or banners, just a simple cloak and a well-worn briefcase.
“Lo from a weary traveler, have you any lodging for the evening? And perhaps a place to display my wares tomorrow?” He requested.
Both of these requests kicked off a well-practiced dance within the village. Men moved about as though actors in a play.
The local innkeeper was informed of the solitary visitor and the room was prepared. Lodging was always provided to any traveler who had need, for everyone is treated with dignity.
The second request initiated a slightly different dance - a reflexive action for the village. The council was informed and the weightsmaster began preparing his ferrous tackle for a weigh-in. A hard-earned lesson, commerce was forbidden in the village without the seller first being measured.
It wasn’t until later in the day, as the evening sun just began to paint the sky orange, that all the council were assembled in the square to stand as witness.
“A curious thing this scale” the traveler remarked. He brushed his hand fondly across the timber and flexed a palm against the cool iron beams. He stepped back and paused for a moment, taking in the intricacy of the machine that stood before him. A half-pause more, and then a flicker of recognition crossed his eyes. “I will abide by it’s insights.”
He stepped onto the plate and the weightsmaster got to work.