Story: The beginning of a story

The boy ran his bare feet through the sand. His house lay five miles behind him, and the sun was rising hot. The dunes were finally running down to the sea.

There was a boat waiting on the shore. He knew that there would be a boat: he didn’t know how he knew. He grabbed the stern, pulled the skiff out to sea, and sat down by the rudder. The wind was strong. The sails billowed and caught on silent hands. The skiff surged forward, and soon he was far out to ocean, running fast on a broad reach.

The boat danced a tango over green-grey water. The rudder held his hand: it knew the way. The boy did not. Soon he could not see the shore. All that lay about him was ocean, sparkling and warm in the rising day.

The rock came on to the horizon like a clenched fist. Dark and steady, it grew as the dawn wore into morning, and as the sun moved to the top of the sky. Cliffs loomed at the base of the fist, and the ocean boomed in them: WAH-BLAH-SHLUM! WAH-BLAH-shlum!

Looking up, the boy noticed the tower. It rose tall and thin, up and up from the top of the cliff.

As the sun started down from zenith, the boy came to the base of the cliffs, and the skiff steered him to a hollow where a stone dock and an iron gate awaited. Beyond the gate lay the darkness of a stairway, upward. The boy stepped on to the dock, faced the gate, and whispered, “I am here.” It seemed the right thing to say.

The gate swung open. The boy started up the stairs. They led to a long hallway, lined with torches flickering in yellow and blue. That hallway led to another hallway, and another and another. Sometimes the torches were green; other times they were yellow, silver, or purple. He walked through each of the long halls to the shadowy center of the castle, a room lit by a single white lantern. At the center of the dusky room, a curving staircase rose out of sight.

He climbed the staircase. And climbed. And climbed. His legs burned, and he rested breathless. He climbed again. Hours later on his dark journey up the twisting, narrowing flights, the boy came out to an open circular terrace. The wind blew warmly through his hair: the sun was low in the sky.

Walking to the edge of the terrace, the boy gazed out on the seas all around. Minutes passed. Sails appeared, one by one, on all horizons. The sun began to set: the ring of ships closed around the tower.

The master of the tower emerged from the stairs below, robed and hooded. Silent as a hawk on his prey, the master of the tower glided to stand behind the boy. Without turning, the white-haired boy bowed his head and said, “It is time.”

The master replied, “It is time.” He placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

The boy sighed, and straightened. Nodding, he said, “May the truth set me free.”