The Fortress

One day, the air was filled with excitement on his mountain. A birth was about to occur down among his people. He had planned this moment for years, carefully preparing each person for this child’s life, as he had all others.

And then the moment came. The child was born. And his name was Quentin. Quentin lived with his parents in their castle. It was a small, quaint castle, a picture of their life, but it was a castle. And Quentin was fascinated by it. He roamed the halls and climbed to every tower and wall to explore each nook and cranny. He memorized every corner and room. His mind was filled with stories of his adventures inside the castle.

Then one day, when the boy was about 5, he decided to explore outside the castle walls. He ran free into the woods, the wind in his hair, his eyes wide open, absorbing every tree and bush, birds and squirrels rushing away from him. He ran and ran, paying no attention to where he was going, but whenever he looked back, his parent’s castle was still there. And the old man watched, a smile on his face, anticipation in his eyes.

Soon the boy came to a mountain. He climbed up it and soon cleared the trees. Before him stood a huge castle, beautiful and mysterious, looming over him like a giant. He looked around and saw his parent’s castle a fair distance away. Slowly, he turned back toward the mysterious castle and studied it. He inched toward the gate, nervous and curious. His curiosity won the battle and slowly he walked toward the closed gate. He reached his hand out to touch the door and jumped back when his hand passed through the wood.

Surprised, he leaned forward to touch it again and marveled when his hand passed through the wood. Excited, he leaped forward, passing through the gate and entering the castle. He raced through the halls and towers, passing through everything, wood and stone. Finally, he entered a room in the center of the castle. A stone near the ground caught his eye. It appeared to be a cornerstone, holding the base of four walls, obviously a keystone. And it glowed a dim light. He walked over to it and reached for it, his hand flinching when he brushed the top of it.

Curious, he touched it again. Goosebumps raced across his skin as his hand ran across the top of the stone. It was a strange stone unlike all he had seen before. Its shape was different from the rest, being shaped like a t and supporting the corner base of four of the mirage walls around him. His hand bumped across some grooves in the side of the stone, his eye rushing to see what was there. Engraved in the side were three strange symbols, all similar to the shape of the stone itself, yet familiar to him. And then he remembered. In his parents throne room, above their thrones, hung the exact same symbols: three crosses they called them. He traced the crosses with his finger. Then he saw his name engraved below the crosses. And the old man watched, a tear in his eye.

Soon the boy realized the time, the sun quickly fading away. He rushed home, looking back to see the fortress one last time before vanishing into the trees. He raced home, but never told anyone what he had found. He raced to his room, the halls empty, his footsteps echoing through the castle. He burst into the room and screeched to a halt. At the foot of his bed was a stone. Beautiful and new, it had not been there that morning. Turning it over and over, he examined it carefully. He puzzled over it as he went to sleep. And the old man watched.

The next morning, he woke up and carried the stone to the fortress. He rushed through the walls to the center room and nearly tripped in shock. Where before there had been only one stone now stood two walls, a single space near the cornerstone. He rushed over and slid his stone in the slot, stepping back in awe of the two walls, puzzlement overtaking him. Shaking his head, he rushed off and began searching for more stones.

And so the boy worked. He searched all around his parent’s castle and around his fortress, carefully studying every rock he found, choosing some to take to his castle and place it somewhere. And the old man watched, smiling.

Then one day, his parent’s told him they were moving to a new castle. The boy was almost 10 seasons old by now. In tears the boy rushed away, fleeing to his castle. He hid behind the walls he had built with the help of the mysterious cornerstone. Sobbing, he vowed to never leave. But soon his stomach growled and he was forced to return in fear of hunger. He stared up at the fortress, vowing to return one day to finish what he had begun. And he left. And the old man smiled, nodding his head in approval.

He moved to the new castle with his parents, and quickly discovered that it was the same as the previous castle and longed to return to his fortress. One day, he left his parent’s castle and hiked away, hoping to find another fortress. He walked and walked, and soon came upon a mountain similar to his mountain. And at the top was his fortress. Amazed, he rushed up the mountain, the air racing past. Elated, he burst through the gate and tripped to a halt. It was his fortress, yet it had changed, more walls having been built since he left it. And just as before, he hurried outside and began searching for stones to use.

And so the boy worked, his fortress growing, yet in secret, for he never told anyone about it, instead keeping it hidden until he had finished it, wanting to surprise them all. And the old man watched, his hands moving carefully, his eyes focused on the boy, focused on his work, his plans. And sorrow filled him as he worked, as the time grew near, as he saw his plans falling into place.

Then one day, as Quentin was going out to his fortress, one of his friends asked to follow him, to join in his fun. At first, Quentin denied him the chance but the friend became adamant and soon the boy gave in. The two left his parent’s castle and Quentin took his friend to his fortress. The friend became silent when they entered the fortress, listening carefully as Quentin took him around, his eyes darting everywhere. Soon the tour was over and the two stood in a nearly finished room. Quentin proceeded to place a stone on one of the walls when the friend started laughing at him. Confused, the boy dropped the stone, breaking it when he did. The friend laughed even harder as the boy struggled to clean up the shattered stone. Suddenly, the friend jumped him, knocking him into the walls, the room collapsing around him. Quickly the friend escaped, dodging the mess as he raced away.

Slowly the boy pulled himself out of the ruined room, his face dejected, his shoulders stooped as he looked around in shock. He dropped to his knees, his face battered from the walls falling on him, tears pouring down. He cried and cried, confusion filling him. After a long time, he stopped crying and stood up, picking up shattered rocks as he did. Slowly he began to clean up the mess and rebuild the room. And the old man looked down, a tear in his eye.

Soon the room was rebuilt and finished and he began work on another. As he worked, he heard a sound from behind and turned to see his friend standing there, laughing again. The boy tried to run but was to slow and soon the friend caught him, throwing him into the new walls and knocking them down, some of the former room’s walls coming down too. Laughing the friend vanished, racing away and taunting as he went.

The boy lay there, tears pouring down, the pain filling him. He dragged himself up and looked around. Wiping the dirt from his brow, he cleaned up the mess and began to fix the room. Then he stopped and looked around him. His fortress was slowly growing but was far from done. And he decided something: He took what was left of the room apart and proceeded to build the outer walls of the fortress, cutting his castle off from the outside world. Day by day he worked, the walls climbing high, closing off the inside. And soon he was finished. His walls were up and the gate was locked, and a vow was made: no one would ever again enter this fortress. And the old man wept, his hands still moving swiftly.

And so the boy worked, the fortress growing, the vision turning into reality as with each day more of the castle was finished as each day the boy grew. And the walls held firm, no one ever entering but the boy. Tirelessly he worked and yet struggled as his stones became harder to find. Vines crept up and threatened to tear the walls down, drive the stones apart and yet he worked, cutting vines and laying stones.

Soon he began to roam the walls, looking out at the world beyond, his soul as empty as the castle. He had lived for 14 seasons now. And he saw a girl, a fair maiden walking among the trees and people. He watched her intently, longing to meet her but not wanting to leave his castle. And so he watched, seeing her every day as he strolled atop his walls. The castle remained the same as he watched her, not changing. Then one day she looked up and saw him and smiled, waving at him. He stuttered for a bit before waving back. She smiled again and went on her way. Elated the boy raced back in and hurriedly began building a room, racing and not paying attention to his work. And every day he watched from atop his walls as she walked by, stopping and talking every now and then. And the room took shape, the walls done and the decorations filling it. Then one day, she knocked on his gate and asked to enter. He raced to the gate and flung it open, inviting her in and shutting the gate behind her. He showed her around his fortress quickly, not missing a single room, ending the tour in his newest room. She nodded her head throughout the entire walk except in the new room. She looked closely at the walls and roof and all the decorations. Then she shook her head before turning around and walking toward the gate. Dejected, Quentin opened the gate and watched her leave, never to return again. Anger boiled over as the boy raced back to the room, tearing it apart and destroying the decorations. Collapsing he began to sob. And the old man wept.

Again his parents moved to another castle and soon after that to another, both similar to the previous one, the fortress never far off. The boy grew and the castle grew and the walls remained. And the old man watched, waiting.

Now Quentin was about 18 seasons and the time had come for him to leave his parents’ castle and begin an apprenticeship, learning a trade helpful to his life. And so he departed, moving to a large castle a great distance away from home. And the fortress was there, still not to far off. Quentin continued to work on his castle, slowing building the inner buildings. Day by day, the castle grew near completion, the walls climbing high, towers reaching into the sky, looming over the trees below.

Then it was finished, or as finished as it could be for Quentin stopped finding stones. Yet there was one last room that needed finished. He searched far and wide but found no stones suitable to finish his castle. So he hid the room and waited. And the old man watched, a small smile creeping upon his lips.

Soon, Quentin, who was now a man, began working on a throne for himself to sit in, something for all whom came to see, a reflection of him to all. Carefully he carved the chair from cedar, his hand moving slowly and deftly over the wood, intricate designs forming in the sides and handles. Yet the right arm refused to carve or cut. So he left it, mangled and ugly, and finished the throne. He placed it in his throne room and stepped back to look at it. And though it was finished, something was missing. The room was decorated, the throne almost complete, the castle built. Yet something was missing. And the old man watched, waiting.

The boy pushed the feeling away and went back to his wall, watching the people below, fellow apprentices strolling along. He called to some he knew and invited them in, but none answered. He threw parties and many came yet no one stayed nor even commented on his work, only enjoying the shelter and comfort for a bit before leaving. He tried impressing people with signs and music but no one would come in and stay for a while. Dejected he closed the gate and remembered his vow. He strolled through the empty fortress, his dream made real. He marveled at it’s size and majesty but it seemed hollow, dead. He wondered the walls, looking out but all were gone. And the old man waited, excitement in his eyes.

Soon the boy reached the unfinished room and sat down, his eyes on the drab room, the walls unfinished, the room huge and empty. A cold breeze blew in through the holes in the wall, his eyes catching sight of a glowing stone to the left. It was the cornerstone, still there, still glowing. Then he noticed that a portion of the stone was missing, having never been there but only now noticing it. The stone was the starting point, the base for his whole fortress and he had never noticed it. And the three symbols were still there. He ran his fingers across the markings, and closed his eyes. A feeling of happiness rushed over him, tears pouring out of him as a song slipped from his lips, filling the castle with joy and peace. He sang and sang, long into the night, people stopping to hear the sound of his voice echoing over the walls. Finally, he stopped, his soul aflame, his spirit high. He opened his eyes, his face wet with tears. He stood to his feet and looked around the room. It was still unfinished, the cornerstone still missing a portion of it, and would remain so until a chosen day, a day he did not know but knew would come. With that, he exited it, shutting the door. He walked boldly into his throne room and stopped, amazement covering his face.

The room glowed, the decorations made beautiful with gold and silver, the walls covered with fine tapestries, a rug stretching out to the main doors. And his throne: smoothed and shined, gold and silver lining his carvings. And the right arm was still not carved, remaining smooth and ugly in comparison to the entire room. Then his eyes caught sight of something wondrous. Above his throne on the wall hung three crosses similar to the ones his parents had in their castle. Quentin dropped to his knees and sat there, staring at the crosses. And the old man wept in happiness as his child had returned home, his blessings pouring out onto him.

And so Quentin lived in his fortress, the gate still closed. And near the middle of the fortress, Quentin began work on a new project. He knew not what it was to be, but began working. He designed four high walls, secluding the area within from the rest of the castle. Every day, Quentin would enter the walls and work, carefully designing and planning, the tools he needed provided from within. And the old man sat, watching and smiling at Quentin’s work.

Quentin continued to walk the walls, watching the people below, the gate remaining closed. And then one day, Quentin noticed a woman, a fair and beautiful maiden, watching the castle. He disregarded her and continued walking the walls. His apprenticeship moved slow as he learned his trade, providing Quentin with plenty of time to work on his project, behind the walls of his castle, cut off from the outside world. And on the door entering the four walls he engraved a single line: Psalms 18:2. And the door remained locked, Quentin holding the only key, the door remaining shut, guarding it’s secret. And the girl watched, waiting, standing there at the same time every day.

Then one day, the girl knocked on the gate. Quentin slowly opened the gate and invited her in. She came in and gave him a gift before leaving, disappearing among the trees. Astounded, Quentin opened the small box to find a flower. He stared at it for a bit before taking it within his project, leaving the castle gate open. And the girl returned and walked in. And the old man smiled, his hand moving gently, Quentin working hard in his project.