A Castle Built on Sand

For as long as I can remember, which I assure you is far longer than you can say, I chased wealth, riches, and control of my path. I saw those as influence, gold, and the freedom of having no one to tell me what to do, where to be, or how to live. Such luxuries seemed so distant to the common man and woman, and required time I did not have to spend. Through life however, I learned that time has no equal in price, and sacrifice of ones self has no reward that is greater earned in return. I learned these lessons through error, and error again. I walked blindly with my eyes wide open but so focused on what played in my mind, and not what lay around me. I spent what no one person can ever earn back.

My name is Peter Masson. I was a horse keeper. I lived a life neither grand nor poor. As kings and queens ate their meals of delicacies, crafted from the greatest chefs of the world, among their large, oak tables in cold manors of stone, I ate my meals of bread and meat, of food I grew myself in what land I could afford, among the trees and beneath the stars. As poets, mystics, and dukes traveled the world behind curtains, and stayed far from the markets and wonders offered by the culture of the cities true life and color, instead choosing to be entertained by whomever was invited within the castle walls, I rode among the nearby forests and along the local coastlines, seeing the same great trees and vast ocean beyond, knowing them like friends I could grow old with. Royalty wore what was said to be the most expensive, while I wore what felt good in rain or snow, sand or dirt. In those moments, I would have traded it all for a pouch full of coin, or a crown jeweled with gems of the far reaches of Earth. The stars listen to your thoughts and dreams, and they will unapologetically test your truths.

I rode from the stable I watched over to the town center to pick up a new book to occupy my mind. As I passed the usual turn through the rows of lodgepole pines, my eyes wandered West towards the towering skyline of Coriscans. They reached to the heavens, like fingers of a buried hand pulling for salvation. I don't recall the moments I guided my horse in their direction. It's as if those rooted fingers covered my eyes and carried me over. I found myself in the shadows of the forest, the air thick with fog arriving from the sea. The smell of lichen and plums danced beneath my nostrils. I know these lands like a goat knows it grazing fields, yet I found myself lost. The more I searched for signs of the road, the more I grew disoriented. It was then I heard my name hissed from a thicket of fruit trees I failed to notice. A shrouded figure appeared. A face that resembled marble, hair as dark as a raven that wreaked of sin. It beckoned me over, with a hand dressed in gold and ruby rings. I approached and was whisked away into dreams of power, of love, of wealth and of mystique. As quickly as it began, it ended like the slamming of a book. As my eyes adjusted, the figures hand extened towards me, offering a little black book. It looked older than any I had yet seen. As I reached to take the gift, the figure whispered with a voice sharp enough to travel around the Earth twice - "With each written sacrifice of one thing you have you give, wealth, wishes and youth will be yours to live."

I awoke on that same crossroads that lye between the two groves of trees. My horse, a handsome percheron, looked relieved to see me back on my feet. I reached into my pack to grab him an apple when my hand ran across a leather book. I pulled it out and again the figures words rang in my head like a church bell signaling time for worship. As we rode home I ran through those events time and time again, trying to decipher what, who, I had encountered, and what exactly it wanted, what it meant. I watched many candles fall from rising towers to hardened pools as I decided what to do. It was then, in the late hours of the early twilight, as I replenished the water my eyes shed with cups of wine, I wrote in this little black book that I offer my home, in return for my youth.

Eight years had passed since that day. I had lost my home to a fire minutes after my quill left the paper, and just as the frame of my cabin had disappeared, so to did my knowledge of the area. I cannot explain it, but I simply lost the memories I had. The people of the town too treated me as an outsider, as if I was erased from their experiences just days before. But beneath the ash and soot of my home, my eyes were drawn to a cellar door I know my hands did not build. Behind that door was a room so clean one could sware it was forged as the fire burned. That room housed a chest filled with my first fortune.

Though the home I knew had cast me aside, the years did not treat me with such anguish. Time had passed, but I only grew. My hair thicker, my muscles larger, my appetite hungrier. I began to realize I could see anything, do anything I desired, as time was inevitably on my side, and riches were a simple promise away. With the flick of a feather the future was mine to do with how I pleased.

Forty years had passed. My horse, my friend, was killed by wolves as I wrote away his life for gold to impress a princess. She too would eventually suffer an ill fate as I wrote away my love for another in return for power to defeat a region I wished to rule. My laugh was now forced, as I saw a sense of humor useless without a companion, and made the choice to trade it so I could travel far across the sea while still being as strong and young as an prize ox upon my arrival.

Seventy years. I had seen the world. I conquered lands I wished to ride across, free from entering anothers own. I donated to universities until they grante me recognition of my genius. My estates were filled with gold, stallions, silks, and spices. My soul however was as empty and barren as the plot of land left where my first home once stood. My little black book never seemed to run out of pages. The more I wrote, the thicker it grew. I had lost count of the years owed to me, and would at times promise things on impulse in fear of growing old while I slept. I sat in my favorite gardens, but failed to be impressed. Had I written off my appreciation for color? I felt the warm desert air over my bald skull, I had given away the long, flowing hair I had once enjoyed letting down after a long day of work, as it seemed unimportant when weighed aside gold.

I had hired a woman to meet me by one of the ponds on my grounds to begin interviewing me for my memoir I had commisioned her to write. The pond was designed by a team assembled with the greatest hands and minds from across the world. I would pay them whatever they demanded, I just wished my garden would rival the wonders of anything eyes could see beyond my stone walls. Those same stone walls I once saw as obstructions on a horizon, I now lived securely behind.

The woman met just as the sun rose high above us. We spoke of my travels, my victories. She wrote in detail of the riches I had acquired and the battles I had dominated. She did not however, write about how I felt. She did not detail a smile or laugh I would give. Simply because, there was nothing there to write of. As our first conversation drew to a close, she asked me why I remained so stoic. Why did I not smile like the sun that rose perfectly over my estate, nor did I cry tears of joy like the waterfalls that flowed into my many pools. On that note, she thanked me for the tea, set a time for the following day, and left.

I did not sleep that night. Why was she so focused on my emotions and not my greatness. Why was my lack of passion more important than my abundance of success. I saw my little black book across the room. It had sat on my desk for some time now. At first, I believed perhaps I had everything a soul could want, and did not have need for more bartering. What could a shrouded figure living deep in the woods have that I do not? Or, perhaps, I had nothing left to give? I thought of my horse. Of my home. Of my first love. I thought of the trails I rode, and the markets I would visit. I remembered the smiles of my friends laughed, and the butterflies I would feel as I danced with flames around a fire and shared cups of wine. I remembered feeling full of life as my feet were in the sand, my eyes gazing among the stars, my fingers fiddling with a guitar I did now know how to play but my ears enjoyed the notes for they came from a place of hope. I remembered how it felt to be alive.

The sun rose just as it did every day. Birds sang the same songs they did each morning. I met the woman, however this time I asked to leave the estate and go beyond the towns limits and talk where the ocean met the sand. As we sat in silence, my mind wandered. I could hear the hiss of that figure across the desert just as I did every day, asking for more, and offering the same. As she pulled out her notebook to begin her questions, I too brought out my satchel. From it I pulled a little black book. I looked her in the eye and thanked her for her sincerity. I shook her hand and enjoyed the warmth of another human once more. As I placed the book on a small pillow between us, I told her that it would contain everything I had sacrificed to be the man she was looking at today. I said it would detail the world I had changed for my own. I told her it would tell any human how not to live if they desire to live happily. As she reached to grab the book I sat back and closed my eyes. I could hear her turning pages, I expected her to have questions soon. I respectfully asked her to hold those until she reached the end. As the sound of turning pages ceased, I could feel the sun pour over me like a warm bath. The sand tickled my feet like the kiss of feathers dancing beneath my toes. The waves crashed in such a way it reminded me of a song I once knew. I asked her to please read aloud the last thing I had written. "I wish to give it all back for a moment of joy." I began to laugh. Tears of joy streamed down my weatherd cheeks. I dug my hands and feet into the sand and stared into the sky. I felt alive.