The Architect
Nights in the forest were the worst. Insistently cold. Quiet shadows darkly moving just out of sight, stirring doubts and stealing sleep.
Under bruised skies he searched for shelter,
Lost,
Alone
And weeping his fears into the dust, the storm's thundery breath smothering the sound.
He couldn't recall the moment he started building or what drew him to the spot, one day he simply stayed his step,
Made his mark in the dirt.
He began with the earth, digging into her season-hardened heart for days without number until she was torn open to his hands and to the heavens.
Into the soil he now poured his invisible labours, filling the chasm beneath in a noiseless, stealthy torrent. The forest paid little heed.
On these humble foundations he began to lay out the skeleton of his dwelling place, modestly, with care only for the fastness of the walls.
By day he toiled beneath the pitiless sun, with steady measure laying brick against brick, weighing, refining, reviewing, realigning.
By night he took sanctuary within the cradling walls, the blooming edifice towering in his dreams, evolving in his restive mind.
And though with each day's industry his designs manifested all about him, when the enterprise was almost complete new devices swept behind —
He had built a sturdy shelter but he found he could not stop. The forest shadows whispered to him from the threshold and he kept building.
Higher and higher grew the walls, stretching stony limbs towards the wooded canopy, sweeping ever upward against the frosty stars.
Now a mansion —
He could still hear the forest singing and kept building.
To support the walls he added fluted columns dressed in golden leaves.
The forest shadows marched about the boundary night and day, but with every labour he drew further from them.
“I am safe” he said, the stone giving his words back to him with diminishing voice. The columns gleamed brightly in the dark.
Next, he filled the cavernous space with great bronze lanterns and fixed coloured glass into each of the vast window frames.
When all about him was bathed in bright and lavish rainbow, he set to covering the walls and ceilings with fantastical painted imaginings.
By his hand they filled with incredible mythic beasts and battles, alien jungles and reckoned stars, such that none could be unmoved to awe.
Finally, he turned his mind to fleshly comforts, fashioning grand furnishings from deep exotic woods and sumptuous silks, jewels and glass.
When all was done, his fortress shone brighter than the midnight sky and shamed the sun to dusk — a fine reward for half a lifetime's labours.
Word of his accomplishments spread throughout the land and people came to him in endless waves to praise his endeavours and be near to him.
He lived his days in quiet safety,
Beloved,
Standing at the window looking out to the cold and wild forest,
Anaesthetised by harlequin glass.
When a storm raged without, he would lay on the floor, pressing his fingertips against the flagstone, but he could feel no tremor.
When the moon glittered sharply against the frozen black, haunting the forest madly, he slept dreamlessly, untouched by her whim or malice.
When he left the safety of his beloved fortress it was without haste or spectacle, though the people thought him mad with age or fatigue.
To be lost among the ever changing woods,
To sleep beneath the indifferent stars,
To move onward,
To be stalked by perilous shadow,
To be free.
