Castle Of Gems

A slight tug

The boy sat frigidly in a grand chair. It was made of the finest wood from the forest. Its grand arms were encased with supple cloth which were lazily thrown over them. A grand window mimicked him as they both stared out towards the thicket of trees, which were all blanketed with snow. To anyone else, the sight would have been alluring. But the boy had memorized every tree and shrub, that nothing fascinated him any longer.

White flecks fell softly from the nothingness that was the sky, and the boy just sat and watched. Unmoving and uninvolved.

Behind the boy was a large desk, carved out of an oak tree from the southern piece of land. He had gathered the wood before the storm had hit. Of course, he had no trouble with predicting the weather, for it was the same every year. In the spring, flowers bloomed and grew, beautifully really. Though the boy did not consider them beautiful. He watched them as they were born, and in only weeks died off. Oh how he wished he was a flower.

Summer would hit soon after, killing all things green. It was a dry heat, almost unbearable. Water would become sizzling and scarce, but the boy knew his way around.

Fall was his favorite time of year. The colors became those of blood red and hid hints of ginger. The weather became still. A decent feeling during the day, though the boy barely knew that, and a cooling 60 degrees during the night.
He found wandering more comfortable when it felt this way. He wasn't freezing from the biting winter air, yet he wasn't sweating from summer either.
It was all rather calming to him. And calm, was a feeling he found rather hard to find.

So, there the boy sat, staring out the window at the winter snow falling delicately to the white floor. It was half past five. He knew this from the giant clock hanging above his door.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Five minutes past. Then ten.
Soon enough, the clock read 6, and the boy removed himself from his grand chair.

Children would begin to sleep now, and the boy needed to be ready. He ran out of the doorway, into the long corridor like hall. The sun shone brightly through the sunroof, shining rays of light on the boy. His bare feet hit the floor with soft thuds, and his moves were quick. He passed doors on both his right and left, all heavyweight. When he came upon the end of the hall, two flights of stairs reached him. The boy grabbed hold of the railing, using them to heave himself up. Once sitting, he raised both hands above his head, spanning for a small piece of cloth which hung delicately.

It was connected brilliantly, and he used the cloth on rope to sling himself forward.

And he did.

His body, with its light weight and slimness, glided quickly down the staircase railing. The boys expression was one of deliberation as he watched the end knob of the rail and, once upon it, hopped down from his pre-made slide.

The floor beneath him was made entirely of Redwood. Hand sanded, the boy had retained blisters and cuts for weeks.

As the boy ran across it now, the thought of his hard work never crossed his mind. No. For the only thing the boy was thinking, was that his head was beginning to ache.

That his palms had started to sweat, and that not only his body, but his mind was becoming restless as well.

The door which lead out to the terrace, was pushed open. Outside, the bitter coldness sliced the boys tender skin, but he didn't even flinch. His bare feet stomped into the soft snow, but the boy felt nothing.

And at this point, as he began to see glimpses and flashes of peoples wandering minds, the boy himself began to feel something he had never felt before. A tugging, from someone on the left side of his chest , began to drag him far into his garden. Past the dead Viburnum, towards his weeping willow. When he approached the small tree, he thought the aching had stopped. But it hadn't. Again, the boy followed his feet to a small creek hidden behind his castle. During the summer, when things would dry up, this was the boys only water source. For some, unknown reason, the creek would never dry. Yet, at this time of year, when snow fell and the land froze over, the water had a certain glow to it. It held a light fog which floated just above its surface. The boy stood, now with his toes hanging off the side of land, hovered the water.

Staring into the depth of blue and white, the boy began to drown out all of the other dreams he would usually enter. Something about this tugging in his chest, made him want to learn more. More about what it was and why this was happening.

So, there the boy stood, eyes closed, listening. He listened. And listened. Yet nothing else came. Soon after, the tugging stopped, and his headache returned.

Forced back into his unfortunate life, if it was any way of living at all, he recurred the dreams of those who dreamt.

Nights passed and days went by, and every chance he could get, the boy would run to the creek. Would peer into the water, and every night, would lose hope in any change.

So, on any ordinary night, like the one tonight, little did the boy know, that someone in the factual world, had felt that same tugging as he.