Tower

It wasn’t easy, growing up as the miller’s boy in Little Fence, Overweck. At the time, I didn’t know it, of course. Having carried sacks of grain and flour ever since I could walk, I was a head shorter than my mates but strong. As the village shrimp, I did all the foolhardy and dangerous things I could to prove myself, from climbing trees to jumping brooks and picking fights. All but one, that is: like the rest of the villagers, I stayed away from the Black Tower and made the warding sign if I so much as caught myself looking at it.
But it didn’t matter what I did. The farmers’ girls who sometimes came along to the mill with their fathers didn’t want anything to do with the Shrimp. Too embarrassing, I overheard one say. Her father tsk’d her, but didn’t say anything. There I was, my sixteenth spring and not even close to having kissed a girl. 
That was the last straw. That evening, I met up with my mates by the southern stone fence and told them I’d do it. I’d go to the Tower. Peck just turned and went home on the spot, but Trellis and Nobby stared in awe. Before they’d said a word, I took my pack and started into the forest towards the Tower. 
Legend had it that a wizard had once lived there, but had vanished overnight, never to be seen again. We knew all the stories about the spells found in the wizard’s magical book. I knew that if I could just get in and retrieve that book, no one would call me Shrimp or laugh at my size again.
The undergrowth snagged at me as I reforged a path that nobody had traveled for at least a hundred years. The ground gradually sloped upwards, making the dark silhouette of the Tower against the light spring sky loom ominously. I had a bad feeling about this, but pushed it down with my anger at life’s unfairness. 
All at once, the vegetation ceased and I realised that I was in the clearing where the Tower stood. Nobody I knew had been this close. I could have turned around and returned to my friends without loss of face. Something made me continue on. 
The Black Tower was made out of ill-fitting black stones, the stones sharp and pitted and completely unlike the rounded grey stones of the fencing walls in the farmlands below. I circled the Tower without finding an entrance. 
No matter, I was prepared for this. The stories said that the Tower had no doors and no windows. Out of my pack, I took my well-worn leather gloves and checked the length of the thick linen rope that we used to bind cargo on carts. Climbing up was usually not a problem, if you’re brave enough. The rope would help me get back down. I also had a hatchet, and I figured I’d be able to get in through the roof. 
Climbing was surprisingly easy. If the tower had been made out of bricks, fitted blocks, or even ordinary field stone, then I’d never have made it. As it was, the jagged chunks caught my gloves and boots, holding me up almost without effort. I chuckled as I ascended. The Tower was completely quiet and this climb was easy as pie, but no one except me would ever have attempted it. 
Then I reached the eaves. I knocked on them and heard wood. There wasn’t much overhang, but I couldn’t see the rooftop and didn’t know if there were any handholds. I could just reach the edge of the actual roof without letting go of the wall. It felt solid. Letting go of the wall, I kicked up and heaved myself up onto the roof. 
The roof of the Tower was surprisingly ordinary, given the weird walls. Slate shingles covered the round roof except for a green metal cap over the peak. The cap was fastened down in a way I couldn’t see, but it gave way when I chopped at it with my axe. The inside of the metal gleamed red as I bent it up and started removing shingles. Underneath the shingles was a layer of bark, and underneath that an attic with wooden trusses. A moment later, I was inside!
The level right under the roof smelled like an old attic. That was exactly what it was, I suppose. I lit my oil lamp and found a hatch. It was latched on the other side, of course, so I used the axe to weaken the joints and then stomped it open. This place was proving to be a good outlet for my aggression.
The room underneath was unlike any I’d ever seen. I dropped down onto a smooth, hard floor made out of black glass. On one wall there hung an enormous mirror with gilded edges, opposite a stairway that led down. The walls were made of the same rough stones as the outside. In the middle of the room, a metal stand held a thick book. I couldn’t believe it! It couldn’t be anything except the spell-book in the stories — the book didn’t glow or do anything visibly special, but somehow I knew that it had been waiting for me. 
I reached out and touched it, only to suddenly wake up to a thunderous rumbling noise. It took me a moment to realise that I was in my attic room at home. The rumbling continued for several seconds, before subsiding. What on earth was that, and what was that dream? It didn’t feel like a dream, didn’t fade like a dream would. I reached out to light the lamp next to my mattress, but noticed that bright sunlight was coming in through the small window. Confused, I saw that my pack was by the ladder down, the handle of the axe sticking out. I knew the Book was hidden inside. What exactly happened last night? 
Shivering, I went out. My pa was still passed out drunk and didn’t move as I went out. My mother was in the vegetable patch, staring in horror to the south. That’s when I saw it: the Tower was gone. 
My mother saw my shocked face and explained. “It flashed, and then it just collapsed,” she said, fanning out her hands. She looked back to the Tower’s hill, where a dark pile of rubble was all that was left of the ancient structure. 
The Tower was gone. I looked at my mother, and saw the lines in her face, her hunched posture a testament to the hard hand of the man who slept inside. I thought of my father, the drunk miller who never said a kind word if a hard word would do. I’d never done anything good enough for him, although anyone could see that I did twice the work that he did these days. 
Behind my mother, the dirt road that led to homes of some of my friends. I’d never wanted to face it before, but all I was to them was a night’s entertainment. I knew they goaded me into doing stupid stunts and getting into fights because it was funny to them. None of them really had my back when I’d had a bad day at home, or stood up to pa when he blamed me for getting grit in the flour.
I didn’t know what the Book was for, exactly but I knew what would happen if I stayed in Little Fence. Spell-book or not, I’d grow bitter and fall into drink like my dad. Either I’d live alone or I’d entice some desperate farmer’s daughter with the milling life and take out my anger and want of respect on her. If I stayed, this place would take the little moral fortitude that I’d scraped together and grind it into the finest flour.
I don’t remember what I said to my mother, but I remember her eyes when I said it. She only saw the beating she’d get when pa found out. Right now, thinking past that was impossible, but I think she’ll understand in time. She’ll understand why I had to leave.
I only went back in to gather my few belongings in the pack. A few moments later, and I was out on the road to the Western Kingdoms, to forge a new path and find a new place in the world. 
Category:Story
Category:Grimoire Tale