For a few days now, I've been digging up old writings on this blog of mine, attempting to find a version of my old self. This morning I found a fable, a story I had written back in 2018, a story meant to challenge our ideas of wealth.
In my own defense, I think my initial telling of the story was good. I mean, I still like it. But, it does show a less refined version of my writing. So, I feel like revamping it, polishing it, and what have you, is definitely a good move.
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The Unbuilt Castle
Once, in a humble village, there lived a young man of simple means. Day after day, he watched the nobles pass by in their fancy carriages, their silks and jewels flashing, bragging. To him, their flaunting stirred not admiration, but only a quiet question: Why do they not see us? The nobles presence always feeding resentments, not love.
Often, as he worked beneath the sun’s unrelenting heat, he’d whisper to himself, “If ever become rich, I’ll not be like them. I’ll give generously, care deeply about the poor” A dream, perhaps, evoked by dehydration, yet a thought that lightened his load through the long days.
One scorching afternoon, as he labored in the fields, he spied a old carriage clunking along. At its reins slumped an old man, frail, weak, his face pale as ash. Just as the stranger’s head dipped toward the hard ground, the young man leapt, catching him in time. With the carriage secured beneath a big tree’s shade, the old man woke up, his eyes reflecting his gratitude.
“You’ve saved me, lad,” he said, a faint smile breaking through. And so, he shared his tale—a life of wandering the world, stitched together by that beat up carriage. The young man, who’d never strayed beyond the village well, listen with admiration. But then the old man’s gaze darkened. “My days are few I fear” he said. “The next sleep I take may be my last. If that is the case boy, take this carriage and all it holds as a gift. Be wiser than I was, my boy. Don’t wait to raise your castle.” With those words, he fell asleep and never woke again.
Initially shocked but ever so curious, the young man approached the old carriage. Beneath torn blankets and trinkets lay a small chest, locked tight. Turning back, he saw a glint in the old man’s still hand—a key. With trembling fingers, he opened the chest, and there gleamed gold, a fortune fit for a king.
The sun kissed the coins, and a chill gripped him—not of joy, but of dread. What if they come for it? he thought. The nobles, with their greedy hands; his neighbors, with their desperate hungry eyes. In that moment, wealth felt less a prize more like a curse.
So, cloaked in rags, he climbed aboard the old carriage and rolled away from his town. He vowed never to spend the gold, for to spend was to shine, and to shine was to be seen. And so he wandered, rich in secret, poor in life—his castle unbuilt, his beautiful dreams locked tight just the chest he dared not open.
The end.
