The old tower seemed to have just grown there; it was more like a giant, weathered stump than a castle. I suspect, if we could dig into the bare rock it stood upon that we would discover it had sprouted and sent roots down into the hill. It seemed so much a living thing, this dead piece of architecture from an unknown century.
I had always loved to sit and gaze at the old tower. As a boy, I had been a knight of a holy order defending my home from the invading Turks many times, or just as many times, a pirate with his band of cutthroats hiding from the law with our swag. Ever besieged, the old tower stood against my foes. It would always stand.
I sat and gazed up at the tower trying to remember those fantastic dreams of my youth. They were long gone now, faded to black and white. Yet, the tower still stood, still radiated a mad romance that could make a pirate or knight a noble thing.
The lowering sun fell behind that cold, stone structure, and the shadow of the tower arose, a black obelisk standing in the fire of the west. It had stood, it would stand, for its stones had been joined to our childhoods, had become a waypoint in the imagination—its shadow had even touched our language.
They might tear it down, yet I had fought for it before—it was my beloved pastime. I would fight for it again, a knight defending my home from invading bankers and a pirate struggling against the law.
If I fail, I know it will stand forever even as a phantasy. It might be just a phantom from our histories, but it would be a living phantom and its dark shadow will stretch forever over us. Even today I heard the lady remark, when the foreign surveyor asked the time, that it was but three hours past the tower, which is three hours since the tower’s shadow passed, which is the peculiar way we keep time in our little world.
The tower will stand forever. It is a living thing.
Tale Told 