Castles of Sand

Barty was a plump boy, a victim of a mother's need to indulge her only child. She loved to ply him with sweets and laugh at the smudges of chocolate that would outline his mouth afterwards. Her eyes would light up when she pinched his round cheeks and a spot of pink would appear on the otherwise pallid skin.

In truth, Barty wasn't fond of candy. It would leave his fingers sticky. He would often forget his hand was covered in the sugary syrup and run his gummy fingers through his hair, only to have them catch and pull the straw colored strands and make his eyes tear up. But he so loved mother's smile. She was small and wispy, almost like air, especially around Father. But she seemed more solid when she smiled, more real and less likely to float away. Barty understood early on that only he could make her smile like that—only he could make her real—so if the price of a smile was sticky fingers, it was worth it.

Barty liked to build sand castles. He liked sitting on the shore, on the sand that was hard and moist from the receding water, but far enough away from the shoreline to keep his mother from fretting over his shoulder. The sand was good there, firm enough to pack together, making strong castles but not so wet as to turn into a pile of mush. Some kids liked playing in the muddy sand closer to the water, getting covered in sopping, dripping muck. Father said it was disgusting, letting children play in filth, but Barty thought they looked happy.

He would listen to their laughter as they buried each other in the soft, wet sand and run into the waves to wash it off, only to return and have at it again. It looked like fun, playing in the mucky sand, but it wasn't good for building sand castles, so Barty stayed away.

Nothing made him quite as happy as building his castles of sand. He would begin with four corner towers. He would first gather four piles of sand, careful to make them about the same size. They had to be even otherwise his castle would look silly. He then had to pack the piles tightly, smoothing the sides of the rampart, denting the tops to look like the stone ridges he saw in pictures. Parapets they were called, he thought proudly. He then built walls to connect all four towers; thick sturdy walls.

This castle was almost perfect, the best he'd ever built. His fingers were shaking with excitement as he grabbed a twig and snapped off the protruding leaves to make a clean stick. Barty got on his knees, inching carefully towards his castle. With a delicate touch, he ran the bare twig along the walls, outlining bricks in the moist sand. An hour or more was spent baking in the sun, as he drew lines on his sand castle making it just right.

Barty is nearly finished when a shadow fell over him.

"That's lovely," said a smooth, rich voice.

Barty squinted as he looked up the tall stranger. He's not supposed to talk to strangers. Mother would be upset and Father would be angry.

"But you think too small," the tall figure continued.

Barty looked for his mother and Auntie who were sitting on the plaid blanket, eating fruit and laughing, but there was no one there. Barty can't see anyone, actually. It's like he and the stranger were completely alone. And it's quiet. Very quiet. He can't even hear the ocean waves crashing anymore.

"Don't stop," the stranger insisted. "You could do so much more." And with that, he got down on the sand next to Barty and started to dig. Barty had never seen a grown up play in the sand before. He couldn't even imagine his father, in his crisp, stiff suits digging in the coarse grains. Soon his castle had a moat, an inner and outer gate, a drawbridge, and a drum tower. The ramparts grew twice as high and the edges of the parapet were honed to sharp points.

Barty hadn't realized anyone could do so much with bits of sand. He watched the stranger intently while they worked and listened excitedly as he told Barty stories. The stranger told Barty about murder holes - openings in the floor through which the castle defenders could drop heavy stones or boiling liquids upon any attackers. He explained about the arrow slits he had cut into the wall that allowed defenders to fire their arrows from the safety of cover. He explained that a plinth was the angled footing of a wall or tower, and that it was used to cause dropped artillery to ricochet horizontally - that it acted as deflecting surface for battering rams.

Barty sat mesmerized by the silky voice of the stranger as he spoke of the barbican, an exterior defense protecting the entrance of the castle. How it confined an approaching enemy to a narrow front, often leaving the attackers in the open, offering an easy target for the castle defenders. How they confused the attackers as they oftentimes found themselves in a hopeless maze of twists and turns.

He told Barty about the keep, the last resort, the place of refuge used during a siege. Some keeps were over 80 feet high and had walls over 17 feet thick. And as he spoke he built one, tall and solid in the middle of the magnificent fortress.

Barty's eyes went wide with everything he said. This stranger seemed to know everything about castles. When they were done they both stood back and stared at their work. It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing Barty had ever seen.

"You like castles, don't you?" the stranger asked.

Barty nodded excitedly.

"Let me show you something." And without another word the stranger took out a wand and casually pointed it at the glorious castle. The drum tower exploded, throwing sand ten feet in the air. His face had an expression of dead calm as he destroyed the gatehouse. Barty looked on horrified as the ruined drawbridge fell gracelessly into the moat. Lastly, and with a sneer, the stranger crushed the keep, a blue light from his wand making it collapse into itself.

Barty felt his lip quiver and the tears starting to pool in his eyes. "Why?" he asked, the first word he had spoken aloud to the stranger.

The stranger's eyes shined almost red. "No matter what defenses it had, boy, it was no match for real power. It's best you learned that lesson now. Remember that the next time we meet."

He turned and left Barty staring at the pile of sand that was once a beautiful castle. Barty watched as the sand dried in the afternoon sun. Watched as the coarse grains swirled in the air and floated away. Soon the tide came in and washed away the last remnants of his castle, leaving the ground smooth and level as if there had been nothing there at all. It was only then that Barty heard the waves of the ocean again. It was only then that he saw his mother still sitting on her plaid blanket with Auntie, eating fruit and laughing.