Castling Kingside

It takes hours to build a sandcastle and seconds to destroy it. At this very moment, Tommy is involved in the former. There is no school this morning, so he came over to the playground after breakfast. Tommy loves building sandcastles; he visits the sandpit almost everyday. His mother is unhappy about having to vacuum the house everyday, but is reluctant to buy him Lego building blocks so that he won't go to the sandpit. And so he builds.

Grain.

By.

Grain.

A sandcastle rises from the heap.

Smiling, its proud creator moulds it with his hands, trying to perfect its form. One day he will be an architect like Daddy. And also king of the world. Or at least of more than his own sandcastle, for he was born to rule. For now, Tommy digs a moat, shapes the battlements and reinforces a tower. At last, it is complete. A redoubtable bastion against decay and inexistence. The product of hours of sculpture. Years of dreams distilled into one single sandcastle.

It takes hours to build a sandcastle and seconds to destroy it.

(You thought Tommy was going to destroy his own masterpiece, didn't you?)

(No, this is not that kind of story. Read on.)

At this moment, several kids are walking over, intending to undertake the latter. Tommy looks up and realises the danger he faces. Should he destroy his sandcastle and deny them the pleasure? After all, a sandcastle is only an organisation and topology that happens to have been manifested in grains of sand. It is an idea, and ideas cannot be destroyed. They persist, waiting for their time, to resurface or be rediscovered.

No. Not today.

"What's the matter, nerd? Not gonna stomp on your ugly sandcastle this time?"

"No problem, let us help you."

It is done. But Tommy is not done. Not today.

The children fight. The bullies learn the wrath of Tommy. But they fix him up pretty badly too.

Tommy gets up. The bullies are gone. In his rage, he is numb to the pain. He walks, blind to his surroundings, in part due to tears, in part due to apathy. If only he could find others he could play with. Others who understand him.

He walks. Past the school, past the post office, past the grocer's, past the cinema, past the houses. Into the forest.

It is his first time out of the town. It seems fitting for a self-imposed exile. Tommy walks along a creek, which takes him to the edge of a mountain. There is an opening there. In the spirit of exploration, he enters.

Tommy hears strange noises. Deep, pulsing, interweaving rhythms. It gets louder as he delves into the cave. He is nearing the source. There is a sharp turn. He sticks his head out the corner, and gasps. He has stumbled upon a troglodyte ceremony. Like the Neanderthals or something. He saw that on the Discovery Channel once. Yes, these look like Neanderthals. Some of them are sitting on the ground. And some of them are painting on the walls of the cave. A Neanderthal game of Pictionary? But the mural is too haunting and surreal, too fantastic and visionary. So the documentary was wrong! The Neanderthals never went extinct; they've been hiding in their caves painting all this time, creating wonders we have ceased imagining.

Tommy dashes out from his hiding place. He catches the Neanderthals by surprise. Grabs a piece of red ochre from the ground and sketches on the wall. He draws a castle, free from the constraints of sand or structure, and so in some way transcendent and permanent.

He turns around and faces the tribe. One of the painters walks towards Tommy and grunts. The other painters nod. The tribe starts murmuring. The painter places his hand on top of Tommy's head, and rubs it. Then he passes Tommy a piece of charcoal, and continues painting.

Editor's note: Cave paintings were actually produced by early humans and not Neanderthals.