Chris had always been a nature boy. From the early age of six he had been wandering the meandering paths of the forested areas around his parents’ farm, Judy and Mike by name, who were often worried sick for hours until he came home, dirty but happy as can be. As he grew older, Chris developed a natural sense of scouring the wilderness for fascinating objects and eye-catching landmarks and found many a strange item in the faded grasses and rugged bushes of the woods. Brave and curious this boy was, always scutteling through withered trees over barren hills with his little knife and backpack, never afraid of the twilight the setting sun let in or the slowly fading of the daylight into the animal-voice loudness of the warm summer night. On this particular day, Chris had set out at noon, stealing away from his parents after lunch while they were toiling away at the hard work of growing and feeding and with a joyful tune on his lips he danced his way over the meadows and into Harkwood, where many things lived and thrived but not many children played. This was his realm of adventure and solitude. And this is where his life should change for good and also, a very long, long time. Jumping from moss-covered stones to rotting logs, there were cicadas harping symphonies of the sweaty days, in thundering volume, hidden in the branches but omnipresent to the ear, our boy slips for a second, finds his balance on a bulky rock and even more convinced of his abilities, finds a new way around Miller’s Meadow into a field of surprisingly colorful lavender, many a flower turning towards him in the wind with nodding welcoming gestures of their beautfully crowned heads. Magnificently before him, a hundred feet away, the Tower. Made of stone blocks, weathered by years of storms and rain, thick in girth and massive in construction, the colossus inspires awe in young Christopher, urging him on to move his booted feet through the lavender onto the old path leading to a rusty ladder, which looks like it itself has forgotten its purpose. “Adventure, ho!” he yells into the soft wind, runs his hands excitedly through his short brown hair and is thrilled by the anticipation of the probably deadly task of climbing into the unknown heights of the giant, silent, resilient cylinder built by ancient men. One step at a time, he will not slip again. Left boot, right boot, pull. The rusty scent and grease feel of the metal bars is just even more of an adrenaline rush and on and on the ascending young scoundrel goes upward, completing the task up to half of the tower before resting his head against the cool stone in the dank summer warmth. Not to look down now, his parents would be devastated to not have him back in one piece and many years of scouting and learning the area were still to be done. Three quarters, legs are getting weary, back is itching with sweat until it is finally achieved. The ecstatic moment of reaching the top, a round circle in the meadow, near the bright Missouri sky. A body lies awkwardly bent on the round circle in the meadow, near the bright Missouri sky. A body lies awkwardly bent on the round circle in the meadow, near the bright Missouri sky. A human body lies. Shock and horror fill the boys veins, eyes and face and he nearly loses his grip on the bars. In the last moment he catches on, gripping tightly, lavender fields looking not so welcoming anymore- And he is drawn into his fate. The happy boy, the forest dancer and adventurous scoundrel steps on top of his first Mt.Everest. And moves closer, ever so slightly towards the fractured bones and rotting flesh of a man he has never seen nor known. And after staring at the remains for an uncertain but long period of time. He sits down. Falling inside. But supported by the tower which had been waiting for him for his whole youth to bring him reality and manhood in a way that will change everything for him. So it happened. And before it was dark, old Christopher made his way down the ladder, slowly into the dark, back through the woods and towards the lights of the farm, where his parents lived, Judy and Mike by name. And although in the coming weeks Judy and Mike were glad to have their son safe at home, they realized something profound and even terrible might have happened to him. But the formerly happy lips remained sealed and silent and the unknown body unrecovered. It would remain a secret, a silent bond between the Boy and the Tower. Until it was time to speak again.
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