The Keyholder
What do you associate with the phrase 'a foreign land'?
A city far beneath the ocean seas? An island floating aimlessly across the Atlantic? A rock hurtling through the midst of space? Or just simply a country you're yet to personally explore? It's an extraordinary term with its meaning being altered each time you take a step. In conclusion, it's meaningless. An empty phrase that can be filled with purpose by your own experiences, but yet it feels so unsatisfactory. Wouldn't it be the ultimate achievement to create a land so difficult to comprehend that it could honour a word such as 'foreign'? Somewhere which is wholly original rather than a disjointed puzzle formed by fragments of past experiences?
I live by such a moral. Drowned in the boredom caused by this ironically blue planet and with loyal pencil in hand, I sunk into the velvet fabric which had grown so accustom to my form. Gently, it crackled – the fire so delicately crackled. It licked at the dry pine engulfed in its warmth like a cat would to its kittens; it gnawed at the surface of their skin like a wild dog on a hunt. Fake hospitality or fake hostility? Unknown. A power so difficult to read – a power so hypnotic. I dwelled in the hiss and corrected my posture, aiming the point of my pencil towards the blank void bestowed before me. I curved my stroke. The granite scratched. Scratched. Scratched. Scratched...
Something warm dawned over the land. Something that drained energy and installed fatigue into the hearts of many – it dawned proudly over the land. It was neither bright nor dull but simply impressive. One could face it prominently and it would strike a ray of competitivity in return, securing its dominance. However, it was no God. If anything, it was a simple slave. Perhaps it was a slave high in the ranks but a slave nonetheless since it hung their above all with no ability to descend. The unseen shackles clinked even if unheard.
As the fierce glare of the blind eye overwhelmed its opponent, and their gaze lowered, they would bear witness to a fright.
...a fright? Hm... maybe otherwise... a wonder perhaps. Nevertheless...
It was enough to shock and send shivers down a shaken spine. Silent creatures of pure splendour pirouette continuously like an army of ballerinas. The action was complex and intriguing, quite acrobatic to say the least. It twisted into a compressed version of itself before spiralling out and splaying its array of flat, broad arms. Whilst doing so, it revealed its core. It was reminiscent of an egg yolk – a thorough yellow and often avoided and within it nestled miniscule buds. They braced like popcorn about to pop in an almost frightening manner but only stayed visible for a matter of seconds until the ballerina crumpled tight shut once more. It protected it.
...the grown protect the young. How very nostalgic – disappointingly nostalgic. Whether the disappointment is aimed at my pencil or myself is a trivial question...
One couldn't blame a soul for settling briefly on the luscious, springy ground to gaze upon such a sight. Being entranced in this synchronised recital, it was forgivable to be oblivious to the gentle rattle of the shackles tremoring through the porous substance underneath.
After viewing the performance for a significant amount of time it becomes obvious what was missing. Why is there bristling to be heard when there was no breeze to be sensed? The atmosphere was stagnant with the only movement being the mesmeric silent creatures but yet... there was something else. Armoured arms formed as the lost-one adjusted its gaze upwards, as it had before. How could they have been missed? Embellished with what resembled a series of rubies, emeralds and diamonds. Fingers smothered in jewels. Such a majestic display of wealth.
...wealth, huh? Very ironic. What a pathetic attempt. No amount of sanity can fill up this tunnel that I've burrowed myself in...
Clink. Clink. It was refreshing. The purity of the diamonds tingled like a soft mint at the back of your throat. The richness of the rubies enveloped your appetite. The freshness of the emeralds enticed your eyes open only for them to be pressed shut once more by the swell of bliss in which surrounded you. Clink. Clink. The sound continued to dominate the land. It was almost...like praise.
Trembling, the beast backed away.
It was like worship.
The creature leaped.
Like prayer.
The being halted.
An expression of devotion.
It approached it. The Keyholder approached it. The rattle of the mass of iron was disturbing but also gave a sense of security. The thorough hazel eyes of the Keyholder confined its surroundings but also conveyed a deep sense of love. A disturbing sense of love, perhaps? From each of its steps, life bloomed. Silent Ballerinas sprouted from each footprint in bundles; Jewelled Arms warped into shape from its misty shadow.
...I tapped my pencil against my bottom lip lightly...
It was swaddled in lattice gowns of undistinguishable substances. It was as if the whole environment before it had been plaited down to clothe it – belittled for its own comfort. However, its appearance was irrelevant. How it presented itself was barely noticeable beneath the swarm of power in which one was exposed to. It was aware of this effect. It acted on this effect. It was sly.
The Keyholder cupped its hand and knelt down. Bewildered, the creature rested its muzzle obediently atop the displayed palm. It was a God – the one who owned the keys was the God. The rhythm of omnipotence rang through its fingers; it rang through its pores. With such kindness, it nuzzled the lost beast as if to comfort it but more so to distract it from the gaping wound it had pierced in its throat. It was a monster. A monster whose veins were filled with cold power rather than warm blood. Colours flew past the chocolate eyes of the soul before it spasmed to the ground, flummoxed. The harsh croaks followed shortly. Short, abrupt croaks.
The God loomed over the feast as if it had been a battle, however, its celebration was brief. It was so brief you could have said it never existed. You could say The Keyholder himself never existed. You could say the Silent Ballerinas and the Jewelled Arms and the Blind Eye never existed. Why? That's trivial too.
If the witness is disposed of, it never happened, it never existed, right? Therefore, asking further questions such as 'why?' or 'what?' or 'how?' only puts yourself at risk.
...the old man lives within the desolate fields...
Keys are such endearing things. The iron relays its scent with such courtesy.
...cut off from all contact...
If only there was a lock for every key. Open doors aren't worth investigating.
...resided in purely his own thoughts, his own ideals...
Or maybe 'if only there was a key for every lock'. Does that work better?
...he taps the desk with such precision but yet his mind is so far off target...
A locked door is so suspicious but without a key it is simply irritating. Maybe that is more suitable.
...I am the old man...
A broken key, on the other hand, is a whole different scenario.
...who wants to climb out of this burrow...
To be given a chance to open a locked door in which interests you, only to be disappointed, is Fortune’s cruelty.
...who wants to...
A key can be fixed though. It takes time and large amounts of energy but eventually it can be fixed.
...finally...
Finally...
...open the door...
The door will open.
The spark twitched alight. To never open a door with a flame behind it was a rule etched into the back of anyone's mind to the point where it almost became common sense. Nevertheless, the flame was fated to spread, even with the door locked shut - a wooden door burns.
It rained jewels as the arms collapsed. The clinks, as they collided against one and another, no longer tingled at the edges of your senses but rather propelled shrieks down your gullet whilst the delicate, bejewelled fingers snapped and shattered into the hot teeth below. The Silent Ballerinas simply compressed, never to return to their full glory, so loyal to their name, however, the Keyholder stood strong. It faced the teeth gnawing at its land but admitted defeat not long after. The keys shattered. The shackles disintegrated. It had nothing left to sacrifice but itself. Nothing left in its power other than itself.
...The corrupt void crumpled in the fire's light. It deserved to be loved. However, I knew I could not provide the love it seeks so I left it in the care and warmth of a spark. I left it with a spark I knew could erupt into a dwelling of comfort at the presence of a new arrival. I was unable to love the foreign land I created, if it could even be called that. I can't possess such a connection to what I can only call a chaotic display of my instability.
What did this mean? Was this the true meaning of the term 'a foreign land'? Had what I'd been searching for this whole time simply been my own lunacy? I sunk further back into the luscious velvet. With a tilt of the hand, the pencil slipped smoothly out from between my fingers. It soared through the air beneath it and towards the rigid floor.
The lead snapped...