Brave Quest, page 8
“Whoa, hey!” you say, shifting away from their scissors and toenail clippers and measuring tape. “Easy there, fellas. Can we do this later?”
“Ha, sure! Right. I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“Pish-posh!” the third duke says, a rotund man with a bulging belly. “You’re always ahead. Always more, more, more with you. Look at the man. It’s clear he’s been hard at work. Fighting in the bog, no doubt. Well, good show, lad, but it’s just as well you came our way. Battles bring out the worst in men, I think. Get them all bothered about things that can never change and take way too much effort to try.” He leaned forward, sweating. “For heaven’s sake, boy, am I talking for my health? Sit down and eat. Take a load off your feet.”
Another snap of the fingers from the same snapping duke. A trio of stewards come bearing platters of all manner of food—juice, fruits, breads, cheeses, meats, sweets. Enough for ten people.
You stare at it, astonished.
“Not enough?” asks the second duke. Then he bellows, “More!”
Four more platters are hauled in. Foods you’ve never even heard of.
The fat duke continues, “X.S. is always ready to pile it on, and when it comes to food, I don’t argue. He’s like that with everything. But all that other stuff can wait. A fellow needs some downtime more than anything—know what I mean? You’ve got to take care of yourself, prop up your feet. Relax!”
Having finished his sentence and stuffed his face full of food, the third duke promptly falls asleep right where he sits.
“Our manners!” the first duke cries, appalled.
“Yes, shame on us,” agrees the second. They rise, bow.
“We are the keepers of this humble abode, and you are welcome here as long as you please,” they say. “Our names were carefully chosen by our father, and they have always fit us well.”
“I am the Duke of Excess,” says the youngest man, the snapper. He looks to be in his late twenties.
“And I am the Duke of Vanity,” says the man who first greeted you. His smile is tight with forced politeness. “Really, eat a bite and go bathe. Please. I’ll fit you with something decent after. Consider it a gift.”
The Duke of Excess waves his brother to silence. Conspiratorially, he points to the sleeping man beside them and whispers, “That’s the Duke of Laziness. Forgive him. He’s really a charming fellow. Just needs a nap. Every day. Several times.”
The Duke of Excess motions for you. “Come, come! I’ll show you your chamber.” He grins wolfishly. “Trust me, it’s huge.”
How quickly things can change! you think. Fighting for your life one moment. Perfectly at ease the next.
I could seriously get used to this. . . .
Entranced at your wonderful turn of fortune, you follow the Duke of Excess. You don’t care where he takes you. All you know is, following him, you just want more.
As you go, you ask yourself, Is it wrong to want more? Why or why not?
Take your ease, eat, drink and be merry.
LUKE 12:19
DAY FORTY-TWO
Weeks pass. Months.
You hardly remember the Bog Monster. Even the day you arrived seems lost in the mist that sweeps down every morning from the mountains. The setting of the castle is picture perfect, something out of a tourism ad for Wales or Scotland. Beautiful music wakes you late every morning. You dine like a king. You nap and play whenever you want. The Duke of Excess keeps you endlessly fascinated with his ability to escalate every moment into an unforgettable event. Money is no object. You are lavished with gifts. They tell you this place is called the Palace of Pleasure. And you believe it.
Every morning you wake, look in the mirror, and spend an hour, maybe more, on your appearance. The glass is etched with simple words. They seem deeply true, more so with each day: Looks matter most.
Yes, it feels good to look good. You feel handsome, powerful.
But you are not so shallow as all that. Not at all. The larger point is how you have learned style and showmanship. You dress like royalty yourself now, thank you very much.
“Image is power,” the Duke of Vanity reminds you. “Nothing should matter more than how you look.”
You’ve taken his advice to heart to the point of being a nervous wreck if every hair is not perfectly in place. But boy, do you look good. It’s worth it. Everyone thinks you are cool, and that feels good. You are current on fashion and respected for your trendiness. In fact, any visitor who isn’t wearing the latest fashion or who doesn’t have the right “look,” you scoff at. Simpletons. Backward hill people, that’s what they are.
An endless series of interesting diversions is ever at your fingertips. You lack for nothing. The Duke of Laziness carves out big chunks of your day for pleasure reading and sipping fresh mango juice.
One day, a woman tears into the castle, screaming, “Please, somebody help! My son is trapped in the bog, and there’s a monster gonna kill him.”
You take note of the woman’s crooked teeth, her torn dress. Pitiful.
“Somebody, please!” she cries.
“What? And dirty my new clothes?” you scoff. All the other court attendants laugh with you. Weeping, the woman flees, continuing to cry out for help. Above the laughter of the gathered crowd, her voice stabs your heart, but you can’t fathom why. Her request, clearly, was outrageous.
Soon she is forgotten.
The creeping sense of lethargy is not. You feel tired all the time, but never rested. No matter how much you eat, you are still hungry. Even when you are stuffed and sick of food—which is all the time—you are still hungry. No matter how nice your clothes, they all seem plain to you now. When the Duke of Excess shouts for more—of whatever—you roll your eyes. Nothing excites you. Nothing thrills you. Nothing even interests you.
You are bored out of your skull.
This is home now. Life, opulent and privileged. You don’t remember True Man, at least not clearly. With each passing day, you remember less and less. All that other stuff was like a dream. A strange, awful dream. Your sword gathers dust. The Three Scrolls are folded up in those embarrassing garments you once called clothes, along with whatever else you took from the top of that mountain. What was it called? The one with the Visioneer. Was that his name?
More time passes. Every day is like every other day. Something about having too much begins to strike you as not good. One day, looking out the window of your room, you see something strange. A man is standing in the field, beyond the moat, the drawbridge, the guards. He is facing the castle and holding up a sign. You do not have to squint to read it. The words are big, bold, clear: “What will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and forfeits his soul?”
How strange. He is dressed in rags and has a long beard and fierce eyes. He doesn’t smile.
You blink. Look again. Another sign: “Be on guard against every form of greed; for not even when one has an abundance does his life consist of his possessions.”
You shake your head. Quite unusual. The man is planted like a tree and holds a new sign. He doesn’t shout. In fact, he doesn’t say a word. This sign says, “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”
The words burn a hole in your heart. Some part of you that has been asleep for a long time awakens, or at least stirs enough to be puzzled. You know success isn’t evil. Nor are fun and games. But what is it about comfort and ease and excess that is so dangerous to the mission God has given man on the earth?
Things that will not be satisfied.
PROVERBS 30:15
DAY FORTY-THREE
Since seeing the man with the signs, your life of ease no longer feels so easy. Instead, it’s beginning to feel a bit costly, like you might be missing something important. One day, feeling particularly nostalgic or inspired or more bored than usual, you take your old sword—where’d you get it again?—and venture down a long hall made of dark stone. You don’t remember having traveled this way before. At the end, you notice a man behind a door made of metal bars. He sits in a tiny room filled with gadgets.
“Hello,” you say.
The man glances up. “Wanna see my flamethrower?”
“Umm . . . sure. Whoa! Did you make that thing or buy it?”
With barely a flick of his finger, the man pulls a lever on a tube hooked up to some metal contraption. A thick stream of liquid flame shoots thirty feet past you, singeing your hair. You leap back, crying out. The man giggles with delight.
“Awesome, huh?” He gasps, then looks at you as if seeing you for the first time. “Wait, don’t answer. The bigger question is, where’d you get that sword? Good grief, it’s ancient. You need a newer model, like this!” He pulls out a grand, curving scimitar from underneath a pile of stuff. His sword has gold etching on the haft and a blade polished as shiny as a mirror. “Now, that’s a sword. And look at this.” He pulls a retractable spyglass out of the inner pocket of his robe, hands it to you through the bars. You find a nearby window, gaze out, adjust the focus. It seems like you can see for miles.
“Wow,” you say breathlessly. It is cool.
“That’s nothing. I’ve got the coolest new stuff. I’m Mr. Gadget. You should want this stuff. It’s so cool.”
You look around his room. It has nothing but a bed . . . and stuff. Gadgets, gizmos, knickknacks, whirligigs—every conceivable trinket or tool or machine or toy you can imagine. Floor to ceiling.
“Every time something new comes out, I get it. I work and work, and then, whether I have enough money or not, I get it. Why wait? I’m too impatient. All this stuff is so cool.” Every time he says “cool,” he puts a breathy, dreamy emphasis on the word. On the one hand, it sounds silly. On the other, it’s hard to resist.
“Do you ever get out of here?” you say. “You know, outside. Go do something. Play. Have fun.” You can’t quite locate the word to describe his room—small, stone walls, iron bars—but it seems a strange place to live. What was that called?
Pri . . . pry son? Prison!
Yeah, that’s it. Prison. When you’re bound up and can’t leave.
You were bound up once.
Mr. Gadget looks at you as if you are a fool. “Get out? For evermore . . . why?” he asks. Then he shows you the monitors and the padlock. He grips the bars.
“These bars are a rare alloy of tungsten, titanium, and steel, cold-rolled, forming an ultra-high tensile-strength prison. This lock is fashioned with over 113 of the most intricate gears, plungers, and springs, finer than the craftsmanship of any watch. It is unbreakable and foolproof. The monitoring system is state-of-the-art. Any motion by me outside my field creates a wind pattern that flutters into the funnel, releasing a metal ball that rolls down a self-pressurizing tube that shoots the ball the length of the castle, all the way to a gong in the dukes’ chamber hall.” By now, he is breathless. “It’s fabulous. The best prison I could hope for. Except for the Dominator. That’s the name of the next upgrade, coming in a couple of months.” He crosses his fingers. “I’m so hopeful they’ll get it for me.”
He studies you. “So . . . what’s your excuse for staying here, in the Fortress of Boredom?”
“I’m sorry, what did you call this place?”
“The Fortress of Boredom.”
You smirk. “I think you mean the Palace of Pleasure?”
“Nope, wrong. It’s a fact. I’m bored stiff. That’s why I always need new stuff. I have absolutely zero imagination, and I am utterly addicted to new gadgets. Then, for a few moments, they help me forget my boredom, and I’m happy again. Only then I get bored with the new gadget, and yep—I’m unhappy again. So I need another new gadget. On and on. What’s your story?”
You don’t answer. You hardly hear him. You’re still back at two words.
Fortress. Boredom.
A tinge of recognition, a surge of surprise. Yes, both words seem accurate. You haven’t thought of it that way . . . until now. But you feel utterly stuck in boredom.
It occurs to you that if every moment is unforgettable, nothing is actually memorable.
Life is passing me by. I’m buying it, critiquing it. But I’m not living it. I have everything I want and nothing I need. The adventure is out there . . . and I’m just wasting time in here.
The thought lodges in your gut with a sickening thud. In that moment, you see the Palace of Pleasure with new eyes, as a fortress. Of boredom. For the first time since entering months ago, you see it for what it really is. A small awakening begins in your soul. You ask yourself, Why is boredom such a huge trap?
Already you know the answer. . . .
The desires for other things.
MARK 4:19 ESV
DAY FORTY-FOUR
A prison. A fortress, designed not to keep people out, but to keep them in.
You hadn’t noticed. How could you not have noticed iron bars over every window, every door? Were those there before, or were your eyes just now opened? And the guards everywhere? Why are they scowling at you? You thought, before, they were smiling and pleasant.
You know you’ve got to escape.
The conversation with Mr. Gadget (such a strange little man!) lingers in your head, trailed by a new thought: All the gadgets and things I’ve always liked may actually cause more boredom than they prevent!
This is a revelation. How can this be?
All of a sudden, a sense of urgency compels you. You cannot stay here, not another day. Not even another minute. You rush back to your room, gather everything from the journey thus far. You know how to get out. It seems so clear now. In fact, clarity grows the more you resolve to escape.
You flee down the hallway. A left. A right. Another long hall. You’re looking for a particular door, one you’ve passed a dozen times. Until now, it has made you feel good every time to see what is written above it. Now it sickens you. You want to leave through that door. To make a statement. The symbolism feels important for your soul, a form of repentance.
As you round the corner, two figures emerge from the shadows. They are your age, dressed in black chain mail, black boots, black leather. They are identical twins, with long hair and cool eyes. They carry knives and wear sneers.
You feel fear. “I’m not looking for trouble,” you say carefully. “I just want out.”
“Out?” says one. His voice drips with sarcasm. “Out of your league, more like. You’ve never had it so good.”
“Dude,” says the other. His voice is slow, casual, seemingly unimpressed with everything. “Think with your brain for a minute. Nobody cares what you want out there. Here . . . you can have it all.”
“Who are you?”
The twins glance at one another, smug and cunning. With a light flourish, they bow, throw their heads back. “We are the Assassin Twins.”
Do not carry on as scoffers, or your fetters will be made stronger.
ISAIAH 28:22
DAY FORTY-FIVE
“I am called Scoffer, and that’s Jade,” says the first Assassin Twin, clicking his teeth together, watching you with disdain. “Why the rush, friend? Think for a minute—for once in your life. Add it up. The world is a pretty lousy place, you know. Your parents tell you what to do . . . all the time. Who made them king and queen, right? School bites, big-time. You almost never get your way, and no one really cares. Am I right?”
You start to answer. Your eyes are on the door behind them, on the words over the door.
It reads, My Way.
You remember. Only a few days after arriving at the fortress, you and the Duke of Vanity walked down this hall. He pointed to that door, told you it led to the Myway Highway and, likewise, that the Myway Highway led here. The Pleasure Palace, he had called this place then. Now you know it is the Fortress of Boredom. At the time, you liked the name. After all, here, you were finally getting your way.
“I’m going,” you say. “You can’t keep me here.”
“Fine, dude, whatever,” says Jade. “I mean, it’s like, total whatever. I’ve been out there too. It has its moments. But . . . been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Who cares? Do you really think it’s going to be any better out there than in here?”
“A man should create for others, not merely consume for himself,” you say. “Life is bigger than just me. I have been bought with a price. My life is not my own.”
“Whatever,” Jade repeats, yawning.
Scoffer is more virulent. “You’re even dumber than you look,” he says haughtily. “Your life is not your own? You only get one life—so who else’s is it? Why waste it on anything but yourself? Authority is corrupt. God is nothing but someone’s big idea gone bad. You should rebel against both. It would be the first smart thing you’ve done in a long time. Listen—”
“No, you listen!” you shout, your anger rising. How could you have been so foolish? Waving your arms wildly, as if revealing the whole castle, you say, “Here I’m surrounded by wealth and cleverness all the time. It’s unending. So why do I feel poor and bored? If I stay here, I know in my gut I will be surrounded by the illusion of significance but have none of the substance.”
“But you will be free, dude. To do whatever you want.”
You shake your head. “If I’m spoon-fed my freedom from another’s hand, am I really free?”
“What is freedom then, if not doing whatever you want?”
Scoffer seems irritated at your answer. “All right, let’s cut to the chase. Our job is to keep you here. Mocking and cynicism are our specialties. If you can get up in our brilliant wit and sarcastic attitude, you can be as cool and hip as we are. And you won’t want to leave.”
“Never let anyone see you care about anything,” says Jade. “They’ll just take advantage of you.”
“Wake up and smell the coffee, kid. A detached, rebellious attitude is the key to survival.”
