The Locked Door

Borril wiped his clammy hands on his rough, home-spun tunic and stepped ahead with the line. Many of the other young men and women waiting for their turn were wearing shining silk robes with frothy lace bunched at their throats and jewels glinting on each finger. Everyone took another step forward and Borril watched the most recent failed attempt trudge back to his family, face downcast. He was wearing full armor complete with a sword and shield. The young man’s mother gripped the back of his helm roughly and practically dragged him from the chamber, whispers followed. His brother had succeeded last year.

Another step forward. This time a young woman in a ball gown came running past the line of waiting youths, tears running down her face, hair the color of sunshine streaming loose from its diamond-studded netting. Borril watched in sympathy. Each year as every 16-year-old in the kingdom lined up to try and open The Locked Door, hopes were raised, dreams soared. To be the one to open the door and leave on an adventure would be truly magnificent.

Another step forward. Borril felt his heart flutter again as it did with each step, each confirmation that someone else had not yet succeeded. The anticipation was almost too much and he wiped his sweating palms once more. His oldest sister had advised him to wear his working clothes. She, like many of the lower caste, believed that once through the door the victor would need to be prepared for the travel and hardships of an honorable quest. Many of the families at court laughed at this idea and sent their children in their finest, expecting them to pass through the door and straight into the receiving room of a magnificent, foreign king.

Another step forward. A scuffle broke out at the front of the line. Borril was close enough to the front to see a famous knight’s son wrench his arm free of another waiting contestant and bang at the door, yanking the handle to and fro, trying to force what wasn’t meant to be. Guards stepped forward and managed to pull him away. Borril strained to see the simple wooden door, to see if it had been damaged, but too many craning heads blocked his view.

Another step forward. No one knew when the door first appeared. Its presence and the trials to enter had existed as long as the kingdom. Some whispered that the youths entering were sacrificed as part of a deal the first king made with the devil. Their souls in exchange for prosperity and safety in the land. Rumors that were reinforced when the young chosen never returned. Borril, having lived his life working the fields and scrounging for each meal knew this could not be true.

Another step forward. Each year a handful of families tried to keep their children from lining up, but guards were always dispatched and any who succeeded in hiding their child for the day were fined steeply. Most of the subjects were pleased to participate, however. The family of the chosen youth was always honored in court regardless of status and bestowed with riches and titles.

Another step forward. Some of Borril’s friends believed in the rumors that one could prepare for the trials. They spent their free time training and seeking out acts of service. Borril thought that if one was seeking to help others in exchange for a benefit to oneself, it wasn’t very honorable. But he didn’t say this.

Another step forward. Only a handful of young men and women remained ahead of him. As the day approached Borril had tried to banish daydreams of success. He had seen the hollowed looks of those who had truly believed they would succeed and left disappointed. To spend the rest of one’s life wondering ‘what if’ must be the most concentrated form of torture. Yet the thought had crept in, like a vine slowly pushing through the cobblestones. What if?

Another step forward. Whenever a member of the royal family was chosen it was seen as destined by God. When a serf was selected it was seen as a great blessing to the working people. Everyone who was chosen was suddenly remembered as exceptional and the words ‘I knew it would be them.’ leaped from mouth to mouth. Suddenly everyone had a memory of the youth’s bravery or grace. Borril wondered what would be said about him.

Another step forward. But no! He could not entertain the fantasy. He would not mimic his father who raged in drunken hallucinations about the cursed door and its false prophets. He would not follow in the steps of his sister who dedicated her life to obsessive perfection; trying to cure whatever error existed inside her, whatever flaw had kept her from being chosen.

Another step forward. But what if? Borril had spent his life working hard, keeping his head down, living an unassuming life. He did his best to fill his role in the world, but he craved adventure. The need for more suddenly bubbling under his skin with such an urgency he began to itch. No one else had succeeded yet. He was certainly not the last in line, but there couldn’t be more than fifty potential candidates left behind him. Certainly, no one else felt this intensity? Certainly, no one else could be this excited?

Another step forward. There was only one young woman between him and The Locked Door. She wore breeches and a tunic, similar to his. He often saw her when he rode to the neighboring village for trade. She kept her hair in tight braids, had strong arms, and seemed to radiate kindness. Borril felt a dizzying swoop of doubt in his stomach as she lifted a hand to the door. He watched, unblinking, as she gripped the dull brass handle and pulled. Nothing happened.

Another step forward. The girl was gone. Borril stared at The Locked Door. It looked like the door to his home. The wood was unadorned and the handle worn smooth by countless hands. Borril could almost sense a buzzing radiating from behind the ancient planks. The frame was simple as well and stood unsupported in the center of the chamber. A guard cleared his throat and Borril started. He wiped his palms again and reached out with a shaking hand. The metal felt warm, alive. he wrapped his fingers around firmly, feeling such confidence, such electric expectation, his chest ached with it. He pulled.

Nothing happened.