To journey to the kingdom of Fortropolis is to sail beneath the sea and tunnel through cloud and drift on an underground river as if lost. It is a kingdom that lies beyond the blood and heart and fire of the world. And while you may have heard the legend, that it is populated by wooden trolls come to life, it is in fact the most welcoming of citadels, if you can find it. The trolls are actually pixies, diminutive spirits that emerged from the woods to build their own royal court, throne and spire, keep and wall. While free and wild, they wanted straight lines to accent their circuitous flights, they wanted stones and moats to be the solid ground above which their tiny feet floated like blossoms on a stream, like downy seeds lufting in the exhaling of the trees. But even in the blissful dusk we see their sun setting, their great pleasure dome recedes, before the first keystone has grown moss, back into the arms of the forest. It is not another lost kingdom, slipping below waves, hidden behind mountains. It has not been abandoned. Its steps have become the roots of a great tree, the banyan and the sequoia are flowers in its shadow. The pixie denizens curl soft on their beds of dried leaves, sleep sound beneath the red streamers that still fly at their castle's peaks. To some the residents and keepers of Fortropolis will be seen as peaceful magical creatures, to others, to the misguided traveler, whose campsite is turned upside down by their dancing feet, whose stead is turned loose, whose shoes are hidden in the underbrush, they will be seen as little trolls.
