The Castle Corona

by Sharon Creech

  King Guido, too, let his mind wander during the endless official occasions, but his mind wandered to other realms. He hoped he would not see another snake in the garden. Snakes terrified him. He wished his robes did not itch and that he could wander around in his soft nightshirt. He wished he did not have to walk up and down all those cold stone steps from his bedchamber to the throne room. He hoped he would not have to go hunting with today’s visitors. His bottom still hurt from yesterday’s ride.

  Now, in the throne room, the Minister of the Daily Schedule, winding down, said, “And finally, the Minister of Defense will report on the thief.”

  “Thief?” the King said. “What thief?”

  “Thief?” echoed the Queen.

  The minister shuffled his papers and mopped his brow with his burgundy handkerchief. He’d been afraid they would take notice of that word thief. That is why he’d left it to the end, when he hoped they would be so inattentive or so anxious for him to finish that they would not hear that one word.

  The King’s hand fluttered on his knee. “Did you say thief?”

  “Have we misheard you?” asked the Queen.

  “Shall I leave it to the Minister of Defense to explain?” the minister suggested.

  “But you said thief.”

  “Surely not here,” the Queen said. “You’re not talking about a thief in our kingdom?”

  “I do not have the information,” the minister said. “The Minister of Defense will explain, I am sure.” And with that, he hastily bowed and retreated, leaving the King and Queen sitting on their thrones, looking at each other, both of them thinking, Thief?

  The King could not remember the last time the word thief had been used. Had it ever been used in his lifetime? And if it had not been used, how did he know what it meant?

  Queen Gabriella read his mind. “From stories we know of thieves. The Wordsmith has talked of them—”

  “Terrible things, thieves, always dashing about stealing things that don’t belong to them.”

  “But we have no thieves in our kingdom, Guidie. Surely?”

  “Never!” sputtered the King. “Never! Terrible things, those thieves.”

  And yet, the Queen wondered, why did they not have thieves? She climbed the stone steps to her bedchamber, stopping at a window on the landing. Below her spread the interior courtyard, bustling with servants and rimmed with flowers, birds diving here and there. Through the open main gate of the castle, more lush gardens unfurled. One path led to the King’s “folly,” the hermit’s cottage.

  Beyond loomed the stone wall, and stretching below was the grand and familiar vista of rolling green hills and pastures dotted with wildflowers. At the base of the hills wound the beautiful Winono River, silvery blue in the sunlight, and on the far banks of the river curled the village. The village was a sprawling array of low stone houses with red-tiled roofs, the marketplace with its colorful banners of blue and red and gold, and at the far edges, rows of timber huts with thatched roofs.

  From her perch on the landing, the Queen could survey the entire small Kingdom of Corona. She contemplated the peasants she had met in her twice-yearly excursions to the village. Their faces were always well-scrubbed, and although their clothes were of rough cloth and ill-fitting, they were clean. The children beamed up at her and the King, offering bouquets of wildflowers plucked from the meadows. The villagers seemed a loyal and placid lot. How could there be a thief among them?

  King Guido stood in the center of the throne room, still stunned by the mention of that word thief. He was not thinking of the peasants in the village. Instead, he was preoccupied with one single thought: What has been stolen? To his First Servant, the King commanded, “Bring me the Minister of Inventory!”

  “The Minister of Inventory of what?” the servant inquired. “Of Food? Of Clothing? Of Horses? Of Armor? Of Silver? Of Gold? Of—”

  “Oh, bother!” said the King. “Bring all of them, all the Ministers of Inventory!”

  Chapter Six

  An Encounter

  Pia was a slender girl with large, round dark eyes and thick black lashes, curly black hair, long legs, and an easy, graceful way of moving. In many ways she was unlike other peasants in the village, who tended to be sturdy and stocky and who strode about purposefully and with little grace. Pia did not know how old she was. Her master said twelve; an old woman down the lane said thirteen.

  The villagers called her “the eagle girl,” for her alert look and her confidence, and although she often dreamed of flying, she was not one to be easily labeled. She could be feisty, if challenged, but she could also be silent, withholding her temper. There was a girlishness in her open joy at the smallest of pleasures: a bird sailing through the sky, cool river water, a piece of red cloth found in the market. At the same time, there could be a mature air about her: she avoided self-pity, respected others’ feelings, and looked after her brother.

  Pia did not often dwell on daily challenges, preferring to imagine where she and Enzio had come from and what might become of them. In this was hope and possibility, although nothing in her life thus far gave her reason to believe things could change—nothing, that is, except the thing inside her that made her Pia.

  Pia had no recollection of her parents, and only a dim memory of a tall, slim figure she had called Grandpapa. She occasionally glimpsed one early memory, of a dark ride beneath a blanket in a creaky wagon on a moonlit night, the taste of salt on her tongue, the smell of garlic in the air, whispers around her, and someone saying, “Bellissima, bellissima,” over and over. She did not recall Enzio being in that wagon, but all subsequent memories included him, along with the understanding that this was her brother, and that she was the older one and obliged to take care of him.

  Enzio was lean and loose-jointed, tall for his age (ten? eleven?), with an angular but agreeable face framed by wavy, tangled brown hair that glimmered in the summer with streaks of gold. His long, slim fingers, calloused with work, were, like his face, ruddy from the sun. Enzio’s open, trusting look was at odds with his inner caution when Pia was out of his sight.

  Enzio’s earliest memory was of Pia bandaging his knee in the dark, dirt-floored hut that belonged to their master. He couldn’t recall a mother or father, only Pia, always there by his side. Pia had told him that they had not always lived with the master, that they had been brought there, but when or by whom, she did not know.

  Often the two of them imagined that they had come from someplace vastly different, a special place, and one day they would find their way back again, and they would find parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. These shared dreams alternated with their individual ones. Enzio dreamed of plentiful food, of traveling down the river on a raft, and most often, of riding white horses through the meadows.

  “On a horse, Pia, I could go anywhere, anywhere!”

  Pia’s dreams included entering the castle gates, for she longed to see what was inside; and she dreamed of touching the hand of someone related to her, someone other than Enzio, to know that she and he were not alone in this world. Her most frequent, and most implausible, dream was of flying, of feeling she could lift off and move about the world at her whim.

  On this day, however, they crouched in the thicket near the river, watching one of the King’s Men on his horse, ambling down the path. He stopped here and there, peering into the leaves.

  “Searching,” Enzio whispered.

  “For the pouch,” Pia said.

  Enzio’s eyes flickered to the pile of leaves under which he had stashed the leather pouch emblazoned with the King’s seal. “Maybe there’s a reward?”

  “For peasants? Not probably.”

  “Halt!” shouted the King’s Man. “Come out!” He drew his sword, aiming it in their direction.

  Pia and Enzio stood. “It is only us,” Enzio said. “Peasants.”

  “Come out—slowly,” ordered the King’s Man.

  Pia and Enzio emerged from the thicket, lowering their gaze, a
s they had been taught to do. They could see the muscled legs of the horse, the polished black boots of the rider, and the lower edge of his red cloak. They could smell the horse’s sweat.

  “Look up! Let me see your scruffy faces.”

  They raised their heads, taking in the gleaming chocolate horse and the tall, sturdy man, with his heavy-lidded eyes and prominent nose, the full sweep of his red cloak sparkling with gold medallions and the crest of the King over his heart.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Pia was bursting to speak, but looked to Enzio, for she had been taught that a soldier would expect a reply from a boy, not from a girl.

  “Fetching water from the river,” Enzio said.

  “In the bushes?”

  “And berries,” Enzio added. “For the master.”

  “And who is your master?”

  “Master Pangini.”

  “I know him, a stern one, likes to think he is a big man.” The King’s Man replaced his sword in its sheath, but he did not dismount. From on high, he asked, “Have you seen anyone go by?”

  Pia leaned against Enzio, her sign that he should be careful with his words.

  “One rider on a black horse,” Enzio said, “followed by the King’s Men, and then two of the King’s Men coming back this way.”

  The soldier glared at them, weighing Enzio’s words. “What else?”

  “That’s all,” Enzio said. “Were you chasing him—the rider on the black horse?”

  The soldier shifted in his saddle, looking back the way he had come. “You did not find anything? The rider did not drop anything or cast anything aside?”

  Pia and Enzio had learned, from their life with the gruff Master Pangini, that the truth was sometimes to be coveted, like a treasure. If they had known and respected the soldier, they might have offered him their gift of truth, but they were wary of him. Instinctively, they presented the man their open, eager expressions.

  “Like what?” Enzio said. “You want us to look for you?”

  “If you should find an object that…does not belong to you, that looks…important, what would you do with it?”

  Pia and Enzio looked at each other and shrugged. “What should we do with it?” Enzio said.

  The King’s Man wrinkled his brow and stared at them, as if he would bore a hole in their foreheads with his gaze. “You would not keep it?”

  “No,” Enzio said. “Never!”

  “For that would be stealing,” the King’s Man said.

  Enzio and Pia remained silent.

  “If you should find anything, go to the old woman Ferrelli—you know her?”

  “Everyone knows her,” Enzio replied.

  “Good,” the King’s Man said. “You go to her with the…object, and she will know what to do.”

  “I hope we find it!” Enzio said. “Is it very important?”

  “It is…significant. Remember my words.” And with that, the King’s Man galloped off in the direction of the castle.

  Pia glanced back at the thicket. “Significant,” she said.

  Enzio nodded sagely. “Significant!”

  Chapter Seven

  The Royal Riders

  Prince Gianni, heir to the throne, and Prince Vito, the spare, were mounted on their white horses, waiting for Princess Fabrizia. Circling them were nine King’s Men who would serve as guards and escorts. Two stable boys were attempting to assist the Princess up the portable wooden steps and into her saddle.

  “Take care!” ordered the Princess. “It’s a new gown and a new cloak.”

  Sitting upright and rigid on his horse, Prince Gianni gazed out across the meadow. “Another day, another ride,” he murmured.

  Prince Vito’s horse was stamping and snorting, echoing the younger Prince’s own impatience. Prince Vito wanted to tear across the fields, race across the meadow and on into the woods, but he knew that with the Princess accompanying them, it would be a slow, tame ride.

  From a window, the Queen observed her children with a sudden rush of maternal pride. How regal they look. Normally she was frank in her assessment of her children’s weaknesses. She was well aware of Prince Gianni’s sullenness and his empty head; she was not blind to Prince Vito’s aggressiveness; and she was often embarrassed by the Princess’s tantrums. But on this sunny day, as she watched them ride off on their white horses, she felt only tenderness and a ripple of protective wariness. This puzzled her, as she was rarely wary and never fearful. What had come over her? Perhaps it was that word thief, still floating in her mind.

  The King, meanwhile, was in his dressing chamber, lying on a brocade divan, suffering through the First Dresser’s suggestions as to which trousers and which royal jacket would be suitable for the day’s appointments.

  “May I recommend this one?” inquired the Dresser, holding forth a cream silk jacket emblazoned with the King’s crest and embellished with heavy gold braiding around the cuffs and lapels.

  “Too scratchy,” the King said.

  “Then possibly this one?”

  “I’m weary of blue.”

  Two timid raps sounded at the door.

  “Oh, bother,” the King said. “Who now? Enter. Enter!”

  When the door opened, a stream of men and women, forty-seven in number, entered, all dressed in the black-and-red cloaks of the royal staff.

  “What’s this?” the King grumbled. “Who are all of you? What do you want?”

  One of them answered, “We are the Ministers of Inventory. You summoned us.”

  “Hrmph.”

  “We are all here, except for the Minister of Inventory of Vegetables, because he is ill today, I am sorry to report.”

  “I hardly think his absence will be important,” mumbled the King. “Very well, then, I want to know what is missing.”

  “Missing, sire?”

  “Yes, missing. Which of you is missing something from your inventory?”

  The ministers looked from one to another. A short, gray-haired man at the back said, “Excuse us, sire, but if you want an up-to-date accounting, we will each have to do an inventory—”

  “Ach! Isn’t that what you do? Don’t you make inventories?”

  The gray-haired man cleared his throat. “Yes, sire, but not every day.”

  “Well, when, then? When was the last time you took inventory?”

  Again the ministers looked from one to another, each hoping someone else would speak. A wiry, pale man nearest the King said, “Speaking for myself, and I am the Minister of Inventory of Oats, my last full inventory was two weeks past.”

  “Two weeks?” said the King. “So you would not be able to tell me if anything was missing from, say, this week?”

  “Missing, sire?”

  “Missing! Something is missing!”

  “What, sire?”

  Two purple veins bulged on the King’s forehead. “If I knew what, I would not have summoned you! I want to know what is missing, and I want to know it by darkness.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight! Now, away, all of you, and I want a full reporting by darkness. Tonight!”

  The ministers retreated, looking anxious. The King let his head fall back against the divan. He was exhausted. He did not like confrontation. He did not like to give orders. He wanted to take a nap.

  Chapter Eight

  The Hermitage

  From time to time, when the King was feeling bur-dened, he made his way through the main castle gate and down the gentle slope toward a simple stone building. He first had to wind through the outer gardens, lush and charming, with pebbled paths curling between clipped box hedges and masses of lavender, which tickled his ankles.

  On a recent walk, he had stopped to rest on a curved granite bench, inhaling the sweet aromas and admiring a richly golden finch which perched in a nearby bush. “Perhaps you are the king of birds,” the King said aloud. The bird cocked its head. “And you, like me, are resting here, before you must go back to ruling your kingdom, hmm?�
� The bird appeared to be listening, and this had amused the King. He was enjoying an unusual feeling of calm when he saw a flicker of movement on the edge of the stone path, off to his right. A snake. A long, thick, black snake slithering along. The King jumped up, clasping his fists against his chest and stomping his foot on the ground. “Go! Go! Begone!” he ordered. The goldfinch darted from its perch and flew off. The snake stopped. “Begone!” insisted the King.

  Instead of fleeing, the snake slid along the path in the direction of the King. Baffled and terrified by the snake’s persistence, the King had ran off, stumbling down the path, peeking behind him to see if the snake was pursuing him. It was. The King fled beneath trellises overrun with roses, darted between sculpted bushes, and ran until he reached the hermitage at the bottom of the hill.

  Today, however, with thoughts of a thief in his head, the King made his way quickly through the gardens, relieved that there was no sign of the snake. He composed himself before knocking at the gray wooden door. The hermitage was a simple, square building. The stones that composed its walls had been hauled from the river below, and even on a sunny, warm day like this, the scent of river arose from these walls.

  The King heard the latch release, and as the door swung inward, a rush of cool air greeted him. He blinked in the darkness of the entryway, able to discern only the familiar outline of the hermit.

  Chapter Nine

  The Pouch

  Pia and Enzio stood in the thicket near the river. The air was still and quiet, interrupted only by the occasional terrip, terrip of crickets. The sister and brother were shaded on one side by a bank of tall oak trees. On the other side the wild grass stretched to the riverbank, and overhead sprawled a clear blue sky with one fleecy cloud which, to Pia, resembled a cauliflower.