The Castle Corona

by Sharon Creech

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Wordsmith

  After the royal family and their guests had refreshed themselves following dinner, they gathered for the evening’s entertainment in the antechamber. It was a small square room embellished with gray marble walls and floors, burgundy taffeta drapery, and richly woven tapestries. The heavy wooden chairs were laden with cushions in vibrant colors: golds and purples and deep blues.

  On this evening’s schedule was the Wordsmith, who would recount a story. Neither the Count nor the Countess looked forward to the entertainment. It was hard for them to remain still and quiet, and it was especially hard to remain so when the Wordsmith told a story, because his mellow voice made them sleepy. The Count and Countess would have much preferred to continue conversing.

  The royal family, however, was always relieved when it was time for entertainment, for it meant that they no longer had to bear the burden of talk. The Wordsmith took them away from their daily duties and mundane concerns. He took them to places they had not seen, to people they had not met—interesting, lively people—not the same dreary round of castle guests.

  The King liked to hear tales of other kings, noble and brave. Prince Gianni, heir to the throne, preferred tales of melancholy young men who blossom into poets or artists. His younger brother, Prince Vito, sought stories of adventure: of dashing, energetic knights conquering dragons. Princess Fabrizia was most enchanted by stories of beautiful young princesses who save wounded princes.

  The Queen enjoyed all of these tales, but most of all she enjoyed the ones where a young woman—unnoticed and cast aside—becomes the heroine through her quick-wittedness and common sense. The Queen marveled at the Wordsmith’s ability to spin words into scenes so vivid that she would forget that she was the Queen in the Castle Corona, so vivid that all the while he spoke, she was elsewhere, completely and entirely transported away.

  The Wordsmith was a slender man, thirty years old—a bit younger than the Queen—with a modest air about him, at least when he entered the room. Once he began telling a story, however, he would become each character, noble or daring or meek or wicked, as the story demanded.

  On this evening, he was clothed in his usual garb of black tunic and breeches beneath a swirling black velvet cloak. He carried a black velvet bag and smiled his gentle smile at each person in attendance. He was tall and limber, with wavy black hair, brown cow eyes, a slim face, and smooth, pale skin.

  It was the Wordsmith’s custom to ask the King if he had a preference for a particular kind of story, and then turn to the Queen and to each of the royal children, and finally to the guests, to hear their preferences. He would then open his velvet bag and stare inside. No one ever saw the contents of this bag, nor did he ever remove anything from it, but he apparently gathered some sort of inspiration therein.

  “King Guido, your preference for a tale this evening?” the Wordsmith asked.

  The King thought a moment. “Let us have a king, a noble king, with a noble queen. The king saves the kingdom.”

  “And Queen Gabriella?”

  “Perhaps a woman—not a queen—who helps to save the kingdom? And—and—perhaps, also a thief?”

  “A thief?” said the Countess.

  “A thief?” echoed the Count.

  The King opened his mouth to object to his wife’s suggestion because he did not want to be reminded of the castle thief, but when he saw the look on the Queen’s face he reconsidered. A tale of a thief might help him determine how to handle the castle thief.

  “Yes,” the King said. “Let us have a thief.”

  “Yes, yes, a thief!” burbled the Countess, clapping her hands.

  Prince Gianni said, “If we have a thief, then we must have a prince who quietly discovers the thief’s identity.”

  “And a daring knight who kills him and saves the realm!” added Prince Vito.

  Princess Fabrizia smoothed the lace at her cuffs. “And,” she added impatiently, “a beautiful princess who—who—does something.”

  The Wordsmith opened his black velvet bag and stared inside.

  Once upon a time, in a faraway land, lived a noble king….

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Burden

  While the Wordsmith was relating his story to the royal family and their guests, Pia and Enzio were on their way to Signora Ferrelli’s. Their master was off visiting his mother (or so he said; Pia and Enzio suspected he was drinking ale with his friends), leaving orders for them as he departed.

  “Clean up this place, you idle hogs, and don’t let anyone come barging in,” he had said. “There are thieves about, you know!”

  “Thieves?” Pia had asked.

  The master pounded the table with his fist. “Thieves! Guard my house!”

  Pia viewed the dirt floor, the single tilting chair, the scuffed and splintered table. What, she wondered, would a thief want from here?

  As soon as their master left, Pia and Enzio slipped out and raced to the river’s edge. The sun was round and golden, like a shining medallion nearing the horizon, darkening the surrounding hills to a deep purple. From their tree, they retrieved the leather pouch and made their way along the dusty alleys which led to Signora Ferrelli’s dwelling. They had been troubled by Franco’s warning that the King’s Men would be swarming, searching for the thief, and they were anxious to deliver the things they had found, to be rid of their guilty burden.

  “But what if we cannot trust the old woman Ferrelli?” Enzio asked. “What if she turns us in? What will be done to us?”

  “We are only doing what we were told,” Pia replied. “If we found an object, we were to give it to Signora Ferrelli. That’s what the King’s Man said.”

  “But can we trust him?” Enzio asked.

  Pia had wondered this herself, and she was not sure how to answer her brother. She glanced at the rough flour sack that Enzio carried. The pouch was hidden in it, beneath bunches of blue and purple grapes. “We see what the air feels like. You understand?”

  “You mean, we don’t give it to her unless—”

  “Unless it feels right.”

  “And how will we know?”

  “We’ll know,” Pia said. “We’ll know.”

  Deep shadows cloaked the huts they passed, wrapping the simple dwellings in eerie layers of secrecy. Here and there candles burned within, casting sinuous shadows on the walls: an old man bending over a table; a cat stalking along a ledge; a long arm reaching upward. All was quiet, except for the occasional burst of a dog’s barking or the low roll of voices from within the huts. As the air rapidly cooled and darkness fell, gray mist swirled amid the deepening shadows. Pia and Enzio had often been out in the night but they had never before felt the undercurrent of fear as they did now, carrying their hidden treasure.

  Signora Ferrelli’s cottage was along the lane, beyond a sharp curve to the left. Rounding this curve, they could make out the hazy outline of the Signora’s tilting wooden cottage wrapped in low fog. A single lamp burned within. As they hesitated, the door opened and a large, dark figure emerged. So dense was the fog that the figure looked like a sooty phantom issuing forth into the night. Pia grasped Enzio’s arm and pulled him back into the shadows.

  This was not Signora Ferrelli, and they did not have to wait long to discover who it was, for they heard a familiar voice say, “I will then, I will.” The door closed, and the dark figure turned down the lane in their direction.

  “Our master!” Enzio whispered. “Pangini!”

  “Quick!” Pia urged. “Run—as fast as you can—in case he goes straight home. He will be a tiger if he finds us gone. Tell him I’ve gone to—to—I don’t know—think of an excuse. Hurry now, run!”

  “But you—?”

  “I’ll see Signora Ferrelli. Run, run!”

  Pia slipped between two narrow dwellings as Enzio raced down the lane. Their master, head bowed low and mumbling to himself, shuffled past. At his slow pace, there was no danger that he would reach home before En
zio.

  Pia tried to quiet her heart, beating rapidly like a trapped bird’s. She didn’t know why she was afraid. It was only the master, and she had endured his rages before. She felt as if the mist had invaded her mind, too, making things shift and change form. Why had the master been visiting Signora Ferrelli?

  His appearance there made her doubt their mission. Could they trust the old woman?

  The pouch! Pia realized that, in the flurry, Enzio had run off still clutching the sack containing the leather pouch. That settled it, Pia thought. There was no reason to visit Signora Ferrelli now, and Pia might as well slip home. She made her way back out to the lane and glanced at the Signora’s cottage. As she did so, the door opened, and the bent, slim figure of the old woman stood there, looking out. Pia moved toward her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Gift

  Pia stood inside Signora Ferrelli’s cottage. It looked much like Master Pangini’s: dirt floors, straw mats, a single lantern burning. Here, though, were two cats. One, a calico, was nuzzling against Pia’s leg. The other, larger one was midnight black and sat upright beside the hearth like a dark sentry, its green eyes glistening. A carved wooden cross hung above the rough-hewn mantel, but aside from the cross there was no adornment that Pia could see in the shifting light of the lantern. The air smelled of onions and potatoes and lavender.

  Signora Ferrelli had not spoken as Pia came to the door. The old woman had stepped aside, which Pia took as a sign for her to enter. The Signora was a small, thin woman, slightly stooped. Her hair was wiry and black, generously salted with gray. She was dressed all in black, as was the fashion for widows, and her clothes were of plain, rough cloth.

  When the Signora finally spoke in her raspy voice, Pia flinched.

  “So,” the Signora said. “The night brings me another visitor.”

  “Oh?” Pia said, feigning ignorance. “You’ve had others?” She hoped the old woman would mention Master Pangini and suggest why he had been there, but Signora Ferrelli simply nodded. Pia wished she had told the truth, that she had seen the master leave. She might then have been able to ask, innocently, why he had been there.

  The Signora seemed content to wait for Pia to divulge her purpose. The old woman stood silently, leaning on the single chair, a simple but finely crafted wooden one with a seat of woven rushes. Her look was steady and penetrating, somehow knowing, and it caused Pia a sharp pang of guilt. Pia wanted to be truthful, but was wary.

  The calico cat purred against Pia’s leg, prompting the Signora to say, “That cat is a good judge of character.”

  Pia reached down to stroke its fluffy back. “What is its name?”

  “Porco. Pig. He eats a lot.”

  As Pia knelt and let the cat climb into her lap, the Signora eased herself onto the chair and placed her hands on her knees. “Porco does not like your master.”

  “Oh?” Pia said, avoiding the old woman’s eyes. “Porco has met Master Pangini?”

  “Porco hisses at him. That is the way with cats. They do not like someone, they hiss.”

  “Was Master Pangini your other visitor tonight—before me?”

  The old woman’s gaze suggested that she knew Pia’s question was not so innocent. “Yes, Master Pangini was here. You smelled him?”

  Pia’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, I smelled him!”

  “So, child, why have you come here tonight?”

  “I’m not sure,” Pia said. “I had questions, but—but now I am not so sure.”

  The old woman waited, still and silent like her black cat.

  Pia’s mind leaped here and there until she snagged a beginning. “You’ve heard about the thief?”

  “Ah, the thief.”

  “We met a King’s Man. He asked if we had found anything, something the thief might have dropped.”

  The Signora clicked her tongue.

  Pia’s hands fluttered in the air and then caught at her skirt, betraying her nervousness. “He said that if we found it, we should bring it to you.” The old woman’s silence was terrifying to Pia, and yet, at the same time, it was coaxing her to say more. “Why?”

  Signora Ferrelli hoarsely echoed her: “‘Why?’”

  “Why you? Why did he say we should bring it to you—the object—if we found it?”

  Signora Ferrelli shrugged. “People bring me things: secrets. I keep them.”

  “But if we found it, and if we brought it to you, would you keep that, too?”

  The old woman stroked her cheek thoughtfully. “If it was mine to keep, yes. If not, no.”

  “But if it was not ours, and it was not yours, if it was what the thief dropped, and we brought it to you, what would you do with it?”

  “Depends. Depends on many things, but I would know what to do when the time came. If the time came.”

  Pia did not feel she could or should say more. “You seem to—to know a lot.”

  “Ah,” said the Signora, “an old chicken makes good broth. It’s a saying, you understand?”

  Pia did not understand, but she nodded anyway. Signora Ferrelli placed her bony hand on Pia’s arm. “Wait,” said the Signora. She crossed the room, disappearing briefly behind a rough cloth which shielded a straw pallet in the corner. When she reappeared, the Signora held a small packet wrapped in coarse linen. Handing the packet to Pia, she said, “For you and your brother. You might need them. Open later.”

  Chapter Twenty

  One Story Ends

  Deep inside Castle Corona, all was silent in the chamber adjoining the dining hall, except for the Wordsmith’s gentle voice, as he concluded his story:

  …and so, as the thief lay dying, pierced by the sword of the young prince, the peasant girl knelt beside him. She mopped his brow and leaned close to hear his final words.

  “’Twas only a sack of wheat,” the thief whispered. “Was that so wrong?”

  “No,” said the peasant girl. “You were hungry.”

  And the noble king, recognizing the truth of the peasant’s words, declared that all should have bountiful wheat so that no one would be so hungry that he needed to steal.

  The Wordsmith hesitated, taking in the attentive faces of the King and Queen, the royal children, and the Count and Countess, and then ended his story:

  And they all lived happily thereafter.

  Gentle applause followed. “Thank you, Wordsmith,” the Queen said. “Another delightful tale.”

  “Mm, yes, thank you,” echoed the King.

  Disappointed, Princess Fabrizia pressed her hands to her cheeks. The princess in the tale was lovely, the most beautiful of all, but what had she done besides prance about wearing finery?

  Prince Gianni was content, for the Wordsmith’s story had included a melancholy poet. Prince Vito wondered about the energetic knight who had killed the thief. Was the Wordsmith suggesting that the thief should not have been killed?

  “Yes, yes,” bubbled the Countess, “most enchanting—”

  “And entertaining—” chimed the Count.

  The Queen tapped her fingertips together. “But, I wonder what happens—next—to the peasant girl?”

  The Princess waved her handkerchief. “What about the princess? What will she do?”

  The Wordsmith stroked the velvet bag in his hands, as if calming its contents. “I will not know,” he replied, “until I continue their story, another story.”

  “It is late,” said the King.

  This was the signal for the Wordsmith to depart and for the evening to end. The King and Queen bid their visitors a good night, and the servants escorted the Count and Countess and the royal children to their chambers.

  The King was feeling twitchy. What he wanted to do was retire to his chamber and settle onto his feather mattress and drift off to sleep, but he first had to meet with the Ministers of Inventory. He now regretted having ordered them to present their findings this evening.

  The King was also rattled by the Wordsmith’s story. Was no one else bothered that, in that tale, t
he thief had also tried to poison the king? Poison the king! Granted, the ruse had not worked because a young servant boy had tasted the soup first and died instantly, thus sparing the king. But still: poison the king? It was a most unpleasant thing to consider.

  He had not enjoyed the ending of the Wordsmith’s story, either. That peasant girl—did she really believe the thief did not deserve to be killed? Or to be punished in any way? And did the king in the story really give away wheat to everyone, for free? Who would pay for that wheat? The king?

  The Queen, too, was out of sorts as she made her way to her chamber, but her thoughts were not about the Wordsmith’s story. She had found it satisfying. What was on her mind now was the Countess’s talk of knowing the perfect hermit for her. She was excited by the prospect of meeting this person, but she was also feeling unsure about her plan. She would have to prepare the King, to present the notion so that it sounded reasonable, possibly even arrange it so the idea seemed to come from the King himself. Yes, that would be the best course.

  Prince Gianni, heir to the throne, lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. He thought he might compose a few lines of poetry, but he did not know how to begin. Which words to choose from the vast sea of words? He needed a velvet bag, like the Wordsmith’s. What was in that bag? Words? Millions of words? Or a selection of the finest?

  Princess Fabrizia stood before her Lady-in-Waiting. “Help me take off these—these—garments!” she said.

  “The evening was not pleasant, Princess?”

  The Princess tugged at her gown. “Oh, I don’t know,” she wailed. “I long to do something.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know! Something!” And with that, the Princess collapsed onto her bed, sobbing.

  Young Prince Vito leaped from the window ledge to a chest, slashing at the air with his sword. He thought of the Wordsmith’s story, in which the young prince raced through the forest on his steed and captured the thief, throwing him to the ground and stabbing through his tunic. He had to stab the thief, didn’t he? “Take that, thief! And that!”