The Castle Corona

by Sharon Creech

  The Wordsmith walked through the outer castle gardens, emptying his head of kings and queens and melancholy poets and peasant girls and thieves. He breathed in the cool night air, slowing his thoughts and his pulse. This was his usual post-story routine. He would make his way along the garden paths and down the slope to the hermit’s dwelling, where, he knew, the hermit awaited him.

  As the Wordsmith released himself from the evening’s story, he felt a tremor in the ground, as if the enormous castle were subtly shifting, settling itself for the night. In the air, warm and cool currents realigned, suggesting to his fanciful mind intrigue and possibility.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Cornos

  Pia returned home from Signora Ferrelli’s before Master Pangini. Enzio greeted her at the door, his cheeks flushed.

  “Pia, so good you are here. I worried.”

  “The master—I saw him veer toward the alehouse. He’ll be late coming in, and he’ll be wobbling and stumbling and cursing,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I forgot to leave the pouch with you—”

  “It’s probably better,” she said, scanning the room. “You hid it? Where?”

  Enzio lifted his straw bedding. “See?”

  “Good. I saw the Signora.”

  “Without the pouch?”

  “Strange, Enzio, all strange. She didn’t say why Pangini was there. She didn’t say much of anything, but she gave me this.” Pia withdrew the small packet from her pocket and offered it to Enzio.

  He backed away. “No, you open it.”

  Pia carefully unwrapped the cloth and stared at its contents.

  Enzio bent close. “The same—?”

  “Nearly.”

  Inside the cloth were two small cornos, carved of red coral. Pia and Enzio rushed to compare them with the ones in the leather pouch which had been cast aside by the thief. The two new cornos were the same size as the others, the same shape, and appeared to have been carved from the same—or a very similar—piece of coral.

  “I don’t understand,” Enzio said. “Where did she get them? Why did she give them to you?”

  “She said they were for us, that we might need them.”

  “Need them? To ward off the evil eye?”

  “Or danger, maybe, any kind of danger.” Pia unraveled long threads from the linen cloth and slipped several through the loop at the end of each of the cornos that Signora Ferrelli had given her. “Here,” she said, offering one to Enzio. “We will wear them—on long strings so we can hide them beneath our shirts.”

  Enzio fingered his corno, now dangling from his neck. “Looks like a chili pepper.”

  “Keep it hidden,” Pia warned.

  “And they will keep us safe?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Inventories

  The King was seated on his throne, pulling at his thick brocaded collar and scratching his neck. “Where are they?” he grumbled.

  “Coming, Your Majesty,” his Man-in-Waiting said. “I hear them now.”

  The heavy oak doors opened and the black-and-red-cloaked Ministers of Inventory entered the room in single file. They looked nervous, some of them tugging at their sleeves, many with heads bowed low, a few mopping their brows.

  “Spread out, spread out, so I can see you,” the King ordered.

  The ministers shuffled into place, bowing up and down like a row of bobbing blackbirds.

  “Come, come, the report. What is missing?”

  The ministers looked from one to another.

  “Speak!” The sudden force of the King’s thundered word slapped the ministers to full attention. The King’s eyes roamed the line of faces, settling on one elderly man in the center of the line. “You there,” he ordered, “speak!”

  The minister bowed nervously. “Sire, we have completed our inventories to the best of our ability, given the short time—”

  “I do not want excuses,” said the King. It was hard for him to be stern. He did not like to do it, and it did not come naturally, but he was overtaken by a profound annoyance, roused by the news of a thief and by this disruption to the calm of his castle.

  The minister who had spoken paled, the blood in his head plummeting to his feet. “Sire, it might be better if we reported our findings one by one.”

  The King’s exasperation leaked out in a long, heavy sigh. He swiveled to one end of the line. “You, then,” he said, pointing at a minister. “Begin, and move down the line. Quickly, quickly!”

  The minister cleared his throat. “Sire, I am the Minister of Inventory of Table Linens. We are missing one rectangular cloth, damask; and two napkins, linen; and one—”

  “What?” boomed the King. “Who would want to steal a tablecloth and two napkins and—what else?”

  “One tray cloth, silk—”

  “Oh, bother! Is that it? That’s what was stolen?”

  The ministers shifted nervously, adjusting their robes. The next minister in line spoke rapidly. “Sire, I am the Minister of Inventory of Oats, and we are missing two sacks of oats.”

  “Oats?” boomed the King. “Two sacks of oats?”

  The next minister also spoke rapidly, wanting to get it over with, hoping he would not add to the King’s growing impatience. The minister knew he had to tell the truth, but he wished he could have lied. “Sire, I am the Minister of Inventory of the Queen’s Jewels, and we are missing one pearl brooch.”

  The King slapped his knee. “There! There! That is more like it! A brooch, a pearl one, you say?”

  “Yes, sire. Pearl with gold embellishment.”

  “Aha!” The King seemed oddly cheered.

  The next minister said, “Sire, I am the Minister of Inventory of Silver, and we are missing one creamer lid, silver—”

  “Ah! Silver. A creamer, you say? That would fetch a goodly sum.”

  “Erm, a creamer lid, to be precise,” said the minister.

  “Only the lid? Who would want a creamer lid?” The King’s head was spinning. Missing oats, table linens, a pearl brooch, a creamer lid? He bid the remaining ministers report, and as they did so, he felt pummeled, a little here, a little there.

  Each minister reported at least one thing missing. Among the missing objects were a pitchfork, twenty iron nails, two dinner plates, a looking glass, a bolt of silk cloth, a wooden stool, three knives, two wooden buckets, four tin ladles, a pair of boots, two velvet sashes, two kegs of ale, two chickens, three sheep, one cow, one rabbit, seven tallow candles, one iron candlestick, one linen tapestry, two chamber pots, three sacks of salt, eleven eggs, two pots of honey, four figs, one barrel of wine, eight bundles of hay, one crimson tunic, eight arrows, six horseshoes, one boar’s head, one flute, and two cabbages. On and on they went, spewing forth the items missing from each of their inventories.

  The King could not believe his ears. When they finished, he boomed, “A boar’s head? A cow? Cabbages?” He wondered if he had entered one of the Wordsmith’s stories. It sounded as if not one thief, but dozens, had invaded his castle. What was happening? Was this all but a bad dream from which he would awake?

  The King dismissed the ministers with a wave of his hand and then he sat, still, on his throne. He would need to see the hermit. That was the only thing to do. But not now. He was so tired. In the morning he would visit the hermit and seek his wisdom.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Castle Dreams

  “A rabbit?” said the Queen, when the King joined her and related the findings of the Ministers of Inventory. “Figs? A cow?” She conjured up the image of a thief making off with such things.

  “It’s not to laugh about,” scolded the King.

  “Sorry, Guidie, but—but—a cow? How do you think the thief made off with a cow without anyone noticing?” She placed her hand against her lips to cover the smile she could not contain.

  It was easy enough for her to be amused, the King thought. She didn’t have to solve the problem of the thief. She didn
’t have to sort out all these missing items and who had taken them and where they were now and how to find the thief (or thieves) and what to do with him (or them) once found.

  Reading his mind, as she was often able to do, the Queen said, “Guidie, maybe the hermit can help.”

  “I’ve already thought of that.”

  She knew that, too, for the King always fled to the hermit whenever anything bewildered him. “Oh, Guidie,” she said. “I’m feeling so—so—upset by all this.” She leaned her head upon his shoulder. “I sometimes wish I had a hermit to go to, as you do. He must be such a comfort to you.” She sighed heavily and raised her eyes to his.

  He could not bear his queen to be upset, nor could he ever look into those violet eyes without shudders of tenderness. “Shh, Gabriella,” he said, stroking her hair. “If having a hermit of your own would comfort you, then by all means, we will find you a hermit.”

  “Truly, Guidie? Truly? Oh, you are the most noble King, my dear beloved Guidie.” This had been much easier than she had anticipated.

  That night, the King tossed and turned, dreaming of thieves prowling the castle, snatching everything in sight: candles and chickens, tapestries and nails. He woke with his heart pounding when a thief had carried off his queen. The King nearly wept when he found the Queen sleeping peacefully in her chamber.

  The Queen dreamed of a hermit: a woman cloaked in black, with long, flowing hair, who sat in a chair in her new hermitage and beckoned the Queen to join her, to speak of all that was in her heart.

  Count Volumnia, who had drunk too much wine and eaten far too much, slept in a sound stupor. No dreams invaded his fuzzy head. The Countess, however, dreamed that she was crowned Queen and was mistress of the grand Castle Corona, and she was hurrying here and there seeking a seamstress who could make her coronation gown. Gold, gold! she said, to anyone who would listen. It must be pure gold!

  Prince Gianni dreamed of walking through a meadow. Words fell upon him like soft raindrops, which he gathered and spun into poetry. The meadow ended abruptly at the river’s edge, where he was lifted across by the breeze. On the far bank stood a peasant girl, who said, Your words are jewels. She did not know he was a prince, heir to the throne. She thought he was a poet.

  Princess Fabrizia’s dreams were of organdy and silk gowns flying out her window and sailing through the air. She had no clothes, except for a rough linen smock. From her window, she spied a young man on a golden horse. Who am I? she called to him. He turned away. He did not know.

  Prince Vito, in his dreams, rode a white stallion out through the castle gates and thundered across the hills in pursuit of the thief. His sword, glimmering in the moonlight, slashed at the air. “You won’t escape!” he shouted at the dark figure ahead of him. “Thief! Thief!” Prince Vito’s words escaped from his dream and floated out his window and down into the courtyard, accosting the ears of the King’s Men who stood guard.

  “Thief? Someone’s shouting thief!” Unaware that it was Prince Vito calling out in his dreams, the King’s Men mobilized. They ran through the castle, swords drawn, checking each room. They mounted their horses and scoured the castle grounds and sped through the gates in search of the thief.

  The King and Queen were awakened and alerted to the danger.

  “Gather the children,” the Queen said, grasping for her robe. “Bring them here. Oh, Guidie!”

  The King, emerging from his own dreams of thieves, was dazed. Was this still part of the dream? He hated having to awake as the King, the one who had to make decisions. He searched for words.

  “Erm. Find that thief!” he ordered. “Find him!” That would have to do, he decided. What else was there to say?

  Count and Countess Volumnia huddled together in their chamber, quivering in terror. “We must leave this place,” the Countess said, her chin trembling.

  The Count agreed. “Yes, yes. First thing in the morning—”

  “We’ll make an excuse—”

  “Mustn’t sound too eager—”

  “No, no, deepest regrets—”

  “Profound disappointment—”

  “Yes, that sort of thing,” the Countess said, and they lay back against the pillows, wide awake and clutching each other, listening to the sounds of servants rushing up and down the halls.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Intrusion

  Master Pangini was awakened abruptly in the darkest hours of the night by fierce pounding at the door.

  “What? Oomf. See to it, you dirty beetles!” The master was in a stupor. What idiot was making that racket?

  Pia had been dreaming of Signora Ferrelli’s two cats. They spoke to her. Follow us, they said, and so she was following them down a dark alley. Enzio was roused from dreams of chili peppers, deep red and hot on his tongue.

  “Open up!” bellowed a voice beyond the door.

  Enzio stumbled to the door, too groggy to be afraid. He thought someone might be in trouble, hurt or ailing.

  A King’s Man strode across the threshold, a fierce look on his face. His eyes scoured the room. With his sword, he pushed aside the rough cloth which draped the corner where Enzio and Pia slept. Pia clutched a shawl, covering herself. “What?” she asked. “What do you want?” She was seized with guilt, sure that the King’s Man knew they had the leather pouch, but her guilt was coupled with anger at the man’s boldness and his assumption that he could barge in anywhere he liked, frightening people at will.

  Dashing to the opposite corner, the King’s Man tore aside the master’s curtain, catching him struggling to put on his trousers. The master raised his hands in surrender. “What do you want? What have we done?”

  The King’s Man scowled. “There’s a thief on the loose.”

  “We have heard,” the master said.

  “No, another one. Tonight. You’ve seen no one? You harbor no one?”

  “No, no, no. No one here. It is only me and the dirty beetles.”

  Without further words, the King’s Man left. Master Pangini wobbled to the center of the room, the ragged scar on his face paled to white, his barrel stomach straining at the shirt he had hastily donned. He snatched his leather strap from the table and slapped it hard on a stool. “Rubbish! Turnips! Urg!” He flailed for words to express his anger. “Barging in! Harboring—? Cabbage!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Resolve

  Rain pounded the dirt streets of the village, sending up puffs of dust and forming rivulets which snaked down the lanes and puddled in holes. Relentlessly, rain and wind swept over the rooftops, battering the small dwellings. Dark clouds, heavy with more rain, hung low in the air.

  Pia was up at dawn, although the dark clouds hid the early light which usually seeped in through the cracks around the door. She had been unable to sleep. The intrusion of the King’s Man gnawed at her. “Enzio,” she said, “Enzio, wake up. Listen. You listening?”

  Enzio blinked, groggy and sluggish. “Almost awake,” he said.

  “Listen. We must see Signora Ferrelli today. We must get rid of the pouch. You agree?”

  Her words jolted Enzio back to the night before. He was more than ready to be rid of that pouch. “Agree,” he said.

  Master Pangini, startled by a thunderous boom and the crack of lightning, awoke in a foul mood. Behind his curtain, he grumbled: “Idiots! Barging in!”

  Pia rushed to light the fire. The master would be demanding and commanding, taking out his ire on her and on Enzio. She hastened to prepare porridge as Enzio stuffed rags under the door to stall the seeping rainwater.

  They were surprised, though, when the master emerged. He was still grumbling, but not at them, and the look on his face was not one they were accustomed to. He sat heavily in his chair, stroking the scar on his face, deep in thought. Deep thinking was not his habit.

  Pia and Enzio moved gingerly around the room, preparing the master’s breakfast and exchanging puzzled looks. Would he suddenly erupt from this unusual state of quiet reflection? They were
edgy, wanting to be prepared for whatever he might toss their way.

  It was only after the master had eaten his porridge in silence that he spoke. “You stay here today. You keep watch. Understand?” He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t call them dirty beetles. “Understand?” he repeated.

  It was easy enough to understand his instructions, but they did not understand this change in their master.

  “I will be gone the full day. You must stay here and guard my house. I want your promise.”

  Enzio knew that Pia would promise easily, because she could make promises with no intention of keeping them if she thought the promises were silly, but Enzio did not want to make this promise. He wanted to go with Pia to see Signora Ferrelli and be rid of the pouch, and they couldn’t do that if they had to stay here all day.

  As Enzio suspected, Pia quickly said, “Promise,” and there was nothing he could do but echo her.

  The master roused himself from his chair and headed out the door into cascading rain.

  Pia stood in the center of the room, the lantern making her shadow tall and inky black on the wall behind her. “Don’t know,” she said. “Don’t know what all that was about, do you?”

  “Puh!” Enzio shook himself all over, as if shaking dust from his clothing. “It’s a jumble, no? Why would he ask us to keep watch? Sounds dangerous.”

  Pia didn’t answer. She busied herself with the normal motions of scraping the porridge pot so that she and Enzio could eat the remains, and with rescuing the stale end of a piece of bread and cutting it in two.

  “And Pia,” Enzio said, his mind still racing and eager to hear his sister’s thoughts, “if we have to stay here, we can’t go to the Signora’s. We can’t get rid of—”