The Castle Corona

by Sharon Creech

  The hermit said nothing.

  I can hardly give her the only chair, thought the Queen. I am the Queen, after all.

  “What is it you want, then?” asked the hermit.

  Her raspy voice and her bluntness disoriented the Queen. “Want? Why, I want nothing.” This was not true, the Queen realized. She wanted so much from the hermit, but she could not put into words what she wanted, and it would be unqueenly to admit to wanting anything.

  “Then why are you here?” asked the hermit, who remained standing. “Why am I here?”

  The Queen was annoyed. A hermit ought to know what a hermit does, she thought. Gathering her wits and relying on instinct, the Queen said, “I understand you are wise, and that is why you are here, and I am here to partake of your wisdom.”

  “Wisdom?” the hermit said. “Ah, wisdom. Some might say that no man—or woman—is wise at all times.”

  “But I gather you are wise most of the time.”

  “The wind in one’s face makes one wise.”

  “I see.” The Queen did not see, not exactly, but this sounded wise, and she was delighted that the hermit was offering wisdom so soon.

  “Do you? You understand that?” the hermit asked.

  Embarrassed, the Queen could not admit that she did not understand, and so her mind raced to make sense of the old woman’s words. “The wind in your face—why, that’s like difficulty, yes? And if you face difficulty, you—you—oh, I have it! If you face difficulty, you learn. You become wise? Is that it?”

  The hermit winked.

  The Queen had expected more, perhaps praise or approval. She did not like this feeling of ignorance. “I suppose you think I do not often have the wind in my face,” she said to the hermit. “It might seem that way to you, or to outsiders, but I have known my share of wind.”

  At this, the hermit nodded, and the Queen took it as her cue to continue. “Shall I tell you about the wind I faced when I was young? I was not always Queen, you know.” The hermit’s passive silence urged the Queen onward, allowing her to speak of things she had never before voiced aloud. Once she began, memories and thoughts and feelings poured forth like a stream overrunning its banks.

  The hermit settled herself on the mattress, leaning back against the wall. She punctuated the Queen’s talk with occasional nods, as if she understood and accepted what the Queen was saying, but the hermit uttered no words of her own until the Queen, who was speaking of her youth and of her life before privilege, began to sob.

  The hermit rose and came to the Queen’s side. “There, there,” the hermit said, patting the Queen’s arm. That simple touch undid the Queen, who buried her face against the old woman’s waist, clutching at her coarse garment. When the Queen finally collected herself, the hermit said, “You see? The wind in your face has made you wiser than you know.”

  The Queen did not feel wise. “I’m not sure why—not sure what—has come over me. I should leave you now. I have duties to—”

  “Ach, duties!” said the hermit. “Be careful you do not waste your life on duties.”

  The Queen looked up at the old woman, overwhelmingly grateful for her presence and for this final pronouncement, which struck with such force that the Queen felt it lodge in her chest.

  The hermit reached into her pocket and withdrew a bean, which she handed the Queen. “See this? A small bean. A quiet, unassuming bean, and inside is so much. Here, you have it.” The hermit pressed the bean into the Queen’s hands.

  A bean? The Queen stared at it, so smooth and simple. She closed her fingers around the bean. “I have much to think about,” she said as she took her leave.

  Outside the hermit’s dwelling, the Queen heard the door close behind her. Ahead of her lay the hornbeam tunnel and beyond it the high, glittering walls of the castle. The Queen wanted to remain in the tunnel. She did not want to leave its cool and serene enclosure. She wanted to think about the bean.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The Peasant and a Pheasant

  At first, Pia and Enzio returned to their room or to the interior courtyard between tastings, not knowing when the next call might come. Quickly, though, they became used to the King’s hunger schedule, and discovered that if they remained within shouting distance, the time in between their tasting duties was free. Free!

  Never before having had the luxury of so many idle hours, Pia and Enzio were eager to explore. They roamed the hidden stairways, skipped through the stables, amused the goats and chickens, trolled through acres of cloth in the sewing rooms, sniffed flowers, climbed trees, watched the blacksmiths heat iron and shape horseshoes. Up and down and in and out they roamed.

  One afternoon, while Enzio was riding in the hay cart, Pia exited the main castle gate and walked around the castle’s perimeter. To one side of the main gate were the King’s Men’s stables, the outer gardens, and, below, the hermitage. To the other side was the tunnel of trees. Pia was familiar with this side of the castle. Skirting the castle walls, Pia strolled around the back, where she discovered vast garden plots stretching to the outer walls. A dozen servants dotted the rows, weeding. At the far end stood a row of tall Lombardy poplars surrounded by bushes.

  A pheasant stepped out from the bushes, peered left and right, skittered along the edge of one bush, stopped, listened, and shook its tail feathers. The bird then abruptly retreated into the undergrowth.

  Pia followed the well-trodden path between the garden plots, making her way toward the bushes. Around her the air was filled with the pleasant hum of the servants’ murmurs and the occasional calls of birds dipping in and out of the trees. Pia slipped into the bushes, parting branches and stepping over low vines.

  She might have stepped on the pheasant, so well-camouflaged was it among the leaves and low branches, but the pheasant made its presence known with a flutter of wings and a strange, high-pitched weenk call. Weenk. Weenk.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Pia said soothingly. “Is this where you live?” Rustling from behind the pheasant alerted Pia to the bird’s mate, only her eyes and beak visible amid the branches. “Are you nesting?” Pia asked. “Are there eggs or babies already?” The first pheasant, which Pia took to be the male, stood still, watching Pia as she knelt and put out her hand. “I have no crumbs with me, I’m sorry to say.”

  The pheasant bobbed his head, as if in understanding, and once again shook himself, releasing one of his long tail feathers. The bird stroked the feather with his beak and then picked it up and extended it toward Pia.

  Pia took the long feather, brown with chestnut and gold markings. “Thank you, I am most honored,” she said. Behind the male, the female’s head was cocked, studying Pia.

  Pia wondered about this pair, nesting so close to the castle. Was it comfortable for them? Was it safe? Could they leave? “Be careful,” she called as she retreated. “You don’t want to end up as dinner.”

  She walked back up along the garden plots, pausing here and there to wave at the servants or exchange a few words. She felt uncomfortable, strolling along while they were working. She was inclined to offer her help, but then the booming voice of a cook’s helper called out: “Taster! Taster, the King summons you!”

  Clutching her feather gift, Pia raced back to the castle. She was relieved to have a job to do.

  A Story Was Told…

  Chapter Forty-two

  A New Story

  It was a quiet, warm evening, and as the royal family waited for the tasters to complete their sampling of the evening meal, the King was looking forward to a few empty hours, with no visitors to entertain and no meetings to attend. The Queen was subdued, unusually so.

  “Are you well, my queen?” the King asked.

  The Queen was watching the tasters munch roasted chicken and lick their fingers. She felt as if a sparrow were fluttering in her chest.

  “Gabriella?”

  The Queen pressed her hand to the bodice of her dress. “Mm? What was that, Guidie?”

  “Are you well? You seem…n
ot yourself.”

  The Queen gazed around the table, taking in Prince Vito, Prince Gianni, and Princess Fabrizia. Her children were preoccupied with watching the tasters, too. “I do feel a little strange,” she replied.

  The King reached for her hand and tapped it lightly. “Perhaps you should retire early?”

  He thought he was being quite considerate, and so he was startled by his wife’s answer.

  “Oh, no, Guidie.” the Queen said. She withdrew her hand and twisted her napkin, agitated. “Let’s have some diversion this evening. How about—oh, I know—let’s have the Wordsmith tell us a tale.”

  “The Wordsmith?” The King saw visions of his idle hours fly out the window. “This evening?”

  “Oh, Guidie, please?”

  “Of course, dear. If you want the Wordsmith, the Wordsmith you shall have.” He shifted to his children. “Gianni? Vito? Fabrizia? We shall have a tale tonight.”

  “What did you say, Father?” Fabrizia asked.

  Prince Gianni and Prince Vito reluctantly turned to their father.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  The King was not used to such inattention. “What has come over all of you?” He glanced at the tasters. Could his family be more interested in the peasants than in him? “We are having the Wordsmith tonight, that’s what I was saying. The Wordsmith. A tale. Your mother wishes it.”

  “Maybe the tasters can come, too,” the Queen said.

  “The tasters?”

  Pia swallowed a bite of creamy tart and said, “Oh, Your Majesty Sire King, we would like that very much.”

  Prince Gianni appreciated Pia’s nerve, but Prince Vito scolded, “Do not address the King.”

  “Now, now, Vito, they do not know,” said the Queen.

  “Someone should tell them, then,” Prince Vito said.

  “Tell us what?” Enzio asked.

  Fabrizia pointed at the peasants. “See? See how they do?” This time, though, she was not bothered. Their behavior amused her. She had warmed to them, in part because they were an audience for her, observers of her lavish gowns and dainty ribbons, and in part because they were different from anyone she had met before. She was both puzzled and intrigued by the girl’s behavior, so bold and unladylike. As for the boy, now that he was cleaned up, he looked handsome, in a crude, peasant way, she thought.

  The King turned to Pia and Enzio. “Have you tasted everything?”

  “Yes, Your Fine Majesty.”

  “And it was good?”

  “Most good, Your Fine Majesty.”

  “Well, then, off with you.”

  Prince Gianni said, “Father? The tasters? Will they join us this evening for the tale?”

  “Gabriella? Are you sure you would like them to be present for the tale?”

  “Yes, Guidie.”

  “Tasters, we will summon you when it is time for the Wordsmith.”

  Pia and Enzio did not know what a wordsmith was, but they had a vague sense of what a tale was.

  “Will it be like Franco, do you think?” Enzio asked his sister. “Gossiping about the villagers?”

  “Might be. Or maybe gossip about the servants in the castle? Or the royal family?”

  “I don’t think anyone could do that, not in their presence.”

  “I wonder why he is called a wordsmith.”

  “Maybe it’s like a blacksmith, who makes things from iron. Maybe a wordsmith makes things from words.”

  The royal family was in the antechamber, seated in a semicircle on chairs laden with colorful cushions. Behind them were two empty chairs, to which Pia and Enzio were ushered by a servant. As soon as they had seated themselves, a man entered.

  Enzio elbowed Pia. “Ooh!” he said. “The Wordsmith?”

  Pia was spellbound by the man’s swirling black coat and his mysterious demeanor.

  “Sire?” asked the Wordsmith. “What do you desire in your tale this evening?”

  “Mmph. A noble king.”

  “Queen Gabriella?”

  “I’d like to think a minute,” she said.

  “Prince Gianni?”

  “A poet,” he said, “and—and—a girl.”

  “Prince Vito?”

  “A duel! Swords! Horses!”

  “Princess Fabrizia?”

  “A young man—not a prince—and—and—a lovely princess”—she put her handkerchief to her cheek to cover her blushing—“a princess who does something.”

  “And our guests?”

  “What?” Pia said.

  “Is there anything you would like tonight’s tale to include?”

  “Like what they said?” Pia asked. “You mean, like kings and poets and swords? We can choose things to be in the tale?”

  “Aren’t you going to tell us about things that already happened?” asked Enzio.

  “Don’t they know what a tale is?” Fabrizia asked.

  “If you tell me what you’d like to hear about,” the Wordsmith said, “I will include that in my story. It will be a new story, created especially for this audience tonight.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Pia asked. “How are you going to know what to say?”

  The Queen said, “Perhaps you’d like merely to listen this evening, to see how the Wordsmith creates his miracles?”

  “No, wait,” Pia said. “Can you put anything at all in the story?”

  “I can,” replied the Wordsmith.

  “Even, say, a—a—cabbage?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like a cabbage in the story.”

  “A cabbage?” Fabrizia said. “A cabbage?”

  Enzio waved his hand at the Wordsmith. “Oh, and I’d like a—a—snake!”

  The King squirmed. He was regretting having asked the tasters to join them for the evening’s tale.

  “Agreed,” the Wordsmith said. “A cabbage and a snake.”

  “And, and—wait!” Pia said. “Two orphans, a brother and a sister. Can you put them in the story?”

  “And a pouch!” Enzio blurted. Pia gave him a warning look, but Enzio barreled on. “A pouch, and the orphans find it.”

  Princess Fabrizia frowned at the tasters. “That’s probably enough,” she said.

  “Very well, then,” said the Wordsmith. “I believe we have sufficient ingredients, unless the Queen would like to add anything.”

  “I would like to add a peasant woman.”

  The King took her hand, but the Queen’s eyes were on the Wordsmith, who was opening his velvet bag. The King made note of the fact that the bag he had seen at the hermit’s had been returned to the Wordsmith. The King wondered how that had been accomplished. Had the hermit summoned a servant? Who had the hermit spoken with?

  The Wordsmith now closed his bag and looked up at the audience and began:

  Not so long ago and not so far away there lived a noble king….

  Chapter Forty-three

  The Castle’s Tale

  At night, as the air cooled, strange sounds came from the castle walls: creaking and groaning, alternating with low moaning and soft sighing, as if the walls were telling their own story as they settled down for the night. These sounds had frightened Pia and Enzio on their first few evenings in the castle.

  “Sounds like ghosts wailing,” Enzio had said.

  “Or someone crying.”

  “Or there—hear that? Someone sighing.”

  When they had asked Giovanna about the sounds in the night, she’d replied, “I know. No ghosts, I don’t think. It’s more the castle itself. It’s alive.”

  “Not really alive?” Enzio said. “Not like people?”

  “I’m not so sure,” Giovanna said. “It feels alive to me. It makes noises during the day, too, but usually we can’t hear them because there is so much other noise.”

  “Then it’s very sad,” Pia said. “They’re not happy sounds.”

  “Ah, but listen in the daytime when the sun is shining on the walls. Put your ear up to the stone. You may hear a d
ifferent sound then.”

  The next day, Pia and Enzio had done just that, put their ears to a castle wall. The wall was warm and rough, and at first they heard nothing and felt foolish. Then, as they leaned there, what they heard amazed them. A soft humming, a pleasant, soothing sound, emerged.

  “Ho!” Enzio said. “You hear that? Like a song, almost.”

  Pia patted the castle wall. “If it does have a tale to tell, I wish we could hear it.”

  On the night they heard the Wordsmith’s tale, they lay awake, listening to the lament of the castle walls. Pia knew she would not sleep. Her mind was racing with the words of the Wordsmith.

  “What a strange thing he can do,” she said. “How does he do it?”

  “Might be that bag of his. Magic inside, maybe.”

  “But all those words—and he only looked in the bag once, before he began, and while he was talking, I forgot where I was. I thought I was floating somewhere else. I thought I was the orphan in his story.”

  Enzio agreed. “Me, too. But sometimes, when he was talking about the king, I felt like I was the king, and then when he was telling about the peasant woman, I felt like her, too. It made me dizzy.”

  “Enzio? When he talked about the pouch—”

  “About the orphans finding it! I was afraid. I thought he was inside my head and he knew what we’d found.”

  “But then he said they buried it under a stone.”

  “We didn’t do that.”

  “And the pouch in the story had different things in it.”

  “The keys. That was magnificent when they found out those were keys to the castle and they were really royal children!”

  “I wished it was us,” Pia said.

  “Me, too. And the peasant woman, the one who becomes the queen? And she turns out to be their mother? I was wishing—”

  “I know, I know,” Pia said softly. “I was wishing it, too.”