My father is a generous king, and no one goes hungry in his kingdom. Still, the home that I visited did not have much by way of comforts. No thick velvet couches. No serving staff of twenty. The pigs and chickens wandered in and out of the house as though it were the most natural thing.
When my hare had hopped away (I’m beginning to doubt that it was mine after all) and I crossed my eyes and wagged my tongue, I was perhaps a bit overzealous, because as I danced about, my glasses fell to the ground. They were not the ones attached to the horsehair chain, because those have gone missing. (It was only a matter of time until they did. Truly, I lose my glasses with remarkable swiftness. This is my last pair and the merchant who sells them will not be at the castle till next winter.) When I dropped to my knees to feel around for them, I discovered they had broken right down the middle section that normally sits on the bridge of my nose. The only way I could see even a little was to hold one lens up to each eye. I was quite far away from the castle at this point. Farther than I had ever been on my own.
I stumbled along in this fashion, past the farmers watering the fields where summer crops such as oats and barley are ripe for the picking. Somebody was approaching me, but I could not tell who it was. I hoped it wasn’t one of the castle guards that Mum sent out to find me. I was relieved when the person turned out to be a peasant boy of eleven or twelve. He was wearing a thin brown tunic and sandals. A satchel of freshly picked grapes hung across his chest, and a light film of perspiration shone on his forehead.
“Is everything all right, sire?” the boy asked in a soft voice. He then bent over in an awkward bow. “I have never seen you this far from the castle gates.”
I was startled at first, and didn’t answer right away. One of the strange things about being in my position is that everyone knows me, but I do not know them.
He pointed at my hands. “Are those your specs? Are they broken, then?”
I nodded, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. I knew I didn’t look very princely with my broken glasses and dusty clothes.
“My papa can fix them, if you wish, sire,” the boy said. “He can fix anything.” He looked like he wanted to say more about his father, but then simply asked, “Do you want to come to my house, then? It is just down the path in the village.”
I hesitated. The boy sounded so sincere, and I admit I was curious to see his home. Plus, I might otherwise stumble around until nighttime — or until Mum realized I was missing and sent out the castle guards.
“Thank you, yes,” I said. “That would be very kind.”
The boy bowed again, awkwardly.
“Truly, that is not necessary,” I told him as we started walking down the dirt road alongside the forest. With light pressure on my arm, he gently guided me along. As we headed into the village, I asked, “What do they call you?”
“My name is Benjamin, sire.”
I grinned at him. “Just like mine!”
He looked confused. “Um, yes, sire, I am named after you. Every boy in the kingdom born the three years following your birth is named Benjamin.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “Surely you jest?”
“N … no, sire. Did you not know?”
“I did not. No one ever told me.” Father and I would be having some words upon my return to the castle. “Dare I ask how many Benjamins there are?” I held my breath.
The other Benjamin said, “I would wager, oh, about fifty or so in this village alone.”
I nearly fainted! Fifty boys named after me? The responsibility! If my place in history is a poor one, they will be shamed, too.
“Uh, are you all right, Prince Benjamin? You have gone white.”
A few deep breaths later, I nodded. We kept walking. Children ran everywhere, laughing and dodging their mothers. I tried to ignore the odors wafting out of the fishmonger’s shop. The butchery was not much better. The other Benjamin didn’t seem to notice. Two men were arguing in front of the blacksmith shop but immediately stopped when we passed by. “G’day, Prince,” one of the men said hesitantly. He probably bowed, but in my current state of blindness, he was too far away for me to tell for sure. I can only imagine what he thought was going on, me being led by the arm through the streets of the village.
We turned a corner and Other Benjamin (that is what I have decided to call him) led me into a very small, round house that seemed to be made only of earth and straw and rock. A hole in the middle of the thatched roof let out the smoke from the fire his mother was tending. I lifted a lens to my eye and saw that his father and younger brother were eating a small meal at the table. They scrambled to their feet when they noticed us. His father brushed off his shirt and bowed. He was round-faced and kind-looking. The young boy just stared at me, mouth hanging open.
“Father, I told Prince Benjamin that you would be able to help him. He has broken his specs.”
Unable to think of anything else to do to end the awkwardness, I held the two pieces up so he could see them.
“I will try,” he said with what I thought was a wink. While we waited, Other Benjamin’s mother fed me tea and some sort of raisin-nut cake that was delicious. The house was tiny, but it was cozy.
Ten minutes later, my glasses had been miraculously put back together with thin thread and a putty of some kind that came out of a small jar. I could not even tell where they had been broken.
I slipped them onto my face. They fit better than ever before. “You are a master at what you do,” I said sincerely.
“A master?” the younger brother squeaked. “At cleaning dung heaps?”
Everyone’s face reddened, including mine. Other Benjamin’s mother said, “Hush, child!”
Other Benjamin’s father cleared his throat, stood a little straighter, and said, “Being a spectacle maker is an uncertain line of work. You never know how many folks will need specs, but everyone needs their dung heap cleaned. It’s steady business.”
I did not know what to say. I never had to think about what profession would be best for raising a family. I had never thought of so many things. I held out my hand and, in my most princely voice, managed to thank him again for a job well done. He had a firm and hearty shake. Then I turned to my namesake. “Thank you, too, Other Benjamin. You were very kind to help me in this way.”
Other Benjamin blushed and gave me another clumsy bow.
As I walked back through the village, I took note of all the hardworking folk. The blacksmith steadily banging his iron ore, the coopers bending rims of metal to make their barrels, the farmers lugging buckets of wheat to be ground by the miller. I wondered how many other Other Benjamins I was passing.
I have a newfound respect for the villagers who will clean dung heaps instead of following their dream because it is best for their family. They deserve a strong leader to look up to. I better start acting like one. I will enlist Andrew to tell me how. His training for knighthood includes learning all about how nobility is supposed to behave. He’ll steer me rightly, I am sure.
It occurs to me that I have not had to, shall we say, rid my body of excess food or drink since my arrival. I suspect the witch has somehow bewitched my meals so I will not have to relieve myself. This is a good thing, because there is no chamber pot in my room, and I am certainly NOT relieving myself out the window!
Andrew and I munch on late-night plum cakes while the night cook sleeps off his six mugs of ale on a stool in the corner of the kitchen. It always amazes me that he doesn’t fall off. Even the creaking of our old wooden chairs does not stir him. It took me many years to realize that once the furniture in the castle gets too worn or broken, it is moved into the servants’ quarters. These old chairs are so well worn that our rear ends fit perfectly into the indentations created by decades of rear ends. The ones in the Great Hall offer little comfort but can always be relied on to provide a new splinter. I do not see how that is preferable.
“Fifty?” Andrew says, shaking his head in amazement. “Fifty little Benjamins running around the village? T
hat is truly something, my friend.”
“They are not so little,” I tell him. “Some are only a year younger than us. It was quite a shock, I assure you.”
Andrew takes another bite and, with his mouth full, says, “No doubt, friend, no doubt.”
It is my turn to shake my head at him. “You shall surely fail your test to become a squire one month hence if you keep talking with your mouth full. You recall the famous saying, ‘A page is made a squire only if found worthy of being a knight.’”
“I know, I know,” he says, brushing the crumbs from his lap onto the floor. “I’ve heard that one since I was in the cradle. Trust me, friend. I will not eat stolen plum cakes while showing off my prowess with a sword.”
“See that you don’t,” I say with a smile. I munch my cake quietly, staring out the window into the inky darkness of the castle grounds. “You are so lucky, Andrew,” I tell him, not for the first time. “Everyone looks up to a knight. Those fifty Benjamins will certainly admire you for your power and grace.”
“They will look up to a king, too,” Andrew replies. “As they do a prince.”
I shake my head. “They may look at a prince or a king with respect or allegiance, but not with admiration. It is different.” I sigh deeply. “I wish there were some way to prove my worthiness. I would dearly like to help the poor spectacle-maker-turned-dung-heap-cleaner. But he is surely too proud to accept charity from me. I would not want to insult him. I must figure out a way for him to get enough money on his own, so that he can become who he has always dreamed of becoming. But how? Ask the castle stonemasons to build more dung chutes around the kingdom so he will have more to clean?”
Andrew wrinkles his nose. “I’m sure there is a better solution than that.” He shoots a quick look over at the cook. Still snoring away. He leans forward in his chair and whispers, “You could always search out the secret cave in the Great Forest where the bandits hid their treasure before they were captured. Then you could lead the boy you call Other Benjamin to it while pretending you had not been there before. That way he would rightfully have claim to half of the treasure and it would not be charity.”
“What cave? What bandits? What treasure? Have you drunk too much ale yourself?”
Andrew laughs. “You know nothing of the abandoned bandit cave in the woods? I have known of the bandit cave since before I could walk.”
My cheeks redden. “Just another example of how my parents keep me in the dark about the truly interesting things in life.”
I must look as depressed as I feel, because Andrew pushes the last plum cake toward me and says, “I am sorry, Prince. I didn’t mean to make fun. The cave is a crazy idea, anyway.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s a very good idea. Better than more dung chutes, that is for certain. Now, I may not know much about the ways of the world, but I do know that a cave full of treasure does not stay full of treasure for long. Would not someone have cleaned it out by now?”
“Ah,” replies Andrew, leaning back in his chair, “that is the rub. You see, there is a catch.”
“A catch?”
He nods. “A big hairy troll guards the entrance of the cave. No one will dare approach it, not even the knights.”
“A troll?” I echo in disbelief. “You are pulling my leg.”
“I assure you I am not,” Andrew replies. “Your legs are quite long enough as they are.”
See, this is why I need a friend like Andrew. No one else would say a thing like that to the prince of the castle. When Andrew first came to live here, six years ago, we were exactly the same height. In the years since, my legs have sprouted a life of their own and I have shot up nearly a foot! “Just so I am clear — you are telling me that somewhere out in the forest, a big hairy troll stands guard over a secret cave full of abandoned bandit treasure. Is that correct?”
“Correct,” Andrew replies with a wide grin. His teeth glow white by the dusky light of the oil lamp. I must remember to ask him sometime how he gets them so clean.
I continue. “And this troll is so fearsome that even the bravest knights in the kingdom refuse to face him.”
“Correct again.”
“And although even the bravest knights quiver in the presence of this troll, I, Prince Benjamin, who has never even been allowed inside the forest, am supposed to conquer the troll and claim the treasure?”
“Yes!” says Andrew enthusiastically. “You will certainly be a hero then. Admired near and far. Traveling minstrels will sing songs of your greatness, yessir!”
“Songs of your greatness, yessir!” the cook mumbles in his sleep. His eyelids flutter but remain closed.
“Shh, c’mon,” I whisper to Andrew. We try not to scrape the floor too loudly when we push back the chairs. He leads the way with the lamp and we ascend the narrow stairs to the second floor where our bedchambers are located. When we reach my doorway, I tell him, “I think it will be a while before I fight any trolls. But I thank you for your confidence in me.”
“I shall not give up,” he says, before turning toward his own quarters around the corner. “They will sing of you yet!” As he disappears into the darkness, he whistles a little tune that I recognize as the ballad the jester was singing the night Elkin and I were caught behind the couch. I surely doubt there will ever be songs of Prince Benjamin rescuing any damsels in distress or fighting off big hairy trolls. The bravest act I have thus far committed was to jump in the moat to rescue Annabelle, who had leaned in too far to pet a duck. In my hurry to get her into the waiting arms of our hysterical Mum, I scraped both of my legs on the moat wall. Instead of applying bandages, the royal doctor insisted on placing leeches on my thighs. I cannot understand why he thought it best to have more blood sucked from me whilst I was still bleeding.
It took a fortnight before the smell of the moat was off me.
Father did make a special toast in my honor at supper that night, and I got an extra portion of rutabaga pie. Still, it was nothing to write a song about.
I wake up still full from supper, which is a good thing because, for the first time, no breakfast plate awaits me. As much as it pains me to admit it, last night’s meal was delicious down to the last pea. Better than Mother makes, for sure, and Mother has a fresh garden and a magical herb to work with. I do not see any garden from my window here, only treetops and birds. Where did the vegetables come from, then? And the pig! Surely no pigs are running wild in the forest.
Sir Kitty slept in the crook of my arm all night, and I was grateful for her warmth. Whenever I woke up in the night — which was often — I heard the rhythmic breathing again … but it wasn’t coming from her. Each time I heard it, I sat straight up, frantically lit a candle, and searched the room. Nobody was ever there. I feel pretty stupid now because I have used up all my candles. I had five and managed to use them up in three nights. I am not looking forward to the coming sunset, when I will be plunged into darkness with only the faint light of the moon to see by. And what if it is a cloudy night and I hear the breathing again and the moon sheds no light? I shiver at the thought of it.
But night seems far off now. The whole day stretches ahead of me like a big empty void. If I were at home, WHERE I SHOULD BE, I would be helping Mother in the kitchen, practicing my harmonica, mending my clothes, reading stories about princes and princesses and damsels in distress, playing jacks with the neighborhood children, tending the garden with Father, or perhaps getting a jump on next year’s lessons. Okay, I probably wouldn’t be doing the last one. But I cannot do any of those things here.
It hits me that I am one of those damsels in distress. What damsel could be in more distress than I? I rack my brain to think of what someone would do in one of those stories. I’ll tell you what she WOULDN’T do. She wouldn’t just sit here wondering what to do. She would be thinking of a way to escape! I have already tried pushing on the stone walls and none of the stones budge.
As far as I can tell, the only way in or out is through that window. That’ll have
to be it, then. I shall climb out the window and make my way down the side of the tower. As Father used to say, the simplest solution is often the best.
If I think about it too long, I shall chicken out. So I put on my shoes, slip Sir Kitty into the deep pocket of my dress, and prepare for my descent. Before I climb up onto the ledge, I wrap my braid around the back of my head and use every one of my pins to secure it. I know it’s impossible, but it seems like my hair has grown another FOOT since yesterday. It actually drags on the FLOOR when I walk!
Once the braid is as out of the way as it’s ever going to be, I back up to the window and hoist myself up a few inches until I am sitting on the ledge. Then I swivel around and let my feet dangle outside. Both hands grip the inside walls on either side of the window. I make the mistake of glancing down and wind up gripping the walls even harder.
DO NOT LOOK DOWN.
I sit still for a few minutes, gathering my strength. It is actually quite pleasant to be outdoors again, after a fashion. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the fresh air. Then I move my hands to the ledge on either side of me and, in one fell swoop, manage to flip my body around so I am now facing the tower and dangling from the ledge by my hands. I am careful to stay far enough away from the wall so Sir Kitty doesn’t get squashed. My feet search frantically for stones to perch on, but they just keep slipping. How could there be no footholds? This tower must be ancient; surely the weather has worn down the smooth edges.
While I am contemplating what to do next, my left shoe simply FALLS RIGHT OFF MY FOOT. I watch in horror as it bumps the side of the tower a few times and lands in the bushes with a soft woomph. Did the witch hear that? Is she anywhere around? I don’t dare move. Or breathe. Okay, I have to move. And breathe. My hands are about to give out. Maybe losing the shoe wasn’t such a bad thing. I’d probably have better luck getting a toehold with an actual toe. I slide my bare foot against the wall, feeling for cracks. But it is for naught. Perhaps the simplest idea only appears to be the best. Using the last of my strength, I heave myself up and back through the window. I place Sir Kitty on the “bed” and she looks at me accusingly and starts washing again. That cat is very clean.