Cupped in Pia’s hands was the leather pouch emblazoned with the King’s seal. “We should see what’s inside,” she said.
Enzio agreed.
“There is nothing wrong with looking,” Pia said.
“No, nothing wrong about that.”
“Only natural to look.”
“Anyone would do it.”
Pia smoothed the leather. “If we are to give this to the old woman Ferrelli, we should at least know what we are giving her, shouldn’t we?”
“Yes. We should.”
Pia offered the pouch to Enzio. “Do you want to—”
Enzio took a step backward. “No. You.”
“Whatever is inside—we couldn’t damage it, could we?”
Enzio thought for a moment. “It might be delicate.”
Pia again assessed the bulk of it in her hands. “Doesn’t feel delicate.”
“Open it.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
They moved farther back into the woods. When Enzio had brushed the ground clear of leaves, they kneeled. Holding the pouch firmly in one hand, Pia slid its contents into the open palm of her other hand. They bent close to the objects: two small pieces of red coral; a pair of golden medallions; a lock of black hair tied with a purple ribbon; and a small, rolled piece of parchment on which were written, in curling black script, words which they could not read.
Enzio was most interested in the identical medallions. On one side of each was the King’s seal, and on the other side was an intricate embossed design which resembled a maze or a convoluted flower. Pia examined the pieces of coral. Each was the familiar shape of a corno, a horn-shaped token of good luck. These were common enough amulets—many villagers wore similar ones to ward off the malocchio, the evil eye—but those the villagers wore were carved from wood. Only once had Pia seen a coral one. The two in her hand were more finely crafted and of a deeper, purer coral than the one she had seen. Pia had heard villagers talk of golden cornos, too, which only royalty possessed.
Pia held the lock of hair lightly between her fingers, feeling its soft texture. She stroked the hair and its ribbon as she studied the script on the parchment.
“Wonder what it says, Enzio.”
“Anything else on there? On the back?”
“No. Nothing.”
Indicating the medallions, Enzio said, “These, at least, must be valuable. Gold!”
“But what is the connection, do you think? Cornos, medallions, a lock of hair, and a piece of paper with words?”
“Maybe the words explain, or maybe there is no connection,” Enzio said. “Maybe they are just things that got stuck in this pouch.”
“And why would someone want to steal it?”
“The gold,” Enzio said. “Think how much these must be worth!”
“So, we are supposed to take this to the old woman Ferrelli, yes?”
“That’s what the King’s Man said.”
“And if we don’t—”
“He said it would be stealing.”
Pia curled the purple ribbon around her finger. “But right now—right now—we are only finding, yes?”
Enzio studied Pia’s face, reading her thoughts. “Yes,” he agreed. “We are only finding something on the path.”
“And the King’s Man did not say when we should take whatever we found to the old woman Ferrelli, did he?”
“No, he did not.”
“So,” Pia urged, “we do not have to take it to her instantly?”
Enzio smiled. “He didn’t say anything about instantly.”
Chapter Ten
The Hermit
The hermit gestured to a straw mat, and the King took his usual place, settling himself cross-legged on the floor. The hermit sat across from the King on a similar straw mat. Neither had yet spoken, for this was the way of the hermitage: silence first.
It had been the King’s desire to acquire the hermit, and although the King knew that others referred to this as his “folly,” he did not mind. A king should be allowed his follies. His interest in his own personal hermit had first arisen when Count Volumnia had visited. The Count was a great traveler and was fond of reporting his discoveries, most of which revolved around the latest acquisitions of other noblemen. During his visit with the King, the Count mentioned that among the intriguing things he had discovered recently was a “most wonderful novelty” which he had found on the grounds of a grand villa. The villa’s owner had built an outlying cottage and had installed therein a hermit.
“But why?” asked the King.
“Because,” replied the Count, “he wanted a muse.”
“But—a hermit?”
“The hermit spends all day, each and every day, contemplating the universe. Spiritual matters. Inspirational matters. A great deal of time was spent searching for the right hermit.”
“But why—how—of what benefit is this to the owner of the villa?” asked the King.
“The hermit’s job—his purpose—is to inspire his master, to offer him enlightenment and wisdom.”
“Ah,” said the King. “Enlightenment. Wisdom.”
Although the King did not have any strong desire for enlightenment or wisdom, he wondered if he should keep up with the times and install his own hermit on the castle grounds. The more he thought about this idea, the more it took hold in his mind, and soon a dozen of the King’s Men were sent out to scour the countryside for the perfect hermit.
After several months, when the King was becoming aggravated by the slowness of the search, a hermit was brought to him. The King’s Man who ushered the hermit into the King’s quarters said, “He is the perfect hermit. He is enlightened. He is wise.”
“And how do you know this?” the King asked.
“Everyone says so.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
And so the King had met the hermit, a tall, thin man with thick gray hair and round, soft, dark eyes. He had a slow and gentle manner, and when the King spoke to him, the hermit’s replies were hushed. The King outlined his proposal: he would build a small house for the hermit on the castle grounds, and the hermit would live there, with no duties except to contemplate the universe and share his wisdom with the King.
“I have a few family obligations,” the hermit said.
This was not welcome news. The King didn’t want any hangers-on—no wives or children or elderly parents. There were enough people in the castle already. Too many! He wanted only the gentle hermit. When the hermit explained his family obligations, the King was glad that with some simple arrangements those responsibilities could be taken care of, and the hermit—alone—would be willing and able to serve as the King’s personal hermit.
“A what?” the Queen had said, when the King informed her of his decision to install the hermit on the grounds. “Did you say—a hermit? Have I heard you correctly?”
“Yes, yes, a hermit, a counsel of enlightenment and wisdom.”
The Queen raised her eyebrows, but she was reluctant to question the King because he seemed determined to have his way. Besides, she was curious about the sort of enlightenment and wisdom that the hermit might bring. “Wonderful, Guidie! I will be eager to meet your hermit.”
“Ahem,” murmured the King. “Remember, he is my hermit. You probably won’t see much of him.”
“Oh,” the Queen said, disappointed. “Of course, Guidie.”
And so the stone house was built and the hermit arrived. He had now been in his silent stone enclave for nearly a decade.
The King and the hermit sat across from each other in the soundless space of the hermitage for some time. At last the King spoke.
“Hermit? Today we have learned that a thief has been in our midst.”
The hermit nodded.
“A thief! We don’t have thieves in our kingdom! Never have I heard of such a thing. You can imagine how troubling this news is.”
Again the hermit nodded.
The King explaine
d about the Minister of Defense’s vague report of a black-cloaked figure racing through the courtyard clutching a sack, mounting a black horse, and fleeing. The King also said that he had ordered inventories to see what might have been stolen, and he had bid his men find the thief. Punctuating his account were the hermit’s nods.
During his first few visits with the hermit, these silent nods had unnerved the King, but over time he had come to appreciate the soft gestures of the old man. Here was someone who would not argue with him, would not pester him with questions. The hermit would listen, mute, without judgment and, when he was ready, he would offer a few well-chosen words. Those few words, the King assumed, were wisdom or enlightenment, and he felt privileged and grateful that he alone was the recipient of the wise and enlightened words of his own personal hermit.
On this day, after the King had presented his tale of the thief, the hermit clasped his hands together and closed his eyes, as he usually did before offering his words. The King waited, not overly anxious for the hermit to speak, for he enjoyed the quiet comfort of this place, and he knew that once the hermit spoke it would be time for the King to leave, to return to the bustle of the castle, to the obligations and duties that awaited him.
When the hermit finally spoke, it was in his usual gentle, measured tones. “A thief,” he said, “wants what he does not have.”
The King let these words cross the space between him and the hermit and enter his mind. “A thief,” he repeated, “wants what he does not have.” It sounded very wise.
Chapter Eleven
Wisdom
The Queen could always tell when the King had visited the hermit, for he would be, for a short time, calmer than usual, not straining at his restrictive clothing, not complaining or yawning. She would find him sitting mute on his throne, his hands folded one atop the other, gazing placidly around the room.
On this late afternoon, when the castle was still buzzing with word of the thief, the Queen, passing the throne room, spotted the King resting comfortably on his throne. Ah, she thought, so he has been to see the hermit. She entered the room quietly, gliding slowly across the cool marble floor until she reached him.
“Guidie?”
“Mm?”
“Are you well, Guidie?”
The King nodded, in much the same manner as the hermit: slowly, calmly. The Queen settled herself beside him on her own throne and waited. She knew that he would soon offer a pronouncement, but it would not come if she pestered him with questions. She had learned this over time. The Queen folded her hands like the King and serenely contemplated the room, noting the amber light, flecked with violet, which streamed through the stained glass windows and formed a delicate light pool on a square of marble tile.
“A thief,” the King said solemnly, “wants what he does not have.”
What he said made perfect sense, but the Queen was annoyed that she hadn’t thought of this herself. On further reflection, she was sure she had known such a thought, but merely had never put it into words. She was also quite sure that the King’s pronouncement came from the hermit because she knew the King well, and she knew that he did not make such clear observations on his own.
“That’s very profound, Guidie,” she said, aware that she was jealous of the King’s access to his personal hermit. Perhaps, she thought (and not for the first time), she should acquire her own hermit.
“And so,” the King continued, “we must find out what the thief does not have.”
“But, Guidie, we do not know who the thief is, do we?”
The King glanced at her, and in that glance the Queen saw displeasure. He was emerging from the hermit-induced calm, and she knew that soon he would be his usual, irritable, self.
“Then we must find out,” the King said, “who does not have something, and then we shall find the thief.”
The Queen wanted to jump up from her gilded throne and shout, “That is absurd! Ludicrous! Everyone does not have something!” Instead, she composed herself. She said, “Yes, Guidie, dear,” and, smiling at him, she rose. Mustering all her self-control, she drifted calmly away. Once outside the chamber, she pressed both hands over her mouth to muffle an exasperated groan.
The three royal riders and their nine guards rode slowly back up the hill to the castle. Prince Gianni, the eldest, said, “I hope we are not expected to be on duty tonight.”
Princess Fabrizia swished her handkerchief at a pesky fly. “But Gianni, we are on duty, for we have visitors: Count Volumnia—”
“No!” said Prince Vito. “Not the obsequious Count and his obsequious wife?” Vito was prickly enough already, having plodded along on the slow, dull ride, when all he had wanted to do was race across the fields, leap the stream, and ride as hard and as fast as he could.
“Obsequious?” Prince Gianni hated when his younger brother used words like obsequious, because he did not know what they meant. Where had his brother learned that word? Had he, Gianni, learned the word and forgotten it?
“Obsequious means ‘fawning,’” Prince Vito said. “It’s that awful thing the Count does—‘Oh, noble King Guido,’ and ‘Oh, most beauteous Queen Gabriella.’ Makes me want to throw a cabbage at him.”
Princess Fabrizia giggled. “Vito, that isn’t princely.”
In response, Prince Vito slapped his horse with his whip and took off, leaving his sister and brother coughing in his dust. Prince Vito charged up the crest of the hill toward the exterior gates, with three of the King’s Men in pursuit, for the King’s Men’s orders were to never let any of the children out of their sight. Vito rode hard through the gates and veered sharply to the right, knowing that, at least briefly, he would be out of their sight and that they would be vexed and anxious as a result.
Prince Vito halted behind the hermitage. From inside, a shadow crossed the narrow opening in the wall, a bare window draped with oilcloth. Prince Vito had never had any particular interest in the hermit. If anything, he regarded the hermit—an old, shuffling man rarely seen outside—with scorn. Such a preposterous figure, Prince Vito thought. But on this day, as he sat on his horse, hiding from the King’s Men, Prince Vito was curious. What does that hermit do all day?
A mottled hand drew back the oilcloth, and the hermit gazed directly at the Prince. He did not smile or bow, as was the custom and the duty of underlings; he simply stood there watching with his dark, peaceful eyes. But there was something more in his look, something penetrating and unsettling.
The Prince was about to order the old man to bow, when he heard the oncoming hoofbeats of the King’s riders. Prince Vito brought his whip down hard on his horse and raced off, forgetting the hermit.
Chapter Twelve
The Old Woman
Master Pangini shook his whip at Pia and Enzio. You dirty beetles, where have you been? Dallying about? Girl, where is my food? Boy, get to the stall and take over for Rocco so he can have his meal. You idle, lazy turnips.”
Pia snatched the bread from its bin, lit the fire, and whirled a spoon through the stew she had cooked the day before. Master Pangini’s tantrums did not ruffle her. It was his blustery way, full of noise and flutter, signifying nothing. Often, during his tirades, Pia would imagine herself lifting into the air, flying out the door and over rooftops, swooping over the river, dipping and diving, and riding a current up the hill to the Castle Corona.
Today, though, Pia’s mind was occupied with other things as she swirled Master Pangini’s meal together. She and Enzio had hidden the pouch high in a gnarled oak tree. It was a spot they had used before: a solid, bowl-shaped indentation where a sturdy limb met the trunk. The two branches below this formed a firm platform on which they had spent many stolen hours imagining other lives for themselves.
Pia was usually the instigator of their imagined scenarios. “Enzio,” she might say, “who knows where we might have come from? We might have come from a royal household that was set upon by bandits, and our parents had to give us away for our safekeeping.”
Enzi
o, then, was able to spin the scene further. “And the first person she gave us to was probably a kind and gentle woman, don’t you think?”
“But the woman…she fell over a cliff—”
“When she was watching the goats—”
“Oh, yes, I like goats. That’s good, Enzio. And then the wretched Pangini came along and snatched us up—”
“And he was a snarly, gruff man—”
“A very large, round, snarly, gruff man—”
On they would go, creating their possible former lives and landing themselves with the gruff Pangini. If they had time, they would continue with what-happens-next. “Enzio, one day our former family will find us, and we will return to the castle—”
“Where we shall ride white horses and eat fine foods…”
During their trek back to Pangini’s hovel, these images stayed with them, making it easier to resume their chores and endure the meagerness of life with Pangini.
As Pia stirred Pangini’s stew, she was hoping the pouch, hidden in the tree-bowl, would be secure until she and Enzio could decide what to do with it. Pia felt the itch of curiosity. Who owned the contents of the pouch? Who had stolen it? Why was it stolen?
“Food!” demanded Master Pangini. “You think I can work all day without food?”
Pia set the bowl of stew before him, along with thick slices of bread and a mug of ale. She stepped back, hoping there would be scraps left for her and Enzio to eat, but knowing that her master’s appetite was enormous. She wondered how a man who did so little could require so much food. His version of work was to stroll back and forth in front of his market stall, snapping at his worker, Rocco. “Peel back those cabbages—who will buy them if they look rotten?” and “Pile the oranges, pile them! Don’t lump them like that!” and “Careful of that cook’s helper—he likes to stuff his pockets when you’re not looking!”