The Band of Gold, by Maurissa Guibord
Around the holidays my uncle, King Palomar, was always in an expansive mood.
He expanded his waistline by feasting on chocolates and that new holiday specialty Turquailock. (That’s a turtledove inside a quail, inside a peacock). He expanded his bevy of wives by choosing one or two of the city’s maidens that were lucky enough to catch his eye (and slow enough to be caught by the royal bevy herder). And whenever possible Palomar expanded his kingdom, usually by sacking and pillaging the lands of a weaker neighbor. He was a very festive ruler.
One fine, cold solstice morning Uncle Palomar called for me.
“Boy!” he shouted. That’s what he always called me, though my name was, and continues to be, Lucius. “Look at this map of my kingdom. Tell me. Does it not look sparse in this region?” He jabbed a pudgy finger on the parchment.
“You do seem a bit empty in the Northern regions,” I agreed.
“Then let us ride to these lands and claim them,” Uncle Palomar exclaimed, striding away. “Fetch the crone!” Uncle Palomar always traveled with a crone, believing that they come in handy for any emergency.
Meanwhile I peered at the tiny inscription over that particular territory, written by some ancient scribe, who apparently suffered from palsy as well as a leaky quill. Mustyrria, the land was called, as far as I could make out.
“Uncle Palomar,” I began, “if you read the fine print I think it says-”
“Boy!” Uncle Palomar shook his head, which set one or two of his chins to waggling. “You will never be a ruler unless you can see the Big Picture. You are looking at trees while I am trying to cut down a forest. ”
“Yes, but the skull and cross-bones would seem to indicate…”
“Silence! You must focus boy. You’ve been staring at those books too long. Have you taken your attention tincture this morning?”
“No,” I sighed. “It makes me feel woozy.”
“Fresh air. And acquisition,” said Palomar. He gave me a bracing slap on the back. “That’s what you need. And maybe kill something. Are you hungry? Fetch my sword!” he bellowed.
We traveled for many days, through forests, rolling pastures, farmlands as well as a brief stop in a coastal town featuring pleasant spa treatments and lawn tennis. But finally we arrived in the wild and unexplored land to the North.
It was swampland for the most part, but there were very pretty little glades here and there as well as numerous fruit trees and flowering shrubs. Uncle Palomar ordered his soldiers to canvas the entire region looking for inhabitants or buildings or something to sack. But it seemed to be desolate. Then, on the top of a small rise, we came upon an ancient ruin. It was all that remained, it would seem, of the ancient kingdom called Mustyrria.
A sinking feeling settled in my stomach like a greasy hunk of turquailock as I looked upon the eerie scene. We stood at the edge of a decrepit courtyard. Broken, mossy columns surrounded the perimeter while tufts of grass sprouted through cracks of the marble tiles. In the center of the courtyard stood a multitude of strange looking statues. The stone figures depicted people in odd poses with gruesome expressions distorting their features. The statues were scattered everywhere- some toppled over, cracked and broken some even crumbled to dust.
“Seems to be in a very sorry state,” muttered Uncle Palomar. He gave a shudder of disgust at a small furry creature that ran past his feet. “Crawling with vermin too.”
The royal crone stepped up, rustling her trails of ragged clothing through the rubble. “This is a vast kingdom with rich lands,” she croaked. Then, excusing herself she cleared her throat and went on in a normal tone, “But the rightful ruler has never been found. Look there.” She pointed a crooked but nicely manicured finger to the center of the courtyard.
There, upon a short pedestal was a box. Nestled inside the velvet-lined box was a simple, gleaming band of gold. Upon the pedestal was inscribed the following:
This golden circle, an arc of light
Worn by the ruler, it fits just right.
Recognized the king must be.
With respect and dignity.
Pretenders: Beware to claim the throne,
Lest the band of gold turn you to stone.
From age forever!
“A curse,” observed the crone with an approving nod.
“Well, that’s that then,” I said, turning to go.
“Wait!” yelled Uncle Palomar. He picked up the box. “You mean this ring fits only the rightful ruler of this land?”
“Yes,” said the crone.
“And everyone who has tried on the ring has been turned to stone?”
“You got it,” said the crone, proving her worth once more.
We looked around, realizing that the nearby statues were victims of the horrible curse. There were courtiers in fancy dress, armored knights, farmers still leaning on their sickles, even elegant ladies whose gowns were frozen in ruffles of cool, white marble. All had apparently, tried on the golden ring. All had been turned to stone.
The only living thing in the area seemed to be the mice that scampered amongst the statues. One brave little fellow even ran to the top of a nearby chunk of marble. He was a handsome creature with a sleek black coat. When I reached out my hand he climbed onto my palm and stood on his hind legs, regarding me with bright eyes.
“Boy, stop fiddling with rodents and pay attention,” snapped Uncle Palomar. “Now. It’s obvious to me,” he began with a sniff.
“Oh good,” I said, “I’ll get my horse.”
“It’s obvious to me,” he went on, ignoring me, “that the ring must be worn by someone of the purest pedigree, the bluest blood.”
I was about to say something but at that moment the mouse bit me.
“Ow!” I yelped as a drop of red oozed from my finger. It almost seemed like the mouse was trying to tell me something. “Uncle,” I began-
But Uncle Palomar had puffed out his chest. Once a king has puffed- there is often no recourse but to stand back, or seek the nearest catapult shelter.
“There simply hasn’t been anyone royal enough,” he announced. “Until now.” With that Uncle Palomar snatched the ring from the box and jammed it onto his pinky finger.
Then, Poof! (Actually it sounded more like Krzzwaxkzip!) The ring clattered to the ground and King Palomar stood before us, silent and still. He had been turned to stone. Some inferior quality of feldspar, I believe. He looked furious.
“Tch-tch,” said the crone. “You always were a hasty fellow Palomar.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?” I demanded of the old woman. “You’re supposed to counsel him about these things!”
“It’s true,” she said with a shrug of resignation. “I’m not the crone I used to be. The dire predictions just don’t come trippingly off my tongue the way they did in the old days.”
Poor Uncle Palomar. He had his faults but really, no one deserves to be turned to stone. “We can’t just leave him like this,” I said, eyeing my liege lord and uncle twice removed on my father’s side. “Can we? I mean, no of course not. We must find a way to reverse the curse.”
“Reverse the curse?” The crone scratched her head doubtfully. “I don’t know. That hasn’t been done since the Order of the Crimson Garter back in-”
“Never mind that now,” I said, looking around. “If the rightful ruler of this land were found, would that do it? Would all these folk be returned to their normal state?”
“I don’t know,” said the crone, shuffling away. “It’s worth a shot though. Good luck Lucius. This is shaping up to be some sort of cautionary tale- so I’ll be in my tent, having a nap.”
It seemed that it was up to me, and me alone to do something.
Even the little mouse had deserted me, leaping from my hand to scurry back to the pedestal.
“Let’s read this poem once more,” I said to myself. I stooped down to the pedestal’s base to get a closer look. “Perhaps there’s some sort of trick or clue to this puzzle.”
“Circle of gold,” I read. That meant the ring, of course.
“Arc of light.” Meaning shiny, again like gold. Or maybe light as in not weighing very much? No, that didn’t make any sense. Perhaps it was as my uncle was always saying- I wasn’t seeing the big picture.
“Worn by the ruler, it fits just right.” I sat down. The little black mouse ran to me once more, raced across my hand and balanced himself on my knee. “Well I guess it hasn’t gone on the right sized finger yet.” I said, as I reached out and stroked his little head.
Suddenly the mouse seemed to be very excited. He jumped off my knee and began to race around me in circles, every so often stopping to hop up and down, waving his tiny-clawed toes at me.
“You’re definitely trying to tell me something, aren’t you?” I said with a laugh. “Why, you’re running rings around me!”
Rings around me. Rings. Around. Me.
That’s when I knew.
“Crone!” I shouted. “Wake up!”
“What is it Lucius?” she grumbled, emerging from her tent.
“I know why no finger has been found to fit this ring,” I said excitedly.
“Hmm. And why is that?” she asked, sounding skeptical. But the crone’s eyes twinkled as if she knew some secret joke. She watched as I picked up the golden band and held it high. The afternoon sun glinted on the shiny surface.
“Because it’s not a ring,” I said.
I bent down to the mouse who sat up, steady and straight as I placed the small circle of gold upon his head.
“It’s a crown.”
When I had touched the mouse between his tiny ears and he became so excited- that was when I’d realized it: the band of gold might have been fitted not for a royal hand, but a royal head.
There was a brilliant flash of light and a swell of majestic but catchy music from I know not where, as the courtyard of Mustyrria was suddenly transformed. The columns rumbled up, straight and gleaming. The intricate mosaic floor was restored, revealing heroic scenes of famous mice battles and important moments in rodent history. A series of tiny steps appeared, leading up to a throne atop the stone pedestal. The royal throne was no bigger than a thimble, but magnificently grand nonetheless. A crowd of eager mice surged forward and led the new king to his rightful place.
Then the statues came to life, each victim coughing and stretching wearily after their decades of stony imprisonment. All were restored to full and vibrant health! Except for the broken-up ones of course- they were swept up in dust bins and disposed of discreetly.
Fortunately Uncle Palomar was unharmed, though he was unable to communicate with us for some time due to a fit of sneezing in which he produced clouds of bilious yellow quartz dust.
“Well done, Lucius,” said the crone, congratulating me. “A good ruler needs to see the world from many points of view. Including very small ones.”
“There’s just one thing that doesn’t make sense,” I said. “The last line of the poem. From age forever. What does that mean?”
The crone frowned and squinted at the tiny letters. “We misread it my dear. Look, there is no space between the first two words. It’s not ‘From age forever’. It says ‘Fromage forever’.” She straightened. “These are obviously French mice.”
I smiled and made a deep, courtly bow to the mouse king of Mustyrria.
“Your Highness,” I said solemnly, my hand over my heart. “Cheese forever!”
-End-