Castle of Beast and King

By Jered Gering   

Yuletide never ceases to remind me of the day I ruined everything.

The wind chills me, and I shiver in spite of thick fur. I stare from my tower balcony to the snowscape below.

I hold the lute in my clawed hands. Living and enchanted, he had once been my father’s minstrel.

He only plays one song—a song my father, the king, used to sing until the winter he and my mother died.

The minstrel’s self-plucking almost forms words.

“… on the Feast of Stephen, and the snow lay roundabout…”

The melody echoes, and—

I chuckle at the sight below. A translucent man appears to be walking through the snow. What a trick! The image fades into the winter landscape.

I shake myself, the song still playing. Yesterday was another dismal Christmas. A celebration with silent introspection and a side of brooding.

My parents died the year I turned seventeen, still too young to assume my father’s throne.

I sigh, unbidden memories crawling into my mind’s eye…

It was to be the grandest Christmas Feast our kingdom had ever seen.

People from all lands had been invited. We would provide the best food, wine, and wrapped packages.

But “we” meant me. An orphaned, underage prince, I had no say in any of these plans, yet it all came from my coffers.

Pushing the memory aside, I search the snowscape, wondering if its shadows can conjure false poltergeists.

I scan the distant hills and trees yet again. I halt, breathless.

Is that an illusion? I strain my eyes and lean over the balcony.

It’s a person—a real human, far at the forest edge.

The figure trudges through the snow, gusts of wind tearing at his ragged cloak. He snatches sticks from the snow.

“Does he plan to make a fire?”

The lute replays the song, the words of its melody once more resounding within me.

“…when a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel… ”

Steps echo along the cobblestones far below. On the edge of the castle perimeter, the translucent apparition reappears, walking toward the man at the forest edge, each step printing a real depression.

“This ghost isn’t a mere illusion.” My heart races, my stomach knots.

The lute continues the song, and I hear its words in my father’s voice all around me with the swirling of fresh snowflakes. The song pulls me toward the poltergeist’s path.

Whatever magic brings this ghost to me, its invitation to follow is clear.

I dash away from the balcony and down the stairs, claws clicking with each step. I wind through hallways, every step a memory.

I pass the wine cellar.

I had sneaked in, fueled by grief and pride. I spilled all the wine I couldn’t imbibe.

I stumble through the kitchen, bounding for the fastest way out.

I had rammed past maids, cooks, and butlers, shattering plate after plate.

I sprint as fast as my beastly body will carry me, every door and hallway reminding me of my rampage.

Drawers, armoires, a clock, and a candlestick—all broken by my hand. Even the minstrel’s lute, stepped on and cracked.

Finally, I burst through the heavy castle door. I slip on the courtyard’s icy walkway and slide onward, undeterred. I force my way through the giant iron gate, then through knee-deep powder across what was once a green meadow.

Deep cold digs through my fur’s protection. I slow.

I collapse and recall that day’s drunken stupor once more. I’ve cleaned the castle a hundred times since that day, but still… Tears gather and threaten to freeze.

With the castle in shambles, the only guest arrived. Calling my name, his magic pulled me over shards of broken china.

The Enchanter pronounced a curse.

A thick fur grew, and it spread over my body. All the servants in the castle were enchanted, too. They became dishes. And the lute and every other furnishing replacing everything I’d destroyed.

The song returns upon the wind. I look up, brush snow from my face, and see the ghost—King Wenceslas?—trudging ahead.

I stand and see the path made by his footsteps.

Seconds later, I force myself forward, a step at a time.

The unbearable snow continues to bite into my eyes, but the bottom of my feet…

I know not how, but the exact footprint of the ghost radiates heat.

With each step, I grow warmer, my steps stronger.

I draw closer to the makeshift camp.

The fur covering my feet sheds away with each step, but my new skin feels warmer, not colder.

Finally, the apparition stops and fades into the wind. I step into his final prints, and I face the peasant.

As I breathe in to speak, he throws his cloak aside.

The Enchanter.

He says, “Dear Prince, you have followed the footsteps of Good King Wenceslas, humbled like his page. You are discovering a truth. Generosity is strength, not weakness.”

“I’ve learned nothing,” I admit.

“Your beastly form revealed your wild, wounded heart. Throughout these years, you’ve put your house in order. The time for penance is over. The true test of your penitence begins now.”

The remaining fur falls off my body in clumps and melts away when it hits the snow.

I am human once more.

“I don’t understand.”

“You and your house will prepare a feast for all who will come. If you do so, the curse will remain broken. A ship full of china and household items awaits in the harbor—a gift from me. If you accept it, and if you continue following in the king’s footsteps, then your land will be ruled with peace and wisdom.”

I nod and weep, remembering my father’s reign and how similarly he ruled to the king he sang about.

Before I can thank him, the Enchanter disappears.

I turn toward the castle. Though the ghost of King Wenceslas is gone, I retrace his steps and sing, ready to forge a legacy that will make my father proud.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jered Gering used to spend recess in his own world dreaming up new adventures. Nowadays, he writes stories where biblical themes collide with unexpected settings and characters. He lives with his wife in Fremont, CA, where he teaches third grade and serves on staff at a ministry school.

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