The Young King
Long before there were supermarkets and department stores, in the days before Target, Walmart, Kroger and Amazon, people grew their own food and produced most of the goods they needed, from bread and homespun cloth to wooden furniture and hand-dipped candles. Those items they were unable to make or grow themselves they acquired by bartering with other villagers. Of course, there were items that no one in the community produced—pots and pans, for instance. These were brought into the village by men such as Old Kristof, an itinerant peddler who traveled from village to village, selling his wares from an old wooden cart drawn by a horse that looked every bit as old as Kristof himself.
No one living in the small villages scattered along the Rhine River or nestled in the Black Forest knew the exact or even approximate age of the peddler. Even the most senior villagers remembered him as Old Kristof from their childhood days. Oddly, no one questioned that the elderly man seemed to have stopped aging decades earlier. It was as though he were born an old man and remained one throughout the years. In the eyes of the people who knew and loved him, however, he was as timeless as the stories he told.
The traveling peddler is not to be pitied because he had no home or family. When he arrived in a village, he was treated like royalty. He was given the best accommodations available, and the farmers' wives fed him well. You may ask why a simple peddler deserved such splendid treatment. It is because Old Kristof brought with him more than goods to sell. Although a common peddler by necessity, he was a storyteller extraordinaire by choice: he sold his wares to live, but he lived to tell his tales.
In a world with few books, and no radio and television, folktales were one of the main sources of entertainment, and no one could tell them as well as Old Kristof. A raconteur par excellence, he had a true knack for weaving a plot that captured the listener's imagination and held his or her attention. The peddler's stories were so popular that many of them became the basis for the well-loved fairy tales handed down through the generations.
Now that you are acquainted with Old Kristof, let us travel back in time to a small village in the Alps. It has been nearly a year since our peddler last visited, and the villagers have eagerly awaited his return. When the racket of his pots and pans clanging together on his cart first announced his arrival one morning, the schoolmaster rushed out of his classroom to greet him. Soon word spread throughout the village: Old Kristof has returned!
It was a day of celebration. Children were let out of school early, farmers came in from the fields, tradesmen closed their shops and women began preparing a feast in their guest's honor. Talk of buying the peddler's goods would come in due course. Merrymaking came first.
By early evening, the roasts were taken off the spits, the pies and bread came out of the ovens and the stews were ladled into bowls. Some of the villagers brought out jugs of cider, others pitchers of ale. Once everyone had eaten his fill, a bonfire was lit in front of the church. Adults brought stools and benches out of their houses and barns and sat around the fire, and children hurried to seat themselves on the ground at Old Kristof's feet.
Having finished the last of his drink, the peddler handed his empty mug to the wheelwright who was sitting nearby.
"Now, what tale should I tell?" he asked, looking forward to the night's entertainment as much as his audience did.
"I'd like to hear a story about a handsome prince," the blacksmith's unmarried daughter suggested.
"Not a prince," her mother said. "A king."
"A boy king!" the smith's youngest son insisted.
"A young king, is it?" Old Kristof asked. "If there's one thing I know, those crowned at a young age do not live long and happy lives."
"Why is that?"
"Because older people want to have the power for themselves. Mothers, uncles, cousins, regents ... they will stop at nothing—not even murder—to sit on a throne."
"Don't you know any stories about a boy king who does grow up to rule?" the weaver's wife asked.
The peddler thought for a moment.
"Hmmm. A young king? I'm not .... Ah, yes! There is one ...."
* * *
When Queen Dagmar gave birth to a son, King Claudius was overjoyed. Both he and his wife were getting on in years, and they had despaired of ever having an heir. Even at birth, Prince Phillip was a beautiful child with blue eyes and a full head of blond hair.
"He is our golden boy," the king proudly boasted.
As was often the case with an only child, the prince was adored and spoiled by his doting parents. Although their kingdom was a relatively poor one, the boy wanted for nothing. Sadly, he did not appreciate the sacrifices his parents often had to make on his behalf.
Young Phillip was but a lad of seven when Claudius decided he would visit his aunt, Queen Wilhelmina of Westland, a much larger and wealthier kingdom.
"You will live with my sister for a year," the father declared. "At her husband's court, you will receive an excellent education, one that will allow you to become a great ruler when I pass on."
Although the royal parents hated to be parted from their beloved son, they did what they believed was best for both the boy and their kingdom.
"He'll be home in a year's time, my dear," the king consoled his wife.
Unlike his parents, the prince was not saddened by the separation. He looked forward to the journey since he had heard nothing by wondrous tales about the splendor of Westland. When he arrived at the royal palace, he realized the stories had not done the place justice. Rather than the cold, damp, aged castle of his father's kingdom, his aunt and her husband, Warwick, lived in an immense, lavish palace, one truly fit for a king.
The building offered every comfort and convenience of its day. All the rooms, from the grand banquet hall to the enormous ballroom and throne room, featured the finest crafted furniture. Its walls were adorned with hand-sewn tapestries and artworks from the finest painters. Even the grounds were impressive, consisting of acres of brightly colored flowers, sculpted trees, marble statues and elaborate fountains.
When he was presented to the king and queen—both dressed in fine velvets and expensive jewels—Prince Phillip was embarrassed by the plainness of his own simple attire.
"Welcome, nephew," Queen Wilhelmina said. "I am happy to meet my brother's son."
"What a fine-looking lad he is," King Warwick observed, wishing his own three sons were half as handsome.
The king was not the only one taken by the boy's appearance. Every person, man or woman, young or old, was drawn to the comely prince. Furthermore, over the next twelve months, he grew more beautiful. His once pale-yellow hair turned a rich golden color, and his eyes became the blue of sapphires.
As had been agreed by all parties, Phillip spent one year in Westland. During that time, he was tutored by the finest minds in the kingdom.
"I wish I didn't have to leave here," he confessed to his aunt when the day came for him to return home.
"I've enjoyed our time together, but I'm sure your parents are eager to see you again. Don't you miss them?"
"Yes," the young prince answered in a not-very-convincing voice. "But my father's ugly old castle can't compare with your magnificent palace!"
"Old as it is, my brother's dwelling is filled with love," Queen Wilhelmina declared.
"I'd rather my parents were rich like you and Uncle Warwick."
"Your parents have hearts of gold," the wise queen said. "They are kind, generous, compassionate rulers who are wealthy in the things that matter most."
"That's easy for you to say," Phillip cried. "You have jewels, expensive clothes and a fine palace."
Filled with envy for the material wealth he could not have, the angry little boy fled the throne room, not even bothering to say goodbye to the aunt who had come to love him like one of her own children.
Delighted at their son's return, King Claudius and Queen Dagmar threw a grand ball in his honor. Although the food and entertainment were the best they could afford, the celebration did not measure up to Phillip's high standards. The eight-year-old prince did not suffer his disappointment in silence, even though his thoughtless remarks pained his parents and brought tears to his mother's eyes.
"Don't fret, my dear," her husband advised in a comforting voice. "Our son is just a child. With age comes wisdom. No doubt by the time he reaches manhood, he will appreciate what he has."
Prince Phillip was home for a mere six months when, after constantly badgering his parents, they reluctantly agreed to let him visit Westland again. A week before he was to embark on his long journey, however, a powerful foreign army besieged his father's castle. The defending forces were no match for the attackers. King Claudius knew the invaders would show no mercy to the royal family, so he arranged for his son to be taken away under cover of darkness and placed in the safe care of a brotherhood of monks.
Within hours of the boy's departure, the invaders broke through the castle defenses and killed everyone inside including the king and queen. Phillip was now an orphan, and with no army at his command, he had little hope of gaining the crown that was rightfully his. Rather than see this as the tragedy it was, the boy considered it a blessing.
"Now I can live in Westland with my aunt and uncle," he cried happily when he heard the news of his parents' fate.
"I'm afraid that's impossible," the abbot announced. "Sigmund, the new king, sees you as a threat to his reign and has sent his soldiers to look for you."
"But I don't want to be king of that horrible land."
"Nevertheless, you are the rightful heir to the throne and a threat to the usurper. No, I cannot allow you to travel to your aunt's kingdom. It's far too dangerous."
"Then what will become of me?"
"You will remain here. You will live a pious and simple life and perhaps someday ...."
"No!" the rebellious boy shouted. "I'm not going to live my life like a poor monk. I am Prince Phillip, and I want the rich life that I'm entitled to by birth."
"You are a prince no more. The sooner you accept your fate, the better."
For nearly a year, Phillip lived a life of prayer, poverty and drudgery. His frequent tears and entreaties to God did nothing to change his circumstances. It was only the memories of the year he spent in his aunt's palace that gave him the strength to go on.
Someday I will escape from this place, he vowed, and I will find a way to return to Westland.
It was when the monks were attending Christmas services that Phillip finally found the courage to run away from the monastery. By the time the abbot realized the young man was missing, it was too late to search for him. He could only pray that the former prince would be safe from harm.
Unfamiliar with the exact route to Westland, Phillip decided to simply walk in a westerly direction, using the rising and setting sun as a guide. To evade the usurper's soldiers, he kept to the woods and avoided all villages. Soon the food he had taken from the monastery ran out, and he was forced to scavenge nuts and berries. As he devoured his meager rations, he dreamed of the delectable feasts he had enjoyed in his aunt's palace. Neither daydreams nor his scant diet could sustain him for long, however. Although he tried to keep walking, hunger and exhaustion soon overtook him.
Is this my fate? To die of starvation in the middle of the woods? he wondered as he lay down at the base of a towering fir tree and his eyes closed for what he feared would be the last time.
While Phillip was escaping the harsh reality in Morpheus's realm, an old woman discovered him slumbering against the tree trunk.
What a beautiful boy! she thought, instantly taken by his angelic appearance.
She was not a simple old woman but a sorceress with great magical power. Having lived alone in the forest all her long life, she never married and never had a child. As she gazed upon the sleeping boy, her heart longed to reach out her aged hand and touch his golden hair.
Soon the sky darkened, a steady rain began to fall and a bolt of lightning ripped across the sky. The resulting clap of thunder woke the sleeping prince. When his eyes opened, he saw the witch staring down at him, and he was filled with fear. She was, without doubt, the oldest and ugliest creature he had ever beheld.
"Who are you?" he asked, his face contorting with disgust.
"My name is Zerelda," she answered. "You look hungry. Come to my cottage, and I'll fix you something to eat."
His initial instinct was to refuse, but being on the verge of starvation, he accepted her offer. Deep in a thick grove of ancient oak trees that were as gnarled and misshapen as the witch's body, the cottage was small but clean and neat inside.
"Why don't you sit by the fire while I get you a piece of bread and a bowl of stew?" Zerelda suggested.
What am I doing here? Phillip wondered with a glum expression on his handsome face. Nothing but bread and stew in a lowly cottage in the woods with only a hideous old crone for company.
His thoughts went to Westland, to the elaborate feasts at the palace: swan, venison, boar. Sweets and savories of all kinds. Courtiers dressed in fine garments ate, talked and danced while a troupe of minstrels performed.
"What were you doing sleeping in the woods?" the witch asked.
Phillip was in no mood for conversation.
"If you don't mind, I prefer to eat in silence," he said haughtily, displeased at having his reveries disturbed.
"Is that any way to talk to someone who takes you into her home and provides you with a good meal?"
"A good meal, you say? It's slop that ought to be fed to the animals."
An excellent judge of character, Zerelda immediately saw Phillip for what he was: a foolish, greedy little boy whose golden exterior was a mere façade, a pleasing shell that hid the emptiness inside. Unlike the boy's late parents, she had no illusions about his future. He would not grow wiser with age. Rather, he would remain covetous and materialistic throughout his life.
"At least animals appreciate what they have, which is more than I can say for you."
"Why, you ugly old witch! How dare you ...?"
"That's right. I am old. I am ugly. And I'm also a witch."
A look of fear suddenly appeared on the boy's winsome face.
"You'd better not try to hurt me," he threatened.
"I wouldn't dream of hurting such a beautiful boy as you. Why, you are golden like the sun. You ought to be a king with a fine palace and a room full of treasure."
"I am a king!" he confessed, unmindful of any danger the truth might cause him. "I was born Prince Phillip, son of King Claudius and Queen Dagmar."
"Then what were you doing here in the woods?" Zerelda asked skeptically.
"I was on my way to Westland, to live with my aunt and uncle."
"Westland is so far away. Wouldn't you prefer to return to your parents' castle?"
"A foreign invader has taken over my father's kingdom. Besides, I hate it there. The castle is so old and ugly."
"Just like me," the witch said with a mischievous smile. "I suppose you would prefer a grand palace like the one your aunt and uncle live in."
"Yes, I would."
"Well, you're a king. You can build one just as grand if not grander than theirs."
"You fool!" he cried. "I have no crown, no army, no money. The usurper Sigmund sits upon my throne."
"I am many things, but nary a fool!" the old woman cackled. "I have great power. I can cast a spell that will make you the richest boy in all the world. With your great wealth, you can raise an army, defeat Sigmund, take back your kingdom and build your palace—and still have richest beyond belief at your fingertips."
"Do it then!" Phillip ordered.
"Aren't you the least bit curious as to the cost of my spell?"
"I don't care. I'll pay whatever you ask."
"But I think ...."
"Do it!" he screamed. "I am your king and I command it!"
"As you wish, your majesty."
Zerelda took the boy's right hand in hers. Phillip grimaced at her touch. When she raised it to her lips and kissed it, he felt an unpleasant tingling in his fingers. He pulled back his hand and noticed that the fingernails had turned to gold.
"What have you done?" he asked, seeing that the left hand was in the same state as the right.
"I have given you what you asked."
"I see no precious jewels, no riches."
"You have been given a gift. Everything you touch will turn to gold."
Phillip first tested his new power out on the food Zerelda had given him to eat. When his fingers touched the remains of the bread, it immediately changed into gold. The same was true of the half-eaten bowl of stew.
"This is wonderful!" he cried, touching everything on the table. "I'll soon be the wealthiest man in the world!"
"You must be careful, your highness," the witch warned.
"Who are you to tell me what to do?" the would-be king.
"Despite your newfound ability, you are still a mortal man. As such, you will need to eat and drink if you are to survive."
"But the food will all turn to gold," he said, realizing the danger he faced. "I know! I will simply have someone feed me. Then I won't have to touch the food with my own hands."
"And you'll need someone to dress you."
"But, look, I can touch my clothes and they are still fabric."
"That's because they're already on your body. If you were to pick up a garment, it would turn to gold before you could put it on."
"Then I will also have someone else dress me."
"The greatest danger your gift poses, however, is to other living creatures. You cannot pet a hunting dog, touch the flank or muzzle of a horse, or handle your gaming hawk or falcon."
"That does seem a problem, but I suppose it will all be worth it."
"Most important, your majesty: you must never caress a woman or grasp a man's hand in friendship. There must be absolutely no human contact."
"Are you saying I can turn an entire person into gold by my touch?"
"Yes."
"Well, it seems I owe you a debt of gratitude," the prince said.
His actions, though, belied his words. Curious as to how powerful his gift really was, he reached out his hand and grabbed her wrist. Beginning with her forearm, the skin swiftly turned a yellow color. In a matter of moments, she became a statue of gold.
"Amazing!" Phillip exclaimed, awed by the sight.
With no thought of the witch's fate, he left the cottage and walked through the woods, intent on reclaiming the kingdom that was rightfully his. He never looked back and thus never saw that the gold soon faded from Zerelda, whose own power rendered her immune to the danger the boy presented, and she became a woman again.
"Enjoy your gift while you can, little king," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. "For it will eventually mean your downfall."
* * *
Rather than descend upon his father's castle with an army, Phillip outfitted a caravan with riches. Accompanied by fewer than a dozen attendants, he approached the heavily guarded stronghold.
"I am the son of a merchant from Westland," he lied to the gatekeeper to gain admittance. "I have come to offer my father's goods to your people."
The guard took notice of the fine clothes and jewelry that adorned the child and admitted him through the gates. Word of the treasures he had for sale soon spread throughout the court.
"Look at this golden butterfly!" one of the usurper's ministers boasted when he showed his purchase to his friends. "I have never seen such fine craftsmanship."
"It is beautiful," the friend conceded, "but not nearly as well made as this grasshopper I bought. Notice the detailed work."
Both men assumed the objects had been created by a goldsmith. They had no idea that the metal insects were once living creatures.
Soon, Sigmund himself heard of the merchant's wares and demanded the child be brought before him.
If I can just get close enough to him ..., Phillip thought when he was granted an audience with the usurper.
"I have heard you offer many valuable sculptures for sale," Sigmund announced when the child was shown into the throne room. "I would like to see them for myself."
The false king rose from his throne, hoping to get a better look at the boy's goods by standing up.
"This is something sure to please your royal highness," Phillip announced, removing a golden rose from his golden chest of treasures.
"I wish to see it close up."
"If you will allow me to approach."
"Yes, of course."
This is my opportunity!
Phillip bowed his head in subservience as he extended the hand holding the rose toward the king.
"It is indeed a work of art!" Sigmund exclaimed.
As Phillip presented the rose with his right hand, his left hand suddenly came forward and touched the usurper's outstretched arm. The metamorphosis from human to precious metal was swift.
"The king has become a statue of gold!" one of the royal guards cried, staring in awe at the ruler's metallic face.
Phillip knew his life was in danger. He must keep his head about him if he hoped to live.
"I am not a merchant from Westland," he loudly confessed. "I am the rightful king: Phillip, son of Claudius. You can try to kill me, but you risk suffering the same fate as Sigmund. I have only to say the word, and you will all turn to gold."
The guards looked at one another with uncertainty.
"Or," the boy continued, "you can serve me, and I will reward you with riches beyond your wildest imaginings. Here, take what is inside this chest for starters. There will be plenty more if you will but swear your loyalty to me."
Given the fact that Sigmund had been a cruel man, feared rather than loved by his subjects, the choice was an easy one. The guards laid down their weapons, fell to their knees and swore allegiance to the boy king.
* * *
Over the next several years, Phillip made his kingdom the richest in all the land. Stones, branches, leaves, insects and flowers were turned to gold at his touch. His subjects, from the lowliest laborers to his trusted ministers, amassed hoards of riches. In fact, gold was so plentiful that it lost much of its value. Local tradesmen no longer took gold for payment of goods and services. Eventually, many people left the kingdom, taking their supply of gold to lands where it was still scarce and high in value.
Among those who left for greener pastures were King Phillip's personal retainers: the men who fed and dressed him.
"I will starve if I can't find someone to replace my servants," the ruler cried.
Ophelia, a young girl who worked in the castle kitchen and who was roughly the same age as the king himself, volunteered her services. She faithfully performed her duties, and when she and her sovereign entered adulthood, they fell in love. Although Phillip could never touch her with his hands, the two married.
The following year Ophelia gave birth to a prince. The king was overjoyed when he received word of his heir's birth.
"I now have everything a man could ever want! I have a treasure room full of gold, a magnificent palace, a wife I adore and now a son. I have truly been blessed!"
The proud father entered the bed chamber where his wife was lying on the bed, resting. Thankfully, she was a strong woman and had survived the ordeal of childbirth.
"We have a son," she told her husband with a smile.
"I know. And the royal physician assures me he is healthy."
Despite her exhaustion, Ophelia demanded the child be placed in her arms. The nursemaid laid the tiny infant, wrapped tightly in swaddling clothes, across the queen's chest. The mother lovingly loosened his clothing to get a better look at her son.
"He's so small! Just look at his hands and those tiny fingers."
As so many mothers had done before her, she put her index finger in her child's hand. No sooner did the infant take it in his grasp than Ophelia turned to gold. Phillip stared in horror at his lifeless wife and noticed his son's fingernails. Like his own, they were gold in color.
"He has inherited my unique ability!" he lamented. "Only in his case, it has proved to be an affliction."
For two hours, Phillip sat beside the golden form of what had once been his beloved wife. The tears that initially fell so freely had finally dried up. Bereft over the loss of his queen, he ordered the nursemaid to pick the sleeping infant up and place it in his arms.
"Be careful of his hands," the king warned. "Don't let them touch you."
He held the child against his chest by grasping him with his forearms. Then he gently kissed his son's forehead.
"My poor boy. I can control what I touch, but you are too young to know the danger your fingertips represent. I am so sorry I passed my gift—no, my curse—on to you."
The sleeping child woke and his tiny hand met the larger hand of his father.
* * *
For decades, King Phillip's splendid palace remained abandoned, forgotten by man. Trees and vines soon covered it from view. A century after the birth of the infant prince, a party of explorers unexpectedly came upon it. They used axes and swords to cut their way through the undergrowth so they could enter the castle ruins.
When they discovered the large cache of gold, they could not believe their good fortune.
"There is more wealth in this dilapidated castle than in our king's treasury!" the leader of the expedition exclaimed.
What surprised them even more than the sight of the contents of Phillip's treasure room was what they found in the ruins of the throne room. Placed behind the royal seat by the last of the subjects to depart the realm were three solid gold statues: one of Sigmund, the usurper; one of Queen Ophelia, which had been placed in an upright position; and the last of King Phillip holding his infant prince in his arms.
* * *
"That was one of the best stories I ever heard," the baker's wife announced, offering Old Kristof a second helping of meat pie.
"Can you tell us another one?" the weaver's apprentice asked.
"As much as I would like to, I need to get some sleep. I'm an old man, after all, and I walked a great distance to get here today."
"Then can you tell us another one tomorrow?" the cobbler pressed.
"Perhaps I'll have time for a short one, but I can't make any promises. I have to leave early if I want to make it to the next village before nightfall."
The next morning when the weaver's apprentice woke up, he discovered the old peddler had already packed up his wares and moved on. Old Kristof did not tell anyone that he had to pass by King Phillip's abandoned castle on his journey north. They believed his story of the young king cursed with the golden touch was a simple tale of fiction. They would never believe him if he confessed that he had seen the ghosts of Phillip, Ophelia and their infant son wandering through the ruins of the once-grand palace.
This is the result of a spell I cast on Salem. No, he's not made of gold. He's made of chocolate with gold foil wrapping.
