Floating Castle 

         A castle floated on a lake, as they are wont to do, and within its cracked and leaning walls lived a castle nymph. Well, not a castle nymph, really, they don’t exist, but a water nymph living in a castle—hence, the castle floating on the lake.

         And the castle, with its water nymph, didn’t only float, but it also drifted from shore to shore, to four different villages named after the cardinal point of the compass. The Northern Village bred the greatest blacksmiths and swordsmen. The Southern Village played the best music and wrote the best poems. The Eastern Village grew not only the best farmers but the best crops as well. And the Western Village stood stalwart with the strongest quarry workers and stonemasons. These villages together built the castle that floated on the lake in homage to the waters that sustained them and to the water nymph that kept them clean and clear and full of fish to eat. The Westerners cut the stone from the earth, built the foundation, and erected walls on the floating, drifting island. The Northmen built the iron doors and the chains that dropped the bridge as well as filled the castle with enough armor and weaponry for the wonderful nymph to win a war all by herself. The farmers of the East village filled the larders for the nymph, and the tapestries and art that adorned the walls were gifted to the Queen Nymph by the talented Southerners.

And so is how a castle is built on a floating island. It was a wonderful time in the kingdom. The people loved their queen of the lake, they loved their fellow man—even if he was a pretentious lute-playing Southerner—and they longed for nothing more than to serve the Queen of the lake that provided them with so much.

In thanks for building the castle, the Queen offered a deal: she would continue to protect the lake, and she would take a husband from one of the villages. It seemed fair enough to the people (maybe one of their sons would be selected to be the King!), but they had not, being only humans, considered how long a water nymph lived, ageless and beautiful always. And they certainly had not considered how picky a water nymph could be.

That, unfortunately, was a century ago. A hundred years and she still had not taken a husband! And if you know anything about humans, as I’m guessing you do, they tend to get rather twitchy after years of unrequited promise, and during their worst, most shaky moments, they tend to take it out on their fellow man. It did not take a hundred years for the great farmers of the East to leverage their food supplies in order to force the Queen to pick a boy from their village, and it only took one night of hunger for the swordsmen of the North to raid the Eastern Village. Only a few days after that, the quarry master directed the building of walls to separate their village from the North and the South with walls so thick they would have dammed the lake if the Queen Nymph let it rise that high. The wall on the southern border had been a bit of on oversight, a fervent build without much thought, for the artists had no reason or desire to invade the village of the stonemasons. In fact, they had nothing to leverage at all, until the three other villages realized they had no mead and no ale. The artists were not only skilled craftsmen of word and string, but honey and grain and yeast as well. And with the mead and ale came the need for entertainment, which the artists had in excess, as the blacksmiths had scythes and steel plows the farmers needed, and the stonemasons had stone that the blacksmiths needed for their forges, and the farmers had the golden grain and honey the artists needed for their ale and mead, and the artists had mead and ale and entertainment for … well, I think you get the point.

And on the villages lived, standing on their shores and offering insults to their fish-smelling neighbors and their swine-bellied wives as the castle floated from shore to shore, impervious to the insults. The villagers knew it wasn’t their fellow man they hated so dearly, but their Queen. She had yet to fulfill her promise where the others had. She was the fish-smelling neighbor, the swine-bellied good for nothing—

Now, now, watch that tone. She was the water nymph first, remember? She kept the water clean and pure and the fish populations thriving so all could have food even when those greedy Eastern farmers horded their crop and bargained it outrageously.

But was the lake really that clean and pure, a Northerner might ask as he scooped water into his mouth and stared at the castle? Not as clean as it used to be, his compatriot would respond, quietly. And what about the fish? Numbers seem down if you ask me. Blasphemy, his fellow man would say with his gaze, worried that the castle floated close enough for the Queen Nymph to hear. They’d then slink away from the bank and wait for the day when the castle would float to their shore and the drawbridge they had built and banded with iron was lowered with the chains they’d painstakingly linked over red-hot coals. That bridge would hit their shore, and their finest young crop of boys and men (and the occasional woman, just in case), ten in all, would cross that bridge into the floating castle and court the queen, without much hope of doing so after one-hundred years of marital drought.

That day, the one where the drawbridge dropped on the Northern shore, had happened two weeks ago, and now it was dropping on the Southern shore for the artists to present their best and finest courters.

Boats from the Northern village lined the island so their fine young men (and occasional woman) wouldn’t have to step foot on the wretched Southern soil after their rejection from the Queen. Not that they were scared of the artists—of course they weren’t scared of a bunch of doodlers!—but they didn’t need a scuffle with the pansies to sever their mead and entertainment supply.

But hope still filled the boatmen. A dull, indolent hope, but hope nonetheless. Maybe the bridge wouldn’t drop this time; maybe one of their people would be selected!

Neman certainly thought one might this time. Particularly, his son.

“Relax, Neman, you’re shaking the whole dinghy,” Hernt said from the rear of the boat. He steadied himself and dropped in a fishing line, divided in half with a wooden bobber.

Neman turned abruptly, shaking the boat and sending Hernt into stiff recovery.

“He can do it!” Neman said. “Jornk can do it!”

The fisherman, steadied again, simply shrugged and turned his attention to his floating bobber.

Neman watched in anticipation, quivering as did the water lapping the boat.

The morning mist hung suspended in the air, caressing and swiping the castle. Through it, Neman could see the artists’ best contenders waiting for the bridge to drop. Neman hated them. Of course he did—he had to! They made fantastic mead and ale, and he often found himself humming their songs as he hammered at the forge, but he hated the ostentatious bastards, probably more than any of the other villages at this point, because if that bridge dropped, they would be taking the kingship from his son … maybe … not likely … but almost certainly.

“Come on, Jornk, come on,” Neman whispered, gripping the side of the boat until it quaked on the water.

“Neman, you’re doing it again,” Hernt said in annoyance.

Neman turned to spit a vile response when a creak and a moan caught his ears. Through that suspended mist dropped the bridge. Rusty iron scraped over rusty iron and the chains clinked out one by one. Moans drifted on the mist from the other hopeful boats.

Hernt scoffed, “Ha, told ya,” he said returning to his bobber.

Neman flopped onto his rear, sending the boat into a tilt. In an effort to stay upright, Hernt dropped his fishing rod.

“Dammit, Neman,” he called, grabbing the oar and stabbing at the fishing pole, but mostly rocking the boat himself.

The bridge dropped on the Southern shore and Jornk was the first one out. His shoulders slumped nearly to his knees as he walked to the boat floating near the castle’s bank.

“Did you give her the earrings your mother made?” Neman asked, almost pleaded. The Northerners were great jewelers.

“She’s made of water, Dad, why did you think she could wear earrings?” Jornk replied. He jumped from the shore directly into the boat, sending it into a stomach-churning rock that sent the outstretched Hernt overboard with a yelp.

Neman and Jornk wrestled the flailing man back into the boat as the group of courting artists laughed and pointed from the shore, all but one boy, skinny and meek and standing apart from the others with his arms across his chest in combat against the morning mist. He couldn’t find the humor in the man thrashing in the water, not when he considered how cold the man might be.

The laughter only increased when Hernt, in a cold shock, tried to retrieve the drifting oar and fishing rod he’d dropped and fell in again, taking Neman with him.

The boys on the shore howled through the mist like wolves.

“You damn Southerners, shut it!” Jornk yelled, trying to get ahold of his father’s slippery, blocky hands. Soon he was in the drink, and the wolves chomped on the humorous flesh all the more viciously.

With the assistance of another Northern boat, the shivering and defeated men were back in their dinghy with no oars or pride to take them home with. The savior boat, ashamed to be associated with such a joke, tied a rope to the oarless, fishless, feckless boat and towed them away.

Neman, Hernt, and Jornk sat and shivered in the boat that rocked with each effort of the rowing crew tugging them. With the laughter and torments suspended in the misty air, Neman asked his son: “What was she like, boy? What was the castle like? Are the rumors true?” He had never seen his Queen, as he himself had never been selected to enter the castle.

“Well …” Jornk searched for the words amidst the inexorable shivers, and as he probed his freezing mind and tried to gather his chattering teeth, the selected artists of the Southern Village were greeted by the Queen Nymph’s attendant, a tall man, pale and undefined around the edges, likely a water nymph himself. The boys weren’t laughing anymore.

The attendant waved his arm for the wooers to the cross the bridge, and they did so somewhat reluctantly, with the skinny, aloof boy, still concerned with the shivering swimmers, last to cross the castle’s threshold.

They didn’t need Jornk’s probing, chattering, quaking words about the Queen and the castle; they were about to find out the truth for themselves.

#

         Queen Nymph sat on her throne, pleased to be rid of the filthy blacksmiths but dissatisfied with having to greet the unbearable artists with their lutes and rhymes and uninspired paintings of her. They were the worst of all the villages, so full of themselves, no passion for war. Not that she loved war, no, of course not, but it at least made the courters from the other villages much more entertaining to watch. The artists just sang their songs, danced their dances, drew their pleas, and after she turned them away they would sulk in the corner like hungry, shriveled spiders. The Easterners were tan from spending all their time in the fields—she liked that; and the Northerners, despite their filth, were strong from wielding hammers all day—she like that as well; but the Westerners were strong and tan from working in the quarry and hauling all that heavy stone—she liked that best. The Western shore would be next to court after the artists. Maybe she would select a mate from there. She pondered this. Maybe the artists would surprise her with a female this time. She pondered this even harder.

         They entered her court, led by the water nymph as old and tired of this game as she was. Here they came with lutes and flutes, easels and oils. What a boring lot.

         “My Queen,” the servant nymph said, bowing low, “I present the courters from the Southern Village.”

The artists bowed behind him, all at a different angle or degree to one-up the next. One did not bow until he remembered it was kind to do so. He held no instruments or easels, but a small leather pouch at his side. The most boring of all—each group had one … or ten. Yes, she would be making a beeline for the Western village. The strong and tan stonemasons awaited her. They may have had rocks for brains, but at least they were delicious to look at.

Three days: that was the swiftest she could get the floating island from village to village. Damn, why did it move so slow!

“Your presence is very much welcome,” the Queen said.

“I’ve brought you a present, O Great Queen,” one rather chubby looking artist said, stepping forward.

“I’ve brought one as well,” a pimply-faced boy said, not to be outdone by the plump boy.

The Queen rolled her eyes … and so did her servant nymph … and the boy with the small pouch.

“She means that your attendance is welcome, not your gifts,” the servant clarified.

Both boys reddened and stepped back into the fold.

“Your time to court will come,” (she looked around the group: no females. Damn the artists. With all their creativity they never thought to send a woman!) “young men. But for now, please leave your Queen and enjoy the larders and halls of the Floating Castle.” She tried to say the words with some panache but they plopped to the ground like balls of bread dough. Even an ageless water nymph gets tired of doing the same thing over and over.

         The servant nymph turned on his dignified feet and held out his watery arms like a flood trying to herd cattle. The boys turned at the sight of the flood and walked away with heads down. All but the boy with the small satchel. He stared at the Queen, long and hard, like he had never seen a water nymph before … or a castle nymph—whatever she was now. The Queen found this curious. She received that look from the courters of the other villages, the ones that had heard the rumors of her wavy blue skin and piercing eyes but believed none of it. Many had looked at her that way who thought for sure her strange beauty could not match the rumors of the failed courters and found themselves wrong. But no one from the South, the village of artists, had looked at her that way in a very long time. They had pictures of her, paintings and shrines, statues and poems on the Southern shore. She was their Queen, their muse, and like good artists, they created her likeness everywhere. This boy had certainly seen her before, in many mediums, and yet he gazed at her anew.

And as he was the last to bow, he was the last to leave, and only at the urging to the servant’s wavy arms.

The other boys filed through the iron door without question. Who questions their Queen? Only a fool, of course! The door squeaked shut on rusted hinges with the satchel-carrying boy staring hard at her.

She breathed deep and turned into a puddle on her throne. Three days, and she would be on the Western shore. The tan and strong courters would enter her castle, and she would have all the entertainment she could wish for until she tired of them. Maybe they would bring a tan and strong woman? Now that was an interesting thought.

She lay in her puddle of ennui and thought harder about it … and then she thought about that curious, staring artist. That was almost as captivating as the bronze, sinewy woman.

#

         Caywell walked the halls of stone with the solicitors of marriage pulling away at his front and the servant herding him from behind with impatience. But Caywell didn’t mind. He walked and looked at the leaning walls, the cracked floors, the window openings with hanging shutters, the sconces pointing with their iron spikes precariously downward. And what was that? Was that moss growing up the inside wall like a vine in a garden? How curious, Caywell thought. He reached out and touched it, smelled his fingers. A grimace. It was mold. He wiped the grime on his knickers.

         “Stop,” the servant said.

         “Sorry,” Caywell said.

         “Not you,” he said with watery impatience. “You! Stop!”

         The crowd ahead of them stopped and turned.

         “To your right, through that door,” the servant said. He sighed fluidly. “No, you’re other right.” A wave rippled through him as he slipped past Caywell. “Artists!” he cursed.

         Opening the door (on the other right), he led the group of boys and men into the dining hall. Along an old wooden table was stretched a feast, or possibly what a water nymph would call a feast. There was, of course, water in glasses and pitchers, and there were fish and frog legs and piles of water cress. All of it looked boiled and bland, without even a color for an artist to marvel at.

         The servant waved his wavy arm. “Please sit, dear guests, and enjoy your feast.” His reproach bubbled up on the words.

         The boys stared at the bleak, gray-green meal.

         “No bread?” the plump boy said. He had really been looking forward to a slice of bread. All the grain the artists received from the farmers went to ale.

         “No bread,” the servant said with gurgled a sigh. “The harvest was light this year. Apparently, there’s a deer infestation on the farms.”

         “And no meat?” a skinny boy who looked like he’d never even seen meat in his life, and probably hadn’t, asked.

         “There’s fish and frog,” the servant clarified.

         “I mean red meat,” the twig clarified. “I’ve never had any and thought this might be my chance.”

         “No red meat,” the servant, bored with clarifications, said. “The Northerners have over hunted their herds.”

         “Then why don’t they kill the deer on the farmlands?” one offered.

         “As if a farmer’d let a blacksmith on his land,” another replied. “I’m betting the farmers are killing the deer and keeping all the grain for themselves.”

         “I don’t know, I’ve met a fair farmer or two. They aren’t all yellow liars like the stonemasons.”

         “You’ve only met fair farmers because your father gives them ale for grain,” came the reply.

         “And your mother gives them more,” came the addition. The reply and addition high-fived.

         The acquaintance of fair farmers blushed, too afraid in his artist blood to fight.

         “I bet the farmers asked for stone to make a fence to keep the deer out and the masons wouldn’t give it. Now, we have no grain. Damn masons!” the pimply boy from before hissed through his teeth.

         “What does a stonemason have to do with fences and grain? It’s the farmer’s job to protect the crop, not the bloody stonemasons or the smiths.”

         “A sympathizer now, eh? I thought better of you, Beln,” a smug boy with crossed arms said. “Makes sense though, after meeting your father.”

         “You scum!”

         “Says the lover of stone and metal.”

         The lover of stone and metal, breaking from his heritage, lunged in anger at the smug boy. Caywell watched the other dodge his advance. The servant stepped in front of him and swelled to twice his size. “Enough!” he yelled, testing the strength of his turgid pressure. The scufflers stopped, cowered from the blue man. “Eat or don’t, complain or not, I don’t care!” He shrunk in size and squished through them toward the door.

         “When do we get to meet with the Queen?” Beln asked, holding his flute close to his chest.

         “When she calls,” the servant rippled. “Until then, your time is your own.”

         He stepped out and slammed the door. A splash of anger fell on the other side.

The courters looked at the table before them.

“I really wish they had bread,” the plump boy said sadly.

“And meat,” the malnourished vegetarian added.

“Yeah,” many agreed.

“Damn farmers.”

“Damn smiths.”

“Damn masons,” each chanted as they sat and looked at the meager meal before them.

Caywell sat last. He looked at the frogs and questioned if they were about to hop off the plate or not. Fish and water cress were a safer bet. And dinner was a bleak affair.

#

         Caywell walked the halls as the other suitors tuned their lutes and warmed their vocal cords. If he wasn’t mistaken, the castle skated swiftly across the lake. It would be a short ride. Good, Caywell thought. There was always something better to do at home. The damp, dripping halls stretched before him, and somehow the place became more disheveled and moldier and slick with mildew each floor he went up. He dared not touch the walls again, but he did look at the art. It was dusty and outdated, nibbled on by weevils until it paid no resemblance to the original. Finding a hall of once wonderful tapestries, he stared up the long, skinny fabric. The first one was red, a difficult color to find nowadays with the farmers keeping their beets as close as they kept their children.

         Caywell reached out and touched the tapestry between his thumb and forefinger. Without any pressure, it melted in his fingers and the threads unraveled all the way across and dropped to the floor as if sewn with ghost thread. He watched it plop to the floor and disintegrate in a cloud of red, tickling dust. Caywell shook his head. A tapissier back home could make the Queen a new one, but he doubted she cared.

         Caywell went higher and higher, finding the castle neglected more and more with each step up, until he reached the roof. He looked out across the lake, toward his home on the southern shore. He looked to the East, toward the rows of precious grain and squared off farm land. He looked North toward the black smoke rising, and toward the West with the white plumes of stone dust flying in bursts from the quarry. Bordering it all was a circular mountain range, pointed and hoary in the distance: the edge of their land, the jagged, steep wall that kept them in, tied to the lake and squabbling over a queen that would never select a mate.

         Below, Caywell heard some muttering. He looked over the crenelation and saw the servant nymph cursing as he hurled a net into the water. Likely saying something about how foolish artists were … or blacksmiths … or farmers … or stonemasons.

         Stretching out further to watch him pull in the net, Caywell leaned on a short, broken merlon and it begin to slide away. He grabbed for it, feeling more than hearing the great stones grating over each other. He leaned back, struggling to keep the stones from falling but failing in weakness. Caywell ducked behind the battlement and heard the dull thud as the whole merlon hit the earth below.

         “Damn castle,” the servant yelled. “Falling apart, and the Queen too proud to marry.” The mumblings faded away.

         Caywell looked over the edge and saw the servant toss the net again. The stones, expertly cut and set by the masons, died in the grass below, severed from the body. The servant neither inspected nor cared. He simply cast his net and pulled it in. Dinner, Caywell guessed. He’d rather stay on the roof and look out at his beautiful world encased in mountains and filled with a mist that left the lake only in degree but never entirely.

         Looking around once more, Caywell sat on his rear and opened his small pouch. With his instruments before him, he selected one and went to work.

#

         Caywell worked and modified under the overcast sky all that afternoon and slept on the roof that night. Upon waking that morning, he found they were halfway to the Eastern shore and moving quickly. The Queen was eager to be rid of them, and Caywell found that to be all right. He, like many others, had heard stories of courters floating on the lake for weeks. It had been a joy for them; they’d had good food and ale and a woman, er, nymph eager to be courted. Caywell thought about food a moment as he looked through a crenelation. Below him a giant frog leaped into the lake with the cursing servant crouching behind it. He could manage without food. Taking his seat, he set to work again with the morning mist thick below.

         Around midday, Caywell decided to see about some sustenance (a part of him prayed for bread as the plump boy had) and water. He set his desultory pace back to the dining hall and found a great group of nervous sulks when he arrived. One half was nervous for their meeting with the queen, and the other half sulked after the failure of their own meeting. Caywell, instead of listening to the chattering and mumbling, grabbed a handful of fish, water cress, and a mug of water. No one even noticed him, all too busy with their own troubles. Let them be troubled, Caywell thought as he rationed out his food and water on the roof and returned to his work. The silence was nice, and the castle floated at a gentle pace that cleared his mind as much as the easy-breathing air.

         Day went, and night came, and then another day went and another night came. On the third morning, Caywell looked over the edge where he’d relieved the broken and decayed merlon of its duty. The bank of the Western Village was near, and the next set of suitors lined it. Boats from the Southern Village lined the island for the artists to make their escape without a scuffle from the masons, who would certainly wring them like wet rags with their brawny hands if they got hold of them.

         Caywell rested his cheek on the cold, damp stone and looked across his land one last time. He would never see it from this view again. The dark smoke in the north; the white plumes flying from the quarry in the West; the golden and green squares and stripes and circles in the East; and his own home to the South.

         Home, yes, a pleasant return.

         Caywell guessed he had dodged his meeting with the Queen when a watery voice called behind him.

         “Sir, the Queen will meet with you now.”

         Caywell turned to see the servant nymph in a half bow toward him. He looked tired, old, if water can look either. Caywell nodded. He, at the very least, could meet her to say he had when his parents asked. He gathered his pouch of instruments and followed the servant out.

         Caywell and the Queen’s attendant dawdled down the hall as if exhausted. Caywell guessed the servant was, though he was feeling rather refreshed. He hoped his meeting with the Queen wouldn’t damage that. He examined the haggard water creature.

         “What is your name, sir?” Caywell asked.

         The servant nymph started, or rather, jiggled at the question.

         “My name is,” a series of bubbles and swishes followed, “but you can call me Galuq.”

         “Nice to meet you, Galuq. My name is Caywell.”

         Galuq nodded to him. Caywell looked down the stone hallway.

         “How long have you worked for the Queen?” he asked the drained vessel of water.

         “Since the erection of the castle.”

         “A hundred years,” Caywell admired. “That’s dedication.”

         Galuq bubbled with a derisive laugh. Caywell looked at the mossy, moldy, cracked walls, the falling iron stanchions, the broken shutters.

         “And has the castle always been in such disarray?”

         Galuq trembled—water’s way of being offended—then a calmness returned to his borders. “No,” he said. “It was once a great castle.” Galuq considered this, then added, “The larders were full. The guests were happier. There were more attendants to the Queen.”

         “Where have they all gone, the attendants?”

         “Returned home, back to the lake and the streams that feed it.”

         “And why have you stayed?” Caywell asked. Galuq had never been asked that, but he had considered it much.

         “She is my Queen, Caywell,” he said with a small, sad smile.

         Galuq stopped and waved his wavy arm toward the Queen’s chamber Caywell had entered on the day of his arrival at Floating Castle.

         “The Queen will call on you when she is ready,” Galuq said.

         “Thank you, Galuq,” Caywell said. The nymph stopped, shuddered, but in a surprised and happy way. He nodded to Caywell and left him in the hall.

         Caywell stood some time by the door, every once in a while catching the sound of a note from a flute. The notes stopped and the door opened. Beln stepped out, clutching his flute as if to break the poor thing in half. He muttered to himself through clenched teeth.

         “Fish-smelling, no definition, tone deaf, bitch!”

         He stomped past Caywell without noticing him, and Caywell was happy for that. The young man looked angry enough to bite him.

         “Next!” called the Queen.

         Caywell sighed.

         Outside, the castle approached near enough to drop its bridge on the Western shore.

         The Queen watched Caywell enter and part of her slumped as if to pour into a puddle. She reached to her side and pulled a rope hanging from the ceiling. Down the hall, Caywell heard a bell ring sharply. Galuq’s warning to drop the bridge, he guessed. Fine, Caywell thought, it’ll speed things up.

         “Close the door,” the Queen ordered. Caywell did.

         He entered the room and bowed to the Queen. His mother said it was polite to do so when his time came. The Queen seemed not to care if he did or didn’t.

         Caywell thought he would be more nervous than he was, but he found himself rather at ease. The fresh air on the roof had done him good. He looked around the chamber. It was cleaner and sounder than the rest of the castle, but not by much. Caywell began, to his own surprise, and to the surprise of the Queen, to saunter about the room. It was large, square, and fit for sauntering, so he did.

         After a few minutes, the uncomfortable Queen asked: “Do you have something to offer me?”

         Caywell stopped and gazed at her. She was beautiful, that much was true, with curves in all the right places and lithe fingers on the arm rests of her throne. Caywell had seen Galuq change his form and wondered if this was the Queen’s true form or if she was just a big blob in real life. Did water nymphs have a form, at least in the human sense? Or was she a castle nymph?

         Caywell shook the questions away. He had been asked a question, and he guessed it wasn’t polite to answer a question with a question, particularly a question like, ‘Are you a blob in your spare time?’

         The Queen looked at him queerly now, scrunching her soft features.

         Caywell stared at her. “I have little to offer you, Great Queen. I am but a simple man, as my parents raised me to be.”

         “And what else did they raise you to be? Sculptor? Painter? Musician?”

         “They raised me to draw with lead,” Caywell replied.

         “So, no color,” the Queen stated, slouching. She pulled the rope again. A gentle ting went into a fury down the hall.

         “A picture deserves no color in such bleak times,” Caywell said. He stared hard at the Queen and she stared hard back, well, as hard as water can stare, that is. “If I have anything of worth to offer you, my Queen, it is my honesty.”

         The Queen sat upright, intrigued and frightened at the same time. Caywell began to pace again, his fingers laced together behind his back.

         “Galuq tells me this was once a great castle, full of attendants, food, happy guests. Now it is in disarray, and by my best guess, soon to fall.”

         “Galuq said this?” the Queen asked.

         “Yes, but do not punish him. He is a loyal man, er, nymph and sorely overworked by terrible guests. Be kind to him.” Caywell pleaded with his eyes and the Queen seemed to assent. Caywell continued. “My parents, though they weren’t alive, tell me that the villages around the lake used to live in harmony together, each offering the services of their trades to the others freely and openly, all in reverence to the lake and its Queen. Now the kingdom is in disarray, and soon to fall as the castle shall because their leader is too weak, shut in, and unwilling to fulfill her promise.” The Queen postured as if to behead him, but Caywell continued. “Say what you like, Queen, but you know it’s true.”

         She sat back on her throne. The bridge squeaked its way down outside.

         “And what does an artist, a drawer with lead and no color, know of the world.”

         Caywell unfolded his pouch. He took a small piece of parchment at the corner and presented it to the Queen. “I know nothing of the world as you do, Queen,” Caywell said, “but your kind invitation for me to stay in your castle has given me another view, a wider view, a view all artists strive for. Not the single note or stroke or word, but the marriage of all.”

         The Queen nymph handled the parchment as lightly as Caywell had. The villages were there, each with their own lines and trades and people: smiths hammering on anvils, farmers reaping crops, stonemasons stacking stone, artists dancing in green fields, all in honor of their Queen of the lake smiling at them from the roof of the Floating Castle.

         Emotion leaked from the Queen (some might call it crying), from her eyes and fingertips, and suffused through the drawing, into the lead, until the kingdom dripped, dark and muddy into her lap.

         She looked at Caywell, who stooped and gathered his things. He spoke as if vocalizing a thought, not to the Queen, but to his world.

         “My mother and father taught me to be a great artist, to see the strokes and the picture in full.” Caywell stood and breathed in deep. “Someday I’d like to find the art in all things: Smithing, masonry, farming.” He let the breath out, thinking of the last three days on the roof, with the whole kingdom radiating from the central lake to the encircling mountains beyond. “Yes, that’s what I’d like to do.” He turned to the Queen with a pleasant smile on his face. He stared at her pain, her emotion, and his smile took the shape of pity. “Thank you for helping me to see that, Queen Nymph, for helping me to see the whole picture.”

         Caywell left the chamber, and the Queen stood. What was she to do? She had been courted by so many men (and some women), yet she had no idea what to do! She tugged with all her might on the bell rope and ran toward the open door.

         “Wait, wait!” she hollered down, still holding the ruined picture and leaving puddles in her footsteps behind her. “Pull up the bridge! Pull up the bridge!”

         Outside, the dejected and weak artists trudged to the savior boats that would take them home to weeks of minor notes and dour paintings.

A burly and tan stonemason smirked at the dropping bridge.

         “This is our time—my time. The Queen will fall into a steaming puddle when she sees me.”

         A burlier, tanner woman shoved him to the side. “Not if I get to her first.”

         The suitors gathered around the dropping bridge. This was their time, the time of the mason, the time for a new revolution, where they’d rule all. Yes, it was their time, their time … their …

mouths dropped to the floor. The bridge stopped and went back up, and the castle, as it was wont to do, began floating away.

The masons gathered in large numbers on the shore and the artists watched from their boats. The bridge fell back into its carriage and the island floated swiftly to the middle of the lake.

The artists, not the ones recently denied court with the Queen, but the ones driving the boats, began to cheer. The masons lumbered about, feeling the final dejection the sharpest. Others gathered on the shore, and the old began to cheer with the cheering artists. One louder than all the rest—Caywell’s Father.

The Queen had fulfilled her vow.

And, in time, the whole kingdom learned to cheer for their Queen Nymph and King Caywell, for peace and structure had returned to the kingdom through a simple lead drawing scraped by the hands of a humble artist.

THE END