Steinschmatz

In the times when monarchy was absolute and did not have to explain itself to the plebs, there once was a King’s Hill whereupon stood the King’s Castle and opposite to the village attached to the castle, there was the King’s Garden, hidden from the commoner’s view but famed for its beauty all over the lands known at that time. Of course, an organized garden needed a loyal gardener and the King had chosen one of his adscript peasants to oversee the maintenance of the grass, the flowers, trees, fountains, walkways, hedges, as well as the tall wall making sure there was privacy to be had among the Royals and their esteemed guests.

And loyal he was, the Gardener. After a particularly harsh Winter, he had lost his farm, unable to pay the fee of allegiance and all the other peasants fell on a hard time, but he, he was chosen to make sure the King’s Garden remained presentable all across the seasons, with blooming flowers in Spring and Summer, rusty leaves carefully collected each morning as not to disturb the grass in Autumn, and spotless walkways all throughout Winter.

As for the wider Kingdom, the Gardener did not care much, for he had made it to safety for himself and his family, moving into a small hut growing out of the castle wall, overseeing the village of the less chosen. It was a good life, collecting food after each feast, receiving tokens of appreciation from visiting guests and secretly tasting the wine before each supper.

One day, as our Gardener was trimming a hedge, a shrill scream was heard throughout the garden grounds and the Gardener hastily made his way to the source of the noise, fearing trouble, as whatever happened in the garden was his responsibility. As he rounded the neatly-trimmed corner of the hedge following the maze-section of the walkways, he came upon the Lady of the Castle, who – in no uncertain terms – made it clear to the bowing peasant that a mouse had been spotted within the cherished garden grounds and needed to be dealt with at haste. The Gardener promised a quick end to the unbearable plague and set out to look for the hole the Mouse had to have dug to find shelter and safety in the garden.

This Mouse, however, did not portray the usual behavior of mice, for it slept where it wanted, ate what it desired, and kept out of sight – only spotted now and then by the Royals or their esteemed guests throughout the Spring, skillfully avoiding the Gardener as if it had eyes at the back of its head.

Traps that were set up were found empty in the morning, the lure carefully pulled off the trigger, as if the Mouse had an understanding of basic mechanics, pulling always against the catch of the trigger, leaving the trap set in the grass, which led to a scandalous event when a highborn child and heir to an allied kingdom stepped onto one of said traps and greatly injured a toe, leading to a diplomatic fallout between the two allies and rumors that the King’s Castle was infested with rodents.

Poison was chosen as the next means to an end of the Mouse, but the Mouse seemed to have a keen sense of smell, avoiding the poisoned food and even increasing her safety, as the King’s Falcons did not share said keen sense of smell and fell first ill and then out of the sky, leading to immense pressure for the peasant Gardener and another blow to the King’s ego. Even more so, some more birds carried the poison into the village, felling some peasants who frankly had to eat what the sky provided, leading to a large protest at the castle gate, which was put down harshly at the orders of a King fearing for his prestige and good name, already down one ally.

The Gardener once more promised quick results and brought in the smart weapon, also known as felines. A total of seven cats were released in the garden grounds and the Mouse was confronted with mortal danger, as these were hungry village cats. The Mouse, however, proved to be a strong runner, evading the cats skillfully until the smart hunters decided the exotic fish in the many streams and ponds of the garden were an easier lunch, leading to the rumor that the King was running out of funds, unable to sustain a stable population of goldfish in the ponds. The cats grew comfortable and round, cunningly befriending the royal family and lost all interest in chasing one meager Mouse. The King reacted to the rumors by increasing first the taxes on his subjects and then the pay of his men, leading to another protest – this time wisely at the village square – since the peasants were still forced to put bark in their soups to sustain the long days of work in the sowing period of Spring.

One day, one of the seven cats was found just mere feet from the Mouse, both on their backs and bathing in the warm sun, unbothered by each other. The King’s ears came to know of this so the seven cats were banished from the castle against much protest from the family, shocking the peasants with their rounded features, as it was apparent that even the cats ate more and better than the population sustaining the whole castle, and a quick decision was made by the commoners to eat the cats.

Once more, the King’s ears learned of this and it was quickly decided that the fact that his commoners ate cats now – his family’s cats – could not spread to his declining number of allies. A punishing raid to the village sent the strong message not to speak of this and resulted in the commoners far and wide speaking of nothing else, as opposed to their earlier shameful agreement not to speak of eating fatty cats.

The Gardener was running out of options, and therefore requested the aid of the castle guards to stand watch day and night looking for the Mouse, ideally perforating her with a well-placed crossbow bolt. Many such bolts were fired at many shadows in the night, none finding the Mouse but many finding other guards rounding the hedged corners of the maze. Murmuring started among the guards, as they barely slept, took many a bolt to the knee, and became weary of everything that moved, as in the flickering light of their torches at night, everything looked like a Mouse zipping by, especially the leaves of the trees, which meant bolts were fired upwards and came down on the paths outside the garden walls, leading to a sudden increase in head injuries among the general population, especially in the early morning hours as the peasants passed the castle walls to their fields and the guards inside were sleep-deprived and nearing their breaking point.

The harsh Winter that had preceded a tumultuous Spring in the village had also greatly reduced the available seed stored – which had originally led to the Mouse smartly migrating to the Castle Garden – and now confronted the peasants with a bad harvest come Autumn. The fee of allegiance to the King however, had been raised to pay the guards now doing double shifts, standing guard on the walls, at the gate, and every night, the Garden, too.

The Gardener’s prospects also looked grim, as he was promised a severe beating if the Mouse would not be found, stretched onto a piece of wood and presented to the King within a fortnight. The shrewd Gardener figured that nobody really knew what the Mouse in question looked like, as it had only been seen either having the Sun on her belly or shooting past or under expensive garments, a dark flash on the ground.

A plan was hatched between the Gardener and the guards who all had dark rings around their eyes, to appease the King and find some peace. Two guards were promised a full night’s sleep if they snuck out of the gate at night, into the village and collected any dead mouse they could find. The most logical place to look for dead mice was the grain storage of the village, where, surely, the traps of the peasants must have had caught some lesser-talented mice.

As the two guards climbed into the window of the grain shelter, they were spotted and caught by a population that also slept badly, as one slept badly on an empty stomach. In the ensuing confrontation – the guards fearing their King so much that they were unwilling to betray their orders from the Gardener – no understanding was reached and the peasants finally snuffed out the armed guards with a poor loss ratio. The village came together and was united in agreeing not only that the guards had been sent to steal their last seed, but also that the King would launch a devastating raid against them once it was discovered that the thieves never returned from the village. As the Gardener had been before, it was now the villagers out of options – and frankly, mental nourishment after years of hunger and suffering.

Thus, the two largest peasants were sent in guard’s clothing and armor to subdue the tired guards at the gate and almost the whole village snuck into the castle, easily overcame the mostly sleeping guards, set fire to the home of their hated overlords and blocked all exits, watching the castle burn to the ground, leaving only blackened walls and a few royals that had made it almost out, only to be captured and silenced by the village, which herein after, swore to never talk about this and told any passer-by of the horrid fire that engulfed their beloved Lord and King one fateful night, leaving them without an overlord for a while, until the King’s relatives came to visit one day, but preferred to leave the village unsupervised and lightly taxed, honoring their great grief, having lost their protector.

What happened to the Mouse is unknown, as it is unknown for the lack of survivors that a single Mouse brought down King and Castle, simply due to the unyielding loyalty of a Gardener and a King concerned with appearances instead of duties.

Today, many a tourist visits the castle, the soot of the Great Fire long washed away, a plaque remembering the day, presenting the cunning story of the villagers, not the actual story, which is this one. May it serve you well.

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