The Tales of Minz series is narrated and edited by fictional characters. This short story is set in their whimsical world. Learn more about the series here.
Some trades, along with the people who work them, go unnoticed and unrecognized—unappreciated—by the rest of society.
Like many of his stories, Vern seeks to rectify that grievous mistake in this short tale. The day we stop recognizing the sacrifice and service that people make on behalf of the betterment of others… That’s the day our society starts to crumble and fall.
Today, we recognize and remember someone whose noble efforts should not have been overlooked and forgotten. Perhaps, as his story is told, and people begin to remember, we will take the first steps in recovering what we have lost.
—Barnabas E. Wooldridge
Editor in Chief of the Tales of Minz
Perhaps you’ve heard the saying, “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
A rather noble-sounding saying, isn’t it? There is great weight to the responsibility of being in power as a monarch or matriarch. It’s a burden not to be taken lightly, and the crown will remind its wearer of that fact.
At least, that’s the virtuous sentiment that kings and queens would have their people believe. But the truth is, at least in Minz, heavy is the head that wears the crown because that thing weighs a ton. Not literally, of course, but it does weigh a ridiculous amount (about the weight of an average well-fed toddler). Imagine carrying that sort of weight around all day—think of the neck muscles you’d need!)
It’s been said that the crown of the High King of Minz was first forged from some of the melted-down crowns of the Fallen Kings and Queens back in 803 of the Second Age. The Squabbling Kings of Irin. The Warrior-Queen of Qarth. The Mad Tyrant of the Wastelands. These and many others fell to the first High King, Mortimer, and paid homage to him by casting down their crowns. (Homage is being used as a rather respectable way of saying that the High King gave them a choice: they could lose their crowns or their heads. Which do you think they chose?)
But none of that is really what this short story is about. No, this is about another sort of protagonist—a brave individual. Loyal. Dedicated. An employee. If such an award were to exist at the time of his employment, Mark, the custodian of Castle Marglegruff, would have blown any and all competition out of the water for the “employee of the month” award. Scratch that. He’d win “employee of the year.”
But there was no such award. And even if there were, Mark really didn’t have any competition to speak of, unless he were to compete against himself. At the time of our story, he was the only employee working in Castle Marglegruff. He was the only person who ever went there. No one else really had a reason to go. It didn’t help that a High King hadn’t sat on the throne in Marglegruff nor worn the burdensome, heavy crown for well over two centuries.
Mark had a rather unique saying of his own: “Heavy is the hand that holds on to the cleaning rag which removes dust, spots, stains, and just about everything else.”
Was it the best (or even most understandable) of sayings? Goodness, no. Shockingly, I’ve heard worse, but I’d rather not get into that at the moment. We only have so much time together, Dear Reader.
Mark loved his job. Yes, it had its fair share of burdens and challenges (he wouldn’t have come up with that oddly specific saying if it didn’t), but he loved being the custodian for Castle Marglegruff. It was an odd job, to be sure, seeing as the castle was abandoned, but that didn’t mean Mark took his job lightly. He followed his job description to a T.
The Council of Oligarchs used to meet in the castle every fortnight for poker. They decided that Castle Marglegruff should be preserved by the Historical Society of Minz and recognized as a historic site henceforth forevermore before they disbanded in 1527 of the Third Age. (Disbanded here being a polite way of saying that their regime was overthrown, and the land of Minz was thrown into an anarchical state of existence with feuding warlords vying for power.)
At the time of our story, Mark had been working as Castle Marglegruff’s sole custodian for twenty-three years. (He was the sole applicant for the job before society devolved into anarchy and chaos.) He had a wife who dearly loved him, three teenage children who mostly ignored him, and a fairly conservative social life. (Conservative here means non-existent.) Crowds made him rather uncomfortable. He was a bit of a germaphobe. He much preferred cleaning, which he also did when he went home at the end of the day—one of the many reasons his wife, Lola, loved him.
However, as I’m sure you can imagine, cleaning an empty castle day in and day out with no one to talk to or see became a little taxing on Mark’s mental health and well-being. Even a large castle with hundreds upon hundreds of rooms can only be cleaned so much every day. And silence can only be sweet for so long before it’s slightly maddening.
Like I said, no one ever came to visit the castle, even though it was a historical site. No tourists, no school groups, nothing. No one. Why not? Back then, no one had the time nor desire for such things. (People barely have time for such things now.) The land was literally locked in a brutal and bloody war between forty-seven different warlords. Who would want to risk the dangers of the open road and travel all the way to Marglegruff just to be charged twelve copper Coppers to walk around an empty castle on a self-led tour?
To preserve his sanity, Mark decided long ago that the best way to pass the days spent cleaning an empty castle was to daydream and pretend that his work was vitally important for the safety and wellbeing of his family, the inhabitants in the city of Marglegruff, and the whole world of Minz. It wasn’t, of course. But thinking that seemed to help.
Imagine Mark’s surprise when his daydream actually became true.
The day started like any other. Mark arrived at Castle Marglegruff just before dawn. (That way he could see any dirty spots in the windows on the eastern side of the castle with the morning sun.) He unlocked the side door by the main portcullis and then relocked it behind him. His heavy ring of brass keys jingled and jangled against his overalls as he walked down the large hallways flanked by empty suits of armor.
Mark whistled a merry tune and made his way over to the small custodian’s closet which also happened to be his office. (Office here being a rather generous term, considering the fact that the “room” was a closet that didn’t even have space for a chair.) That, too, was locked. Mark was very judicious about keeping the doors in the castle locked and shut. He had a key on his key ring for every single lock—which, as you might imagine, made the key ring nearly as heavy as the High King’s crown. (Also kept under lock and key.)
After getting his trusty stepladder, bucket, and rag, Mark left his office and made his way over to the eastern side of the castle, where there just so happened to be a ludicrous amount of windows on all twelve castle floors. It was time to get to work.
You might be wondering why on Minz a fortified building that needed to be impenetrable would have multiple glass windows instead of iron bars and murder holes for archers. Castle Marglegruff had those too, but the original architect also wanted to display the High King’s grandeur, sophistication, and elegance.
The original interior decorator failed to collaborate with him, and so together they created a truly horrendous presentation for the monarchs who each claimed in their time to be the most powerful person in Minz. I’m talking about giant tapestries of fierce battles mixed with abstract architecture and stained glass windows of dragons side by side with beautiful floral designs.
Why hadn’t any of the interior decorations been updated over the centuries, you ask? Oh, they had—or, at least, the high kings tried. But much of the decorations, such as the tapestries and portraits, had been hung with magic instead of nails (more economical), and that meant it was very difficult to take them down. Practically impossible, actually. And so, instead of removing the decorations, the subsequent High Kings just added more.
Since Castle Marglegruff was now a historically preserved site, the interior decorations couldn’t be changed, even if someone wanted to. Mark certainly didn’t. Now, the decor wasn’t his style, but what did that matter? He was paid to clean and maintain the castle—not form opinions on what it looked like.
Mark had been washing stained glass windows for nearly half an hour when he heard a terrible crash resounding down the halls of the castle. It sounded quite like the shattering of glass. Mark froze on top of his step ladder and looked around. For a moment, he thought a bird had flown through one of the windows he had just cleaned. But no, he didn’t see any broken glass or a stunned bird lying on the carpet floor. So what… ? Then, Mark heard voices echoing down the halls of the once-quiet castle.
“See, Tim? I told you it’s abandoned. There’s no one here.”
“Okay, you were right, Emma. As usual. Let’s just find the crown and get out of here before one of the City Watch notices that broken window. I don’t want to get thrown in jail.”
“Gah, you’re such a worrywart. The City Watch won’t even notice a single broken window. Besides, they’re too busy dealing with the fire on the other side of the city, remember?”
“Oohhh… you set that as a distraction?”
Here, Mark heard a resounding THWACK which was likely Tim getting smacked upside the head by Emma. (It was.)
“You just got that, you dumb sack of bricks? Why did I even bring you along?”
“Hey, you don’t have to call me names, Em. That’s not very nice.”
“Whatever. Let’s just find the crown.”
“That’s what I said earlier!”
The voices faded as the two trespassers moved farther away, and Mark was left standing atop a step ladder with an important decision to make. He didn’t have the full story, but he had enough of one from what he overheard.
After setting a fire in another part of the city to draw the attention of the City Watch, two would-be thieves had broken into the Castle Marglegruff. They intended to steal the High King’s crown from where it was kept in a glass case under lock and key. (They didn’t know that, but Mark did.) And they’d likely get away with it, too—if Mark did nothing to stop them.
Now, Mark wasn’t even remotely a violent man. He had only ever been in one fight, and that had been a stage fight during a drama production at his local theatre. (Technically, Mark had been a tree during that choreographed fight sequence, but still. He’d been involved indirectly.)
But Mark couldn’t just stand by and let the High King’s crown get stolen. Twenty-three years ago, he had signed a contract to care for the Castle Marglegruff. Granted, nowhere in that contract did it state that he had to defend the castle against would-be thieves, but Mark knew that some terms and conditions were left unsaid in job descriptions. They were implied.
For example, Mark’s contract stated that he should beat the dust from the rugs once a fortnight. It said nothing about what he should do with the dust once it was free from the rugs. Mark understood that it was implied that he also needed to clean that dust up.
Other terms and conditions were left open to interpretation. For example, Mark’s contract stated that he should care for the Castle of Marglegruff, and its grounds and property, keeping it free of trash and debris. In this specific instance, Mark interpreted his charge to include removing two would-be thieves from the grounds and property of the Castle Marglegruff.
Mark got off his stepladder, set down his bucket, and pocketed his cleaning rag. He took in a deep breath and straightened his back. For a moment, a brief one to be sure but a moment nonetheless, he stood like one of the suits of armor, tall and proud.
Those suits had once been worn by the knights of the realm—the vanguard of the High King of Minz. They had defended their lord with honor. They now guarded the halls as silent sentinels, waiting for the day that they’d be worn by defenders of the crown once more. But that day would never come if the High King’s crown was stolen. No one could ever sit on the High King’s throne without the crown. The High King would never return.
Mark was the custodian and caretaker of this castle. He would do his duty. He strode down the halls, and it was as though the suits of armor were his honor guard, saluting him as he went to defend Castle Marglegruff from those who had invaded it.
As Mark walked quickly but quietly down the hall, an idea of how he would stop the would-be thieves began to form in his mind. He had cleaned every single square handbreadth of the castle. He knew it better than the original architect. He walked its halls at all hours, day and night, and cleaned its walls from top to bottom. The Castle Marglegruff held no secrets from its custodian.
As such, Mark knew that secret passages were hidden within the castle walls. These were designed for menservants and maidservants to use—traveling unseen to do their lord’s bidding. An interconnected web of tunnels and passageways existed within the walls like veins within a living organism.
Mark cleaned such secret ways weekly.
The custodian made his way over to a truly horrendous self-portrait done by High King Mortimer (who was not artistically talented in any way, shape, or form, whatsoever), and pushed a seemingly random section of the gold-gilded frame. With a faint hiss of a seal breaking, the portrait swung forward, and Mark slipped into a dark tunnel within the stone wall.
Mark closed the passageway behind him, leaving him in complete and utter darkness. That didn’t bother Mark at all. He had cleaned these halls for twenty-three years. He didn’t need to see his surroundings. He knew the way.
He listened for a moment until he heard the two would-be thieves as they bickered with raised voices. With a grim smile, Mark began walking slowly down the secret passageway. Soon, he approached the very hall through which the invaders crept. Unbeknownst to them, the castle’s custodian walked parallel with them on the other side of the wall.
Mark’s many keys on their brass ring jingled and angled as he moved. Mark made no attempt to silence them. Instead, he added a ghoulish moan to their cacophonous sound. After a moment, he stopped abruptly. Silence. And then—
“Em… what was that?”
“That wasn’t anything, Tim.”
“Are you sure? It sure sounded like chains scraping along the ground. And that cry—who’s to say this place ain’t haunted by a ghost or something?”
“Ha! You’ve been listening to too many fairy tales. You know how old houses creak and groan? Well, old castles do that too. Now quit being such a craven and let’s get the crown.”
“Okay…”
It was here that Mark had another brilliant idea. He started walking down the secret passage again. His keys still clanked and clanged with a frightful clamor. But he didn’t let out a ghoulish moan again. He did something else instead.
“Get out… Get out… Get out…GET OUT!!”
Mark was naturally soft-spoken. Now, he added a gravelly rasp to his voice like the sound of shattered glass scraping against shards of broken pottery. It helped that he hadn’t spoken to anyone or used his voice for anything other than whistling for a couple of hours now.
“Okay, how do you explain that?” Tim was clearly rattled by Mark’s performance. “And don’t try telling me it’s just the creaks and groans of an old castle!”
“Tim, that’s obviously coming from outside the castle. Remember that house we passed before breaking in? The old man and the old lady were arguing. Pretty heatedly, too. I bet she’s throwing him out. Now come on—we have to be getting close to the throne room if the map she gave us is anything to go by. That’s where we’ll find the crown.”
Mark was troubled by Emma’s words. He wished he could see through the walls and look at the two of them. They had a map? And someone had given it to them? Who? And why? But he couldn’t dwell on such questions at the moment. Emma’s voice sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince Tim. Both would-be thieves were on the verge of breaking. All they needed was one more push.
Like many of the halls in Castle Marglegruff, the corridor Emma and Tim were walking through was lined by suits of armor. The suits were fastened in place, held up and together by cleverly hidden, thin ropes tied through the back of the breastplates and through holes bored into the walls. Mark had tied, untied, and re-tied those ropes for the past nearly two and a half decades. When he first started, the knots were poorly done. A sailor probably would have seen them and fainted dead away. Mark struggled to undo them and ended up having to cut many of the knots to replace the ones that were rotting. When he redid them, he had tied the ropes with a simpler, more service-friendly knot that could be undone with a simple tug.
With keys jingling and jangling, Mark walked down the hall. He was now behind the two would-be thieves—it would sound like they were being followed down the hall. With another brilliant flash of inspiration from his days involved in the local theatre, he moaned once and then let out a terrible cry,
“Please get out! I killed High King Mortimer and all the High Kings and Queens who came after him. I killed all of their lords and ladies, their brave knights, their men-servants and maidservants—I killed them all. No one ever escapes me. No one ever stays within these walls and lives. Get out now. Before I claim you too.”
With that, Mark howled as loudly as he could and untied the knots holding the suits of armor upright on the interior castle wall. One by one, the suits of armor fell to the floor with a thunderous clatter. Each suit that fell was one closer to the invaders.
Mark imagined that it looked quite terrifying. He was only disappointed that he couldn’t see the would-be thieves’ reactions. Hearing their frightened screams as they fled from the castle (breaking another window, from the sound of it in their haste to get out) would have to be enough.
After Castle Marglegruff had fallen silent long enough for Mark to know the would-be thieves had fled and weren’t coming back, he got out from the secret passageway and surveyed his handiwork. It looked like a great battle had taken place in the hallway. Pieces of armor were scattered about, strewn all over the floor—brave and noble defenders who gave their very lives to keep the castle safe. Mark stepped gingerly through the debris and stopped when he came to a knapsack and a faded piece of parchment that Tom and Emma must have dropped when they fled.
Mark picked up the knapsack and found within it a crowbar, some rope, and a set of lockpicks. A typical burglar’s kit, the custodian supposed, not knowing the first thing about the tools of a burglar’s trade. The faded piece of parchment… now that wasn’t typical. As Mark stooped and picked it up, he saw that it was an intricately detailed map of Castle Marglegruff. The would-be thieves had been following it right to the throne room.
Mark nearly dropped the map as the ink-drawn lines and shapes shifted, forming words written in an elegant script with an unseen hand.
Well, did you get the crown?
Mark held the map carefully in front of him at arm’s length with two fingers. He wanted nothing to do with maps—magical or otherwise. He certainly didn’t want anything to do with ones that tried communicating with their bearers.
Speak, Emma. Or is your idiot brother holding the map now? Might I remind you that if you return without the crown, you don’t get paid?
Still, Mark said nothing as he wondered what to do with the magical parchment. Whoever was on the other end clearly didn’t know what had happened. Then, more writing appeared.
Ah… from the silence, I take it that my subordinates failed. I underestimated you, custodian. I won’t make that mistake again.
At those written, ominous words, Mark should have felt some sense of fear. Instead, he only felt a sense of righteous fury kindled within him. It was a spark of that same anger which drove him to defend the castle he was called to keep clean.
And so, he snapped back, “You can’t have the crown, whoever you are. And don’t you dare try sending anyone else to steal it. I’m moving the crown to a secure location—where no one will ever be able to steal it.” Without even waiting for a response, Mark took the parchment and tore it in two. There was a loud SNAP (which is an odd sound for a tearing piece of parchment to make), and the ink faded. The magical spell, or whatever it had been, was broken.
Mark didn’t have the first clue where he’d move the crown. That had been a bluff—one he hoped the mysterious person on the other end of the parchment wouldn’t ever call. He’d probably leave the crown right where it was, under lock and key in a glass case in the throne room. But the mysterious person didn’t need to know that.
Breathing heavily, Mark looked about the now-deserted hallway. Nothing moved. Silence filled Castle Marglegruff. Then, Mark filled it with noise once more. He laughed. Bending over with his hands on his knees, he laughed and laughed at the sheer ludicrosity of what had just happened until tears streamed down his ruddy cheeks and he could laugh no more. Lola and the kids would never believe him. No one would.
But Mark would write down what had happened in his workplace log. That workplace log would eventually be preserved in the Library of Reldare, which is where I found it and decided that Mark the custodian’s story needed to be told. (Albiet, a little more dramatically than Mark wrote it.)
Mark didn’t get an “employee of the year” award when this first happened all those years ago. But perhaps the writing of this short story will posthumously give him some of the recognition he deserves. Especially since I can safely say that because of Mark’s selfless acts on that fateful day in Minz’s history, he kept the High King’s crown from falling into the hands of a truly terrible, vengeful, malice-filled individual. She would have used the crown to break the world and then see it burn.
As for the rest of Mark’s day?
He logged that he fixed two broken windows and picked up and reassembled five sets of suits of armor. In addition to the rest of his daily tasks as custodian and caretaker of Castle Marglegruff.
Talk about dedication.
