One Last Guest

Disgraced.

Unworthy.

Failure.

Words seldom uttered amongst kings. 

Except for every would-be king since Old King Angus decided that a puzzle should determine who would next take the throne. Prince or peasant—no matter, as long as they were smart enough to solve it. Angus was one for fair play.

“And curse him,” Smith muttered. “Devil of a man.” 

The canary in the tower corner chirped.

“Well, curse you too,” said Smith. “You haven’t helped at all. And I fed you.”

Smith remembered, on several occasions, the dead canaries that fell from the tower window, starved or murdered by the current tower guest. He knew why. The canary never stopped singing. It was impossible to concentrate. 

If the going got bad, sometimes the guest would follow the birds out the window. That’s what the person in the tower was called, the guest. They entered, they stayed, and they always, always left, through the doors or out the window. There was always someone willing to take their place. 

Smith refused the window. It seemed a waste. But now, on the last day of his stay in the tower, he wondered what would be left for him beyond it. A year in the tower could change a lifetime, people said. A year of solitude and neglected crops. Guests emerged to find their old lives ruined.

Smith’s son would have grown by now. His wife could have easily fallen for another man. How could he blame her? No letters came from the tower. 

He’d done this all for her. If only their lives were better! If only they weren’t forced to toil each day for what barely counted as a living. 

Smith put his head in his hands. 365 days to solve Angus’s puzzle, and he couldn’t do it. If his wife hadn’t left him, she would when he stumbled down the tower steps with no future and a wasted past.

The canary trilled a pretty tune.

“Fine, I’ll look at it again,” said Smith, “For kicks. Last time’s the charm, eh?”

He might as well make the most of the last hour of the year. 

Easing into the large desk in the center of the room, Smith opened the ancient wooden box, as he had every day. In it sat the bane of his existence—a little piece of coal. Angus’s masterpiece. The coal held a familiar weight in his hands, settling into the dip of his palm. He turned it over with his thumb, again and again. Black smears colored his fingertips.

What would Angus want with this? The Old King, people called him, The Wise One. The puzzle should have been intricate, complex, and it wasn’t. But not one of the guests had ever solved it.  Smith scowled. Angus was a fool. Or he played his subjects for fools. King Angus was probably laughing so hard his gravestone shook. 

The canary uttered a high note, and Smith was jolted into his childhood faster than he could blink.

…

His brother told him that diamonds came from coal. “How?” Smith said. His brother didn’t know.  Still, Smith filed away the information.

His mother loved diamonds. At ten years old, Smith wanted her to have anything she loved. Anything to make her smile at him. 

He wanted it badly enough to search the deserted coal mines on the edge of the village. 

Smith brought his lantern because he knew the mines were dark. He brought his brother’s pet canary because miners carried canaries. Though he wasn’t sure why.

As he made his way to the coal mine entrance, the canary sang a clever melody. Smith hummed along. Diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. Soon we will have diamonds. Diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. Even one can make you rich!

He paused at the entrance to light his lantern and survey the tunnel. “It goes deep,” Smith whispered, feeling powerful. He let his confidence carry him in.

The coal mines smelled like earth and dust. Smith coughed, and the sound echoed away endlessly into the dark. He regretted his decision as soon as the suffocating walls surrounded him—more so when he tripped and his lantern fell, rolling out of sight.

Something further in the tunnel crashed. Smith yelped. And the canary—the canary went silent. Her voice had warbled a high-pitched song the entire time—until now. 

Smith ran. 

After the fire was out, and the whole village assembled to see the lucky, sooty fool who’d crawled out of the mine, Smith remembered having only one realization: no diamonds could ever come from a place like that.

But he’d been wrong. Smith stared at the coal in his hand. The dead canaries, tossed out of the tower by other guests—they were replaced every year.

The canaries were part of the puzzle.

His time was nearly over. The moon would peak, the bells would toll, and that would be the end of Smith’s only hope for a new life. 

Smith crossed the room to the canary. She peered at him from the golden bars of the cage, twittering. 

“Here,” Smith said, and dropped the coal onto the cage floor.

The canary cocked her head. And said nothing, for once.

Above him, the tower bells tolled for midnight. Smith watched the distant village lights flicker on, the townspeople filtering down the path to the tower to welcome the new year and the old guest.

Behind Smith, the doors opened. The tower guards stared into the silent room.

“I tried,” Smith said. “Got something to drink?”

The guards bowed so low, he was sure they’d hit their heads on the floor. 

Smith inhaled.

…

You haven’t tasted fresh air until you’ve missed it for a year. Smith parted the crowd around the tower, searching, searching. Small hands clasped his shoulder.

“Daddy,” said Smith’s son, who’d grown.

“Smith,” said the woman holding his son, who hadn’t fallen for someone else.

Smith said nothing. He reached out to hold them. 

The woman had forgotten how it felt to be held, so close and safe and warm. She walked with her husband to the cemetery, where Old King Angus’s grave stood. She thought it looked in need of repair. 

Meanwhile, her husband observed the grave from a distance. The wind chuckled in his ear and blew the leaves around, jostling his diamond crown.