Mamillius’s Tale

As if seething or scorned, the relentless winter wind whipped against the windows, rattling the castle in full, and frightening the mother inside. She was craving comfort and knew she could find it in her son.

Tiptoeing down the long hallway, she made her way to his bedroom, knocked twice on the door, and entered. He was exactly where she expected him to be.

Sitting upright at a wooden desk, a young boy gazed out the window wide-eyed and in awe, a pad of paper, quill, and ink before him. Dark shadows danced across his face from flickering fire light, and in that moment, the mother wondered about her son.

She wondered what a storm like this could brew up in a mind like his, for her child, her little Mamillius, was as brilliant and clever as could be.

On most days she had no idea where he got it from—his curiosity, his kindness—for he most certainly did not inherit those traits from her. Or his father.

Especially, not from his father.

Yes, her dear little Mamillius would pen up all day and all night in his room, reading books and writing stories. And the stories he’d tell, the lives he’d create, they made his mother proud to have him, hell, proud to even just know him.

Walking over to her son, she ran her fingers through his hair, and he titled his head back, beaming at her.

“I knew you’d come,” he said, grinning. “I finished another one this morning—”

“Just this morning!?” The mother teased as she scooped up her boy and carried him to the settle by the fireplace. He was giggling and squirming the entire way over, much like he used to when he was a babe. She remembered back to when he was still so little and small, and knew that one day—one day very soon—she would not be able to carry him like this anymore.

It made her heart feel heavy.

Mamillius flopped over to his side of the settle and stared at his mother, his eyes wild.

“As I was saying Mother, I finished another story this morning. And I was saving it for a stormy night, just like this one. I want to share it with you.”

The mother smiled at her boy, “Go on and fetch it for me, then.”

Mamillius hopped off the settle, hurried over to the desk, snatched up the stack of papers, and returned.

As the mother pulled a wool blanket over both of them she said, “I do hope it’s a spooky story. You know I love those ones best.”

Mamillius nodded, “It is spooky. But it is also sad.”

He paused, then looked down at the papers he held gingerly in his hands. “A sad tale is best for winter.”

The mother gazed at her son, much like he had gazed out the window— wide-eyed and in awe. Mamillius was her little curiosity, her little wonder, and he never ceased to amaze her.

Finally she answered, “Well, then do your best to frighten me with your tale. You’re powerful at it.”

Little Mamillius flipped to the first page, lowered his voice to a whisper, and began.

***

There was a man dwelt by a churchyard.

Leaning against a large trunk containing all he had left in life, the old man sat beneath an oak tree, timid and still, waiting for what was next.

Feeling rather lost, the old man did not know how he came to be here.

Here.

Where was here?

For before him was a colossal wooden church sitting in the center of an empty wheat field, abandoned, old, and in shambles. Most of the windows were broken or boarded up, the shutters tilted and hanging half off. Tiers of crooked chalet-style roofs were curved like the points of a lop-sided crown, and the paint, though once, I suppose, a charming rustic red, now faded completely, dimmed to a watered down rose. And the wood, which wrapped itself entirely around the exterior, clinging to like frail, sagging skin, looked like it was chipping, and splitting, and rotting, and—

Wasting.

That last word floated seamlessly into his mind, and as it did, a clap of thunder rolled down the mountains, making the old man jump.

Then, it began to down pour.

Wanting to stay dry, the old man rushed to his feet, grabbed his trunk of precious belongings, then hurried inside the church.

The inside was even worse than the outside.

Standing in a stifled stillness at the mouth of a wooden monster, his other senses came alive. The old man was suddenly very aware of the deep, dark space stretching out before him, and knew that anything could be peering at him now, patiently hiding behind rows and rows of shadowed pews. Goosebumps broke out along the back of his neck and the old man reminded himself to breathe.

Just breathe.

He inhaled and was met with the musty smell of mold and dust hanging heavy in the air. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, another clap of thunder broke out, and the old man scurried further inside the dilapidated church.

Each step he took was accompanied by a creaking of a floorboard, a scuffle of boot.

Then, the door behind him slammed shut.

All at once, the old man was very much alone and very much afraid. Clutching his trunk, he steeled himself, and took one more step.

Without warning, a strike of lightning lit the room, igniting a flash of maddening recognition, and for just a moment—only a moment—the old man saw them.

All of them.

Hundreds of silent silhouettes sat in every row of every pew, their heads bowed in prayer, their hands—

Gone.

Suddenly, all the people were gone. Now, there was nothing in the pews. Just row after empty row.

The old man stood rooted in terror, too scared to even move. He told himself it was just a trick of the eye, and he again reminded himself to breathe.

Just breathe.

Another strike of lighting flooded the room in a flash of bright white light, and suddenly the rows of pews were full again. Full of people with their heads twisted too far and turned towards him.

Staring right at him.

The old man screamed and dropped the trunk.

He ran for the front door, gripped the doorknob, and pulled with all his might. But it was no use, the door would not budge!

In the darkness from behind, the old man heard the trunk begin to wobble and shake. He heard something heavy from within scratching, and tapping, rapping at the lid, demanding to be released.

Then, he heard the latch unlock and the lid swing open.

And he could hear it—whatever it was—hit the floor hard and begin to crawl, dragging its body straight down the center aisle, straight towards—

Right at that moment, Mamillius’s bedroom door flung open, and the mother, who was completely engrossed in the tale, let out a bloodcurdling scream that cut through the night.

And for Mamillius, for sweet little Mamillius, it was the most the glorious sound he had ever heard.

Miss Mary, the royal servant, stood in the doorway with a silver tray of treats and began apologizing profusely for not knocking.

Clutching her chest, the mother reminded herself to breathe—just breathe—while Mamillius toppled over in fits of laughter, clearly delighted at the prospect that he had indeed given his mother quite the fright.

From the doorway, Miss Mary’s voice trembled, “I–I’m so sorry Your Highness, I just thought you’d want a cup of tea before bed.”

She did.

After sharing a plate of cookies and pot of tea, Mamillius finished his tale. He had been right. It was spooky. But the ending was also sad, and his mother declared it was the best story he had written yet.

For the rest of the night, the mother and her son cuddled close together, staring out the window as the world outside frosted over, brimming with blizzard.

But inside—right where they sat, in fact—it was quiet, and warm, and oh so very safe.