Jeremy Pithicus loved the sunlight on the battlement as he made his way each morning along its stony walkway to wind the Tower Clock. It was the only time every day he got outside the castle.

The rolling patchwork of yellow and green lands visible through the crenellations stretched far past the King’s Wood, where the King’s Deer lived; far past Aethelbert’s Mark, where the King’s First Knight lived; indeed, all the way to the Mountains of Night. The King’s realm was beautiful. The air was fresh and clear, the sun was warm, and the silence was a balm to the soul.

But if he took the cotton from his ears—cotton he wasn’t allowed to wear inside the castle, where he must always be ready to hear and obey—a tide of sound welled up and spilt over the castle wall. The plaints of the people toiling on the land rose up like the soft moan of a giant from the King’s fields and the King’s streams, rose up and sighed across the parapet to his ears, and made him feel both lucky and bad.

Most mornings it was a fog of sound, of wordless wails, sighs, whimpers and groans; sobs, whines, grumbles and moans. There was no message there but suffering. But on some mornings, words floated above the rest: “Woe is me!” “Mercy!” “Kill me now!” The cries came from far and wide. “I am a poor serf who labors for the King! There is no escape! The King is cruel! Save us!” And if Jeremy strained his eyes, he could imagine that in the distance, faces turned toward him, fingers pointed at him, eyes locked on him, as if he were the source of their serfdom.

He was not. He was Keeper of the King’s Clocks, like his father before him, his father before him, and so on back into the reaches of Time. But while the serfs’ complaints made him feel guilty for his good fortune at not being one of them, they also gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction that he wasn’t one of them. Which could have made him feel even guiltier, but he decided it was healthier than feeling bad and not being able to do anything about it.

So, when he climbed to the parapet every morning to walk along the battlement to the clock tower, where he would climb the ancient stairs and wind the ancient clock, he stuffed cotton in his ears so he wouldn’t hear them. And he enjoyed the sunlight, which did not reach into the deeps of the old stone castle where the other six hundred ninety-four clocks ticked, each requiring his visit each and every day. When his full day of clock winding and sometimes clock repair was done, he would retire to his modest room in the bowels of the keep, light a candle, and read books secretly lent him by young Ketaba, the new Keeper of the King’s Books. Both knew if they were discovered using the King’s books, they would be among the serfs laboring on the fields, but she informed Jeremy that records showed the King had not read a book in two hundred seventy-five years. So they felt safe.

The King had been King for nine hundred sixty-one years because his wise men gave him a daily dose of long-life potion, rumored to be a bouillon cooked down from three peasant newborns and two evergreen branches of octivivus, but no one knew for sure. Those who asked such questions were long ago banished to the fields or hung from the barbican as an example to those entering or leaving the castle.

Such was Jeremy’s life. Chief among his challenges was remembering the names of all the King’s heirs, each of whom was important and gave orders. The King’s wives, consorts, and children of course were normal people who lived seventy years or so and died. And because the King was a vigorous old goat, over his lifetime there had been six thousand, seven hundred, forty-two royal descendants. Each had naturally hoped the King would die so he or she could kill their brothers and sisters and become King or Queen. Then he or she would get the potion and live for a thousand years. And they all tried to sneak some of the potion.

But the King knew that if all his six thousand, seven hundred, forty-two offspring still lived, each of whom wanted his throne, and each of whom would grow craftier with each passing century, he would never make it to lunch. So he carefully controlled the potion, threatening his wise men with horrible death if anyone else received it. Life around the castle was challenging enough as it was, with six hundred ninety-one living descendants, one or two of whom had to be beheaded each week, either for plotting against him, or just to keep the others terrified.

But even the reduced and dwindling number of six hundred ninety-one were a nightmare for Jeremy.

“PITHICUS, you worm!” one might shout at him as he ran past her room, for that was the only way he could get to six hundred ninety-four clocks each day and do his duty by winding and possibly repairing each.

“Yes, Your Beautificence. How may I serve?”

“Wind my clock before you wind my sister’s! You make it look as if she is more important than me!”

“Yes, Your Magnificence. I will wind it immediately.”

Which he would do. Which would complicate his route, because it was hard enough to remember whether he had wound each of six hundred ninety-four clocks, without having the order changed.

Then, when he had just about gotten used to the new route, another important heir would shout, “PITHICUS, you spawn of rats and snails! Why are you winding my worthless brother’s clock before mine? I am far more important because I am a good man with a sword and I was born before he!”

“It is because he asked me, Your Wonderfulness. I abase myself before you and beg your noble forgiveness. I will immediately wind your clock, and will henceforth do so before your brother’s.”

Such was Jeremy’s life, and it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t bad. The important heirs were not always in their rooms, so they couldn’t really always tell the order in which he wound their clocks. And he had a good memory and a good set of legs, so he was usually able to finish his duties by the darkling hour, go to the servants’ kitchen and get his bread, water, and gruel for the day, and retire to his windowless room, light a candle, and read. Life could have worse.

But then one day, things changed. Normally, every day when he went into the throne room to wind the King’s Clock, the King did not deign to notice him. Jeremy would crawl into the giant room on hands and knees, as prescribed by law, never looking up, certainly never looking the king in the eye, which was punishable by death, and he would wind the King’s ornate, gold-encrusted clock. Sometimes he would hear interesting things. “They’re running out of newborns in the provinces, Sire,” a knight said once. “We’ll have to conquer new territory to keep you supplied for your potion.”

“Do it, then, Knave!” roared the King. “Can no one make obvious decisions any more?”

Jeremy of course had heard enough King’s Chamber talk that he knew that people who did dare to make decisions and made the wrong one, found themselves hanging by the neck from the barbican arch, or from a tree along the road that led to the castle. Only a fool took such initiative.

But that is by the by. On one morning, a morning Jeremy hoped would be sunny, because, of course, he wound the King’s Clock before climbing to the battlement to wind the tower clock, and he didn’t yet know if it was sunny, the King spoke to him as he was backing out of the chamber on hands and knees.

“PITHICUS! Rise and look me in the eye!”

Jeremy’s arms and legs nearly gave out. He trembled so that he could barely carry out the King’s order. This was it, then. He had not even grown old enough to find one of the kitchen maids to marry and produce a new Pithicus to follow in his footsteps. But he doubted the King knew or cared. He rose and looked the old man in the eye.

It was a shock. First, the King was enormously fat, the size of a wine barrel with legs.

Second, he was ugly. Really ugly. He was so ugly, he could have stood on the battlement and scared enemies away. He was so ugly, salamanders would lose their tails at sight of him. He was so ugly, if he looked in the mirror, he would turn to stone.

Third, his eyes were a fright. They looked as if they had seen everything in the world, and more besides. They made him look debauched, debased, coarse and crude, yet canny, wily, cunning and shrewd. They looked as if they could see what Jeremy was thinking. He stood terrified and awaited his fate.

“Bartolomy, isn’t it?” asked the King in a voice he probably imagined was kindly.

“Jeremy, Your Superbness. Bartolomy was my great, great, great, great, great grandfather.”

“Hmm, well, yes. Time does pass, which of course, you as the Keeper of the Clocks know very well. Which is why I have deigned to speak to such an unimportant person as yourself.”

“Yes, Your Eminence. I am transfigured by your notice.”

“Of course you are. Now. The reason I’ve stooped to speak to a commoner is that I want you, as the clock expert, to make time go backward.”

“Sire?” choked Jeremy. Then he realized he’d forgotten the honorific. “Your Unbelievable Majesty.”

The King noted the slight, but let it pass. “I am old. Very old. I am older even than my father grew before I finally killed him. To put him out of his misery, of course. And I see the way my loyal sons and daughters look at me. They are just waiting for their opportunity, when my guards are inattentive. And I suffer pain and forgetfulness. Which cannot be in a King. I must be at the peak of my powers, not in their decline. So you will make time go backward and make me young again. Or you will die. Horribly. Your guts will be fed to the rats in the castle sewers. While you are still alive, of course. Eh?”

“Of course, Your Awesomeness,” managed Jeremy.

“Serfdom is too noble a fate for someone who should fail at such an important task,” added the King thoughtfully.

“Far too noble,” strained Jeremy, as his world crashed around him.

The King leaned forward over his gigantic belly, pushing his gigantic and horrific face down toward Jeremy’s. “So can you do it?”

Jeremy had overheard enough throne room conversations that he knew there was only one answer to such a question.

“Of course, Sire. Uh, Your Imposingness. I will do it with dispatch.”

The King leaned down even closer. “I am no fool, Pithicus. How soon is ‘with dispatch’?”

Jeremy’s mind was a tornado. Should he not just expose the back of his neck now? Was there any way out of this? But of course, hope springs eternal, and in desperation, he had an idea. Spread the blame. It was not his most noble moment, but survival was at stake. He had three people in mind.

“Seven days, Your Stateliness.” Then he realized he needed to add some credibility. “And I must take your clock with me. I will bring you a replacement.”

The King scowled, pursed his wrinkled lips, and looked deep into Jeremy’s eyes. “Well, all right then. In seven days, I’ll be younger. Right, Pithicus?”

“In seven days, the process will begin, Your Amazingness. You will grow younger gradually, with each passing day.”

“Hmmm,” said the King. “I think I like that better than becoming young all at once. Go then, insignificant cockroach, and come back and change history.”

But the spread-the-blame strategy didn’t work.

First he went to Oleandrus, the Magus. Could he perform such magic? The Magus laughed in his face.

“You’re on your own, Pithicus. You think I’d put my own neck on the line for something like this? This would take fifty magicians as powerful as me, all casting spells at the same time. And it still might not work. And there I’d be, with my name on the failure. Forget it. It’s been nice knowing you. I always thought you were a likely lad, and did your job well.”

Then he went to Akaedemikus, the wise man. Was there ancient lore he could call on to make this impossible thing happen? Had it ever happened in the past?

“It has not,” said Akaedemikus. “It is an ancient desire, and there are ancient stories of kings who have tried it, because they had everything else, but eternal youth has either escaped them, or bitten them where it hurts.”

“So it has actually happened in the past?”

“Only in stories, I think. I am sorry, young Pithicus, but you’re on your own. I don’t want to be associated with this.”

In desperation, he went to the priest, who turned out to be least help of all.

“Accept your fate, my son,” he said, putting a hand on Jeremy’s head. “Enjoy the days you have left. You can do no other.”

So finally, in extremis, he went to Ketaba. “Is there anything in the old books about how to do this?”

“I think not, Jeremy Pithicus. You need an idea. When I need an idea, I sleep with my head on one of the King’s oldest books of lore, and something usually comes to me. Maybe you should try this one.”

He took the book and looked at the title embossed in gold leaf on the leather binding: Trickery.

“I’m not sure how this will help, but I’ll try anything.” And he took the book to his humble chamber and read and read, but it all seemed pointless. Who would believe such stuff? Still, he did as Ketaba suggested and laid the book under his head before he went to sleep.

In the morning he had a neck ache and was feeling irritated and puckish. But he did have an idea. The problem was, it required the cooperation of all the King’s heirs. Knowing what he did of politics, having overheard enough conversations in the throne room, he knew this was not possible without trickery.

First, he changed the gears in the King’s clock so it ran backward. That was required in any case. Then, he went as usual on his daily rounds, winding clocks, and talking to the heirs. And it took him four days before he caught each and every one and told each the blessed secret that would make each the new king or queen, as the case may be.

And so, after he replaced the King’s Clock, now running backward, each heir would stop by each day and say, “Father, I believe you are growing younger!” Or, “Father, you look so healthy today!” Or, “Father, you have the ruddy face of a young man! Shall we ride to the hounds and horn and bring back a stag for our supper?”

And so on. And at first, the King did look younger, ruddier, healthier, and he did act more energetic. But of course, in the end he sickened and died, despite the potion, which had kept him alive all these centuries.

And of course, then the heirs all began killing one another, each believing he or she was the rightful heir.

And when they were all dead save one, the hated Malichus, the castle guards, who had grown tired of snatching babies from poor serfs, and who had been laughing in their sleeves about the grotesque King believing he was growing younger, instead killed Malichus and declared Jeremy the leader of the Wise Council. The reason was that the gossip in the lower passages said Jeremy had played a big trick that caused it all, which they all appreciated because it had set them free. He would henceforth rule the Kingdom.

Jeremy’s first act was to go to the battlement, face out upon the Kingdom, and shout, “You are free! You are free!”

Then he called Ketaba to the throne room and asked her to rule with him and the Wise Council. For as long as their natural lives allowed.

“I am honored,” she said. “But first I must know if I can trust you. What part did you play in the King’s demise?”

“I told each heir the King was playing a trick to identify his rightful successor. He’d had me make his clock run backward to test them. He knew it wouldn’t really make him younger. But if they noticed and called him a fool for thinking it would, it would expose their arrogance, and it would be off with their head. If they noticed and said nothing, they were cowards and it would be off with their head. Only the rightful successor would be loyal and tell him he was getting younger. I told each to speak to no one about this, and never say the King looked younger when another heir was present. Lastly, I told each that the King had let it slip that he or she was his favorite.”

Ketaba laughed and said, “Of course I will rule with you. You are canny, wily, cunning, and shrewd.”

“And you’ll be my wife?”

“Of course.”

The two lived happily ever after, until the end of their natural lives. And all the castle’s clocks went unwound.

Copyright 2018 by William Crow Johnson. All rights reserved.