The King lived alone, sitting on his throne in the shadows. He spent his days showering his people with screams and insults, so much so that many of them, in order to forget, killed themselves at work or were swept away by illness. His wickedness was born the day his young wife ran off with her lover, a young man from the countryside with whom she had spent her childhood. She had wept a great deal the day the King had chosen her as his future wife; it is even said that her tears had given birth to the Western Sea, which has a salty taste that stings the eyes of anyone who ventures into it. She had gone away sad in her beautiful white wedding dress, and despite her privileged destiny, her features were drawn and her eyes moist. Her young friend, however, had slipped a small piece of cloth into her hand just before she left the village in her royal carriage.
The wedding day had been the great event of the country, with everyone smiling and singing the glory of the newlyweds; the jubilation was short-lived, however, because at dusk, taking advantage of the darkness, the queen fled.
Since that sad day, a destructive hatred had taken hold of the King, gnawed at his heart and transformed his face: all that could be seen was the torment of rage and the veil of suffering that made him the most feared tyrant around. And every day, the unfortunate inhabitants of the kingdom suffered for this poisonous wound to find a remedy, for in the many years it had gnawed at the King, it had transformed him into a monster of selfishness and wickedness.
One day, however, an old magician arrived in the village, his clothes soaked by the rain and his back broken with fatigue. He had come from afar and knew nothing of the castle’s history, but as soon as he entered the fort, and saw the dull, sad faces of the inhabitants, he understood. He knew at once that great unhappiness reigned within these walls, for he could feel in the air those currents of negative energy created by suffering, fear and bad temper. He went straight to the castle, entered the King’s dwelling and was almost shocked to feel so much hatred. He was told that the King was resting, not to be disturbed, but that he could be found in his chamber if he was foolish enough to go there. The old magician was not afraid, so he climbed the high steps of the central staircase and pushed open the door to the King’s dwelling without even knocking.
He found the King leaning against the window, his empty gaze fixed on the horizon. The King turned around, surprised at first, then annoyed at being disturbed.
“What do you want, you old fool? Weren’t you told I didn’t want any visitors? Get out of here at once!” shouted the King.
But the old magician did nothing, and sat down on a stool by the bed.
“I won’t bother you for long, I’ve just come to offer you something. Sit down and give me five minutes, so I can explain.”
The King, understanding that to get rid of this stranger as quickly as possible, he had to listen, sat down on his bed and beckoned the magician to continue.
“I’ve heard of your grief as I’ve walked the streets, and even more of your bad mood. I have something here that might interest you, as it would restore your former goodness and joy. Accept it, and wear it if you like, I’m not obliging you to do anything.”
From his bundle, the old magician drew a shining golden crown, covered with precious stones and fine engravings that instantly dazzled the King. He accepted it without hesitation, and immediately placed it on his head. After a glance in the mirror, he politely thanked the old magician and asked him to leave.
From that day on, his suffering only increased. He couldn’t get rid of his crown or his bad habits, and in his haste to get rid of the magician, he had unknowingly lost a very important, even crucial piece of advice: the crown was magic, and it would only make him good if he made an effort of his own to be nicer. That’s why, with every unkind word, every insult or every excess of bad temper, the crown tightened around the King’s head, accompanied by a slight but present pain. He spent seven weeks like this, making no effort and waking up worse every day than the day before.
By the first morning of the seventh week, he was in so much pain that he couldn’t leave his bed. He still wore his crown, which he thought would benefit his image, but his cheeks were hollowed, his skin livid and his eyes opaque.
The old magician, who had realized that the King was on the wrong track, decided to send his young daughter to his bedside, so that she could tell him stories to help him understand where his suffering was coming from. At first, the King refused to let the girl in, but when he was exhausted, he relented. She sat down beside him on the floor and began her story.
It was the story of a King, young and magnificent, who fell in love with a young girl whose heart already belonged to another. He was dying with love for her, and decided to marry her, even though he knew she loved another. However, the marriage did nothing to change her feelings, and she fled that very evening to find the man of her life. The King was heartbroken, but he loved the girl far too much to take revenge, and preferred to brood over his hatred and pain in secret, showing his people only a smiling, indifferent face. Yet his suffering was gnawing away at him from within, and very soon it overflowed: he began to pour it out on the unfortunate people who shared his life, bringing suffering to their hearts. He didn’t realize how much his suffering was changing him, for he was blinded by his grief: he hadn’t managed to externalize it, he hadn’t healed the wound that had now become infected.
The old magician’s young daughter hadn’t finished her story, but the King, captivated by her tale, was in tears. Rivers of tears flooded his cheeks, and secretly they carried with them the poison that had been eating away at the King’s heart all this time.
When the last tear had dried, the King opened his arms, took a deep breath and whispered:
“Thank you.”
The crown, caught off guard, loosened its grip a little, inviting that sweet soothing sensation into the King’s battered body. He felt it, was surprised at first, and suddenly jumped out of bed. He took the girl in his arms, kissed her on both cheeks; after a moment, a new wave of gentleness, he was delighted. He ran out of his room, opened all the castle windows he’d kept closed until then, kissed the valets and maids he found on his way; at each step, he paused, waited for the crown to congratulate him, and then resumed his run. He stepped out into the open air, breathed in the pure air, and forcefully exhaled the last shadows darkening his heart. The crown, satisfied and appeased, loosened completely; it was so loose, all at once, that it slipped from the King’s head. People looked at him, stunned, and didn’t know what to say.
“Lord, what’s the matter with you? Has madness taken hold of you again?” asked a fearful old peasant woman. Everyone looked at her in fear, as the King was sure to punish her for this affront.
“No, my pretty, it’s life that has taken me back,” thundered the King with glee, “the shadow has inhabited my heart for too long, it needs light, it wants to learn to love again!”
Moral:
Punishment (the crown) can help, but it’s not enough to transform a wicked person, because wickedness is often rooted in suffering that we can’t see from the outside. To transform unkindness, we need to heal that suffering, and that’s only possible with understanding and by reaching the person’s heart.
See this writer’s other tale: Le chien, le chat, l’oiseau et la souris (The dog, the cat, the bird and the mouse).