BELIEVE
I watched disdainfully through the smoky window of the back office as another pack of animals, otherwise known as schoolboys, stampeded through the front entrance. A frazzled woman with large glasses, undoubtedly a teacher of some sort, tried, all attempts in vain, to quiet them.
"Your turn, Charlie. We won't let you get out of this one."
I audibly groaned as my colleagues laughed around me. Henry was right; there were no excuses binding me this time. Of course, some floated through my head, but none were sufficient enough to pass acceptably with this group who shared the intelligence quotient of a clan of baboons.
"Yea," I retorted weakly. "I'll pin the next group on you, Henry." In one fluid motion, I pulled on my suit jacket, discarded my cigarette behind a potted plant, grabbed a breath mint from a pile on a lone desk, and stepped out into a blast of controlled conditioned air that greatly countered that of the stuffy hazy smoke that clouded over beer-bellied men and allegedly funny jokes in the break room.
Why do I even put up with these high school dropouts who only own one tie and sleep with a new girl every night? I thought as I crossed the marble hall to the group of uniformed teenagers who were rapidly getting more reckless, if that was humanly possible.
"Good morning!" I exclaimed, changing into a cheery tone without missing a beat. Half of my mind was pondering career changes as I continued my overused, monotonous, yet required welcoming speech, "Welcome to Buckingham Palace, the place where our royalties have called home for more than two hundred years. My name is Charlie, and I will be your tour guide today. And what school are you visiting us from?"
"Hi, Charlie," the frazzled woman said in a somewhat frantic, somewhat relieved voice as she forced her way to the front of the mob. "My name is Ms. Pickford and we are from St. George's Preparatory Institute."
St. George's Preparatory Institute. It sounded like a prison. Determining this by their actions, I figured they were released from cages. I shook Ms. Pickford's hand and asked, "Is there any questions before we start the tour?"
Nearly immediately, after a poke and prod or two from his mates, a freckled red head piped up, "Does anyone ever slip and not say 'Buckingham' but …" Nearly the whole group broke into a fit of giggles. Ms. Pickford gave carrot top a warning glance.
I willed myself to roll my eyes at their immaturity. "No, actually, most can manage the correct pronunciation of the name of the royal family's residence by the time they are five," I responded snidely. Not that that would ever apply to you, my speckled friend, I added only in thought. "Now," the same false grin plastered itself on my face. "Any relevant questions?"
For once, the boys were silent, but mischievous, mocking, stupid smiles distorted their boyish, fuzz-free faces. Now deeply irritated, I began the tour but, being how the tour director is so diligent in making sure we do our jobs, I was mindful to remain completely professional.
I was leading the group into the Throne Room (not the real one, but one of lesser importance and therefore open to guests) when I first noticed him. Of course, I had seen him throughout the tour. He was always on the outskirts of the group, never once pushing himself into the jokes and mockery or antagonizing the Royal Guard. He had a tendency to fall behind, lingering on a certain picture or fingering a certain staircase. He was an odd fellow, detached somehow; his figure was slumped as if from some immense misery.
But when I guided the schoolchildren over the threshold of the Throne Room, the boy suddenly, noticeably, changed. A strange look of familiarity crossed his face. His back straightened, immediately making him appear taller, older. A smile tugged at the crook of his mouth.
I was showing a portrait of Queen Victoria to an inattentive audience when, at the corner of my eye, I watched the boy leave my demonstration to walk – as if he were in a dream – to the base of the throne that occupied the room. This, do not be mistaken, was not the throne, but rather a, for lack of a better word, substitute, used by the King on certain occasions when using the real throne was unadvisable. Nonetheless, it was grand sight indeed; any knowledgeable eye would be drawn to the exquisite marksmanship.
I was about to interrupt my lecture on the finer points of the late Queen's reign to reprimand the boy for leaving the group, but he had a look, so indescribably sincere, that I couldn't. The rest of my speech rolled off my tongue without control from me, for it really was only lines from a well rehearsed play, anyway.
When I was done, I allowed the children to roam around the large room; I had trust in the guards who patrolled the area to make sure they wouldn't break anything. I, not coincidentally, went over to where this mysterious boy stood, still staring up in awe at the marble throne.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The boy spoke. His voice was strong and clear, a note of masked superiority hidden in the notes.
"Yes?" if this boy hadn't been, well, him, I would've marked his a arrogant, one who thought he was better than his peers.
"I was wondering if I could sit on the throne."
Truthfully, I was shocked. This boy asked this so casually, as if he were asking the location of the nearest bathroom. Something inside me stirred, and, before I could stop myself, I blurted,
"Well, sure, I guess." In three years of working at the Palace, I had never heard such a request. It had caught me off guard.
He didn't climb or clamber up the marble, not that I expected him to, but merely took a stride, turned, and sat, looking as comfortable as if he had settled into a sofa. Then, perched dup high in that chair, he changed. For a moment, his face turned stern, his jaw became set, his eyes took on a hard yet soft look.
His eyes. Experience darkened, edged his deep, brown eyes, but a love, a love for something, somebody, made them shine. The boy's eyes reminded me of a World War I veteran I'd seen once, eyes too old to be on a boy. But, now apart from his class, he didn't look like a boy much anymore. He looked like a king. I found myself willing to serve him, to put my life and honor for his service. Quickly, I shook my head, wondering where that preposterous idea had come from. The boy seemed legions, worlds away, reminiscing on a moment that seemed to be now out of his grasp.
"Watcha' doing, Pevensie? Think one day you'll become King of England?" Fire headed boy broke into raucous laughter. The others quickly joined in.
"All hail King Peter!" another squeaked.
This boy – Peter – did not respond to their taunting, but shot them such a look that it nearly chilled my blood. The others stopped their ridiculous catcalling.
However, Peter retreated from his throne, and I swear I heard him mutter, "High King Peter," with such emphasis and meaning that, had it not been barking mad, I would've believed him.
Shortly after, I completed giving the tour. Ms. Pickford thanked me, and I mumbled something in return, but I was too busy watching this Peter to really comprehend the exchange.
He left with the rest of the class in the cold, dreary London rain. The nobility and dignity that radiated from him during that short time on his throne seemed, then, to breathe new life on him. But now, his shoulders were hunched; his back was bent, all vain attempts to shield himself from the chilly, drenching blast. Peter looked drained, defeated, dead. Whatever connection that had boy held with that throne was severed.
I found myself staring out the dusty window, and my mind wandered, to a land where boys were Kings, no, High Kings, and I believed.