It takes a few weeks, but by the beginning of spring the villagers show barely any traces of the suffering they endured during the dark time. Traders resume their journeys on the roads. The princess donates animals for breeding, as well as milk and eggs. It is surprising how quickly everyone forgets, how rapidly they recover. The tranquil nights have a healing effect. Strength has been regained for the clean-up, the removal of rubbish. And when life flows smoothly once again, people are given the opportunity to sign up for the sleep game.
Farmers, drovers, burghers come forward to register and present their requests. The winner of the sleep game is allowed to state a wish, which the princess will grant without hesitation, or so they say. However, it’s not something you should count on.
A lectern has been set up in front of the castle gate. A scribe and his gofers await those who want to participate. They handle the administration of hope. There is a long line of applicants. Not everyone is allowed through. No drunks, as they tend to cause trouble. No women either, please, they might cause confusion. Whingers who express their despair during the application stage are deemed annoying and turned away.
Never before has a child registered. So there is some confusion when Martin steps forwards.
‘What’s your name?’ the scribe at the wooden lectern asks. There are probably ten men waiting behind Martin.
‘Martin.’
‘How old are you?’
Martin doesn’t know. The experienced scribe scrutinises him closely. The beautiful eyes that carry both pain and innocence. The long, thin limbs.
‘Thirteen, fourteen?’
Martin nods. He is so excited that his mouth is dry. The scribe notes down the number.
‘And what is your request?’ he then asks.
‘I want to speak to the princess.’
‘Everyone wants that. But what is your request?’
‘I want to tell the princess that.’
‘But I need to write it down first.’
‘Why?’ Martin asks.
‘So that I can announce it.’
‘You mean when I win?’
‘If you should win, then I could announce it,’ the scribe clarifies, drumming his fingers on the lectern.
‘How likely do you think it is that I’ll win?’ Martin asks.
‘Highly unlikely.’
‘Then it’s completely unnecessary for you to write it down.’
The men behind him grunt in agreement. The scribe sighs.
‘You need someone to vouch for you.’
Martin doesn’t understand.
‘Someone to pay for the damage you might cause during the game. Someone who can guarantee us that your intentions are honourable. Someone who will clean up if you should kill yourself.’
Martin is baffled. What’s this all about? The scribe waves his quill pen around.
‘I don’t know,’ Martin says.
‘So, no one,’ the scribe says, about to dismiss the boy.
‘I can vouch for him.’ A voice. The horseman’s wife. She is dressed in her finest attire. She stands tall and radiates beauty.
‘Fair enough,’ the scribe says. ‘But you are a woman.’
‘You are quite astute,’ the wife retorts.
‘So your vouching for him doesn’t count.’
The wife laughs. But the scribe doesn’t laugh.
‘Seriously?’ she asks.
‘Women don’t count.’
‘But the princess is a woman too,’ Martin says.
‘Don’t call her a woman,’ the scribe mumbles.
‘Then I will vouch,’ a voice sounds from afar.
The people make way for the limping horseman. He leans heavily on his stick. And his word counts. But he doesn’t sign, claiming he can’t write. His wife does so instead and the scribe is offended.
And so Martin is allowed to take part in the sleep game.