Timeless Tales Magazine: Rumpelstiltskin

rumpelstiltskin

Timeless Tales 9

Editor Tahlia Kirk

www.timelesstalesmagazine.com timelesstalesmagazine@gmail.com

Design and Layout Geoffrey Bunting

004 The Alchemy of Flight Charity West 0 1 4 Spin Me Thread of Gold Sarah Allison 0 2 4 Ugly Ones Kerry E.B. Black 0 3 2 Tears Seal the Deal Benjamin Langley 044 The Early Years Ray Daley 0 5 4 Addiction Aliza Faber 060 Void Sarah Sansolo 0 6 4 The Miller’s Daughter Sarah Sansolo 0 7 0 A Glass of Sherry Joshua de Vries 0 8 0 The Deal Jaquilla Edwards 090 Impatient History Dan Micklethwaite 1 0 2 Foolish Promises Melinda Brasher 1 1 2 The Miller’s Daughter Claire Southwell

Fiction

Words by

The Alchemy of Flight

Charity West

About the story

When I sat down to write this story, I knew I wanted to deal with the theme of transformation. I also wanted to retain the idea of the impossible task and the father’s exploitation of his daughter.

As I free-wrote and these ideas collided on the page, I began to see parallels between the story of the miller’s daughter and that of Daphne in Greek mythology. Both have situations forced on them by other people’s careless actions, and both receive a “happy ending” that is anything but. The miller’s daughter ends up married to a king who threatened her life, and Daphne ends up being turned into a tree to protect her from unwanted advances. I wanted to give them both a happier ending.

So, in writing this story, I did what I could to give them the power to change their fates.

the

al c hemy of

f l ig ht CJ West

Daphne floated in the dark. In the tank, she was no longer a tangle of limbs and organs, but a creature of imagination and possibility. A vein of light passing through leaves, a squirrel skittering along a branch, a root stretching interminably through the ground. All these things at once. She could be everything, anything—or nothing.

The door to the sensory deprivation tank clanged open, and Daphne winced. She opened her eyes, blinking away the salty wetness. Father and Dr. Konig stood silhouetted by harsh light. Daphne cringed away from them.

“She’s ready,” Father said. He didn’t look at her, but at Dr. Konig. Their faces lay half in shadow, but she saw the greed gleaming in their smiles.

“Yes. Bring her out.”

Father guided her into the testing chamber by her elbow.

After the peace of the tank, the white box of a room pressed in with its antiseptic smell. The linoleum felt waxy under her bare feet, and the fluorescent light clawed against her scalp, hot and raking.

Father’s voice echoed off the walls. “Do well on this and I’ll take you away from here. Anywhere you want to go.”

She closed her eyes and imagined a cool, dark forest.

A slow-moving river tumbling over rocks. She could smell the loam, the sweet spice of rotting leaves. The opposite of this sterile, white place. But no—she forced the image from her mind. Father wasn’t good at keeping promises.

She nodded though. If he thought she wouldn’t cooperate, it would only go worse for her.

“What do you need from me?” That was always the right question.

Father smiled, and Dr. Konig led her to the middle of the room where a white plastic stool stood behind a white plastic table. Straps lay shoulder-width apart in the table’s center. Those were new.

“What’s this?” she asked.

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“The day we’ve been working towards.” Had he misunderstood, or was he willfully ignoring her question? She decided not to test him.

Dr. Konig placed a bar of iron on the table. Her heart sank. Not this again. “But—” “You’re ready, Daphne.” There was a hard edge to his voice, more warning than encouragement. She sat. “There’s a good girl.” Daphne chafed. She was fifteen, not a child.

She didn’t protest as he strapped her wrists into the restraints, though she was aware of every thread of metal running through them. She’d tried fighting in the past, but they always overpowered her. Maybe if she didn’t exhaust herself first, she could do what they asked this time.

Father and Dr. Konig left the room. The wall opposite was opaque white. They didn’t know she could see their rough outlines and the gathered group of whitecoats behind.

This ability had grown throughout the preliminary trials.

She’d turned water to ice, split light into its spectrum, quenched fire with her mind. But this—she could never do it. Iron into gold. Alchemy.

The intercom hummed on, and Dr. Konig said, “Begin.”

The restraints gave her just enough leeway to touch the iron bar, cold beneath her trembling fingers. She closed her eyes and pushed her awareness into the metal. Its structure opened to her, flaked shards almost like roses.

So beautiful. She tried to nudge them, rearrange them. But iron wouldn’t give as the water had. It pressed back. She felt its solid resistance in every cell of her body.

She retreated. Already her limbs were sore and tired.

Dr. Konig demanded she try again.

She pressed into the iron, contorting her mind in different angles. In moments, her head ached as if she’d beaten it against stone. The ache intensified and sharpened to a point, a knife stabbing the base of her skull. With a cry, she pulled back.

She looked at the opaque wall, at Father’s blurry image just beyond.

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Her hands splayed open on the table. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

Dr. Konig’s shape moved toward something she couldn’t see.

She shouldn’t have been able to, but she heard Father murmur, “Not yet. Give her a moment.”

“There’s no use stalling,” Dr. Konig growled.

A stabbing sensation jolted through her wrists, then coursed through her body in waves. Her head thrust back, ears filling with the roaring of water. Her jaw clamped shut—she couldn’t even cry out.

The pain subsided slowly, and the intercom clicked on.

“That was not punishment.” Konig’s voice wore a mask of patience. “That was aide. I believe if you try again, you will be successful.”

She stared through the wall, tears dripping down her cheeks. His image sharpened until she could see the fire in his eyes. He would push her until she succeeded, or until she died.

She lifted a trembling hand to the iron bar.

Something felt . . . different. This time, her awareness slipped easily into the metal and the shards felt as soft as rose petals. They lay themselves before her, responding eagerly to her touch. With a gentle swirl, she rearranged them into a repeating honeycomb pattern. She opened her eyes. A gleaming bar of gold rested under her fingers.

It worked.

Her heart quailed. What would they ask of her now?

Daphne trembled on the stool as Konig re-entered the chamber. Around her lay the detritus of hours of work—gold littered the floor like straw. They’d sent three separate currents through her, letting her rest only moments between.

“It was so effective,” Konig reasoned. “We cannot hold back. Not when we’re so close.”

He placed something on the table and left the room.

Daphne stared down, uncomprehending. He’d left an incubator. A tiny blue-speckled egg rested gently inside.

Father’s voice reverberated through the room. “This egg

8 Timeless Tales 9

would naturally take two weeks to hatch. We’d like you to accelerate its growth. We want to see the bird fly.”

Daphne smiled through the echoes of pain. A living thing—maybe they would let her keep it. She placed her fingertips on the egg.

“It’s warm,” she said, smile broadening. Her awareness slipped into the egg, and she identified the golden orb of yolk. The beginning of an embryo had already formed, almost like a tulip. All it took was a little encouragement.

A heart formed, then the body around it. The tulip stalk thickened and turned, the whole embryo blossoming into a tail, a head—wing buds. Brain and eye unfurled, and a beak tipped free. In seconds, the tiny bird curled into being, pressing against the shell.

She let go, pulling her awareness away with a throaty laugh. The baby robin burst from the shell and changed in an eyeblink from nestling to fledgling. It spread its dark wings and took flight, its red throat flashing against the white walls.

Daphne leapt to her feet. The restraints kept her from moving toward the bird, but oh! She could feel it—the freedom, the rush of wings through the air. She barely heard the exclamations from the other side of the wall. She eased her awareness into the bird again. Not to change it, just to be with it. To experience its freedom.

But something was wrong. The wings were feeble, the heartbeat too fast. She pushed further and cried out in dismay. Its cells were rapidly repeating the process of growth and division. It was aging—and dying. She tried to stop it, to reverse what she had begun in the egg, but she couldn’t catch up. The bird fluttered to the floor, its breast quivering with the last effort of life. The robin’s pain and fear filled her. She yanked her awareness away.

Father and Konig burst into the room, grinning. They crushed the robin under their boots.

“Last one, Daphne.” Father brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Then you can rest. You can have another turn in

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the tank.” He’d already forgotten what he’d said about taking her away. Empty words, as always.

“That’s not what you promised,” she said. He ignored her and clapped Konig on the shoulder. They left her strapped to the table.

A birdcage rested on the table between her hands. The robin inside hopped from bar to bar, beating the air with its wings. They wanted her to change this one, too. But not its state, and not its genus or species. Its kingdom.

“From animal to plant, Daphne. Metamorphosis.”

Something had shifted inside her. The current had awoken her. She could already see how easy it would be to reach in and convince the cells to grow a wall, to take on chloroplasts and vacuoles. Her heart protested, and she closed her eyes against the image of the other robin dying on the floor.

But Father had said this was the last thing. If she did it, they would let her rest. The straps still chafed at her wrists, her skin burning beneath. If she didn’t do what they asked, they’d only torture her again.

Her awareness moved into the bird and she stroked its cells. The feathers began turning to bark. Shouts of excitement drowned out the bird’s panicked flapping.

“If she can do all this, just think what we could do with a second generation!”

“We must start oocyte extraction soon.”

Their words reverberated shockwaves through her.

Oocyte extraction—eggs. They meant to reproduce her— to take her children as they’d taken her life. How could Father stand by and let them do this? Participate in it?

Her eyes found his through the wall. There was no sorrow, no regret. Only greed.

He was no father.

Panic fluttered inside her, but she caught hold of it, transformed it to something more potent. She would not let him do this. Not to her, not to another like her.

Her hands pressed into the cold plastic table. She pulled her awareness from the bird, restoring bark to feather as

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she left, and moved into Father instead. She slipped into his cells as easily as falling into water.

Father cried out, but Daphne would not allow pity to stop her. He never had. At her urging, his feet turned to roots that pushed down into the floor. His legs became thick, ropy stalks and solidified into a trunk. His arms stretched out into branches, shattering the glass wall between them. His scream disappeared behind peeling bark. White flowers mingled with deep green, and the smell of bay leaves spiced the air.

Some of the whitecoats ran, others pushed into the room, led by Konig. She met his eye. She saw fear there.

She spread her awareness from her father to Konig, to the other scientists. How easy it was, how freeing. Their cells wanted to change. A gentle push, and the men and women became a forest of laurels, branches intertwining like the arms of dancers.

The growing canopy broke through the ceiling, shattering lights, and the roots thrust down, searching for soil.

She twitched a finger and the linoleum feathered into grass, walls melting into a rushing river.

Daphne looked down at her bound hands and laughed.

Nothing could bind her now. Her awareness danced into the material. The straps turned to water, washing over her aching wrists. She was free.

She bent to the table and loosed the bird. It fluttered into the nearby branches, then launched into the open sky.

Daphne moved around the table, a broken fairyland before her. She pressed her toes into the cool grass and stepped through the forest of laurels, white flowers falling around her like snow. Power coursed through her. She could be anything, do anything.

She was her own.

Without a glance back, Daphne stretched out her arms and ran.

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Fiction The Alchemy of Flight

About The Author

Charity West is a military brat who traveled the world before finally finding a home in Provo, Utah, and she lives there with her computer nerd husband and three darling children. She has been a freelance editor for eight years and has edited over 30 novels. She’s now feeling brave enough to see what it’s like on the other side of the manuscript. Her work has appeared in the Weird Reader and on Luna Station Quarterly. You can visit her website at charitywesteditor.com.

Fiction

Words by

Spin Me Thread of Gold

Sarah Allison

About the story

I first learned about Rumpelstiltskin from watching Muppet Classic Theatre. I loved that version, but when reading the original, I was struck by the theme of greed.

And there were plenty of questions to explore. What would it be like to be married to a king who once threatened you with execution? How does spinning straw into gold work? And of course, why does Rumpelstiltskin want a baby? I also drew inspiration from the Norwegian tale of The Three Aunts, where spinning has physically changed the Rumpelstiltskin-esque characters. From there, the story fell into place on its own.

SPIN ME THREAD OF GOLD SARAH ALLISON

When the Queen guessed his name, Rumpelstiltskin was so furious that he screamed and stomped and tore himself right in half—right there, on that very stone.”

The nurse pointed at one of the big stone tiles in the center of the floor. One had a distinct crack which did indeed look a bit like the mark of a small foot.

Princess Aurelia covered a gasp with her hands, even though she had heard this story many times before. Every night, in fact.

“And then the King and Queen lived happily,” said the nurse, tucking her in. “And they named their daughter…”

“Aurelia.” The girl snuggled into her pillow but did not close her eyes. “But what did Rumpelstiltskin want me for?”

“Because monsters always want to gobble up little girls who won’t go to sleep.”

“I am going to sleep. What did he look like?”

“He was tiny and hunched over until his beard scraped the ground, with huge eyes and yellow grabbing fingers.”

“But why would Papa put Mama in a dungeon and say he’d chop off her head if she didn’t spin enough gold?”

“People do strange things for love,” said the Queen as she leaned through the door. She wore her frothiest ballgown, hair piled above her head. She gave the nurse a stern look.

“And that’s enough of that story. Rumpelstiltskin’s dead and gone. You’re safe now, Aurelia, and that’s all that’s important.”

The nurse withdrew. The Queen sat down on her daughter’s bed. She pulled the jeweled pins from her hair and slipped her feet out of their cramped, high-heeled shoes.

She was still very young and beautiful, with hair the color of corn, but there was no hint of the miller’s daughter she

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had once been. She was Queen Marianna Gloria Cordelia the Resplendent and she answered to no other name.

“I just want to know more about the story,” said Aurelia.

“That’s all there is to it,” said the Queen, bestowing a kiss.

“Now put it out of your head, or you’ll have nightmares.” *** The King had not been pleased when the Queen revealed there would be no more spinning of gold. He was displeased again when Rumpelstiltskin died without giving up his secrets.

With a lover’s eye, he studied Rumpelstiltskin’s spinning wheel. It was, however, utterly ordinary. The straw-turnedgold revealed nothing. He even sent soldiers to search Rumpelstiltskin’s house at the other end of the forest. But the house was actually a cave full of treacherous twists and tunnels.

Only when Princess Aurelia was ten years of age did they unearth the secret of Rumpelstiltskin’s wealth. It was a grubby old book full of strange instructions. Both King and Queen poured over it. Eventually, she returned to her old spinning wheel and began to work. Her straw emerged as glittering twenty-four-karat fiber.

“This is a gift,” said the King. “The treasury has run almost bare.”

It was the first time the Queen had spun in years. She had sickened of it long ago. But she looked at the glistening newborn gold and thought of the jewels, gowns, and banquets they used to have. *** “It’s heavy,” cried Aurelia. The necklace around her throat was all knobs and hooks of cold metal and stone. Her dress shone. Her hair was stuck with tiny moons and suns.

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“You have to wear it.” The Queen chucked her chin.

“Tonight we show everyone how prosperous our kingdom is.”

They ate the richest delicacies and, for dessert, cake encrusted in gold foil. The visiting ambassadors’ eyes gathered golden reflections. Every surface of the palace seemed to have been dipped in the blood of the sun.

Aurelia watched her parents dance together that night.

They were laughing.

The King said spinning was women’s work, but the Queen could only produce so much gold on her own. He feared people might steal what they spun, or worse, discover the secret of creating gold themselves. So he joined her in the spinning room with a wheel of his own. They built a new summer home and bought new carriages.

The King complained of rising prices, but the treasury never fell empty. They could personally replace every coin they spent.

The couple spun even more. They hunched over their work until their backs were permanently bowed. Their eyes were red and round as plates from staring, their feet flat from peddling, their thumbs yellowed from twisting the precious thread.

Then, when Aurelia was sixteen, the cabinet called the King and Queen to a private conference.

“Your majesty, I do not know how to tell you this, but it seems...it appears...with the sheer amount of gold being produced, and the amount of supplies being bought...”

“Spit it out, man!” said the King.

“There is so much gold that it has become worthless.

You might as well try to buy things with—with straw.”

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The King and Queen poured over the book all night, grasping at the pages with yellowed fingers.

“I have ruined myself.” Tears dripped down the Queen’s chin. “I was beautiful once. Now look at what this book has done to me. I should throw it in the fire.”

“No! Look how much more there is to learn. We can spin anything—silver, rubies, diamonds. We’ll be more cautious this time.”

“I am tired of spinning! There must be a way to reverse this.”

She was right. The all-knowing book told them exactly how to regain their old appearances.

Innocent blood, fairly bought, Freely given without thought.

That which has no ken of greed, Takes only what it truly needs.

What it meant, the King pondered and guessed. But the Queen knew from the moment she read it.

She needed a baby. But she couldn’t just demand one.

She had to work out a way to trade for it. That was the way the magic worked.

But all her deals fell through. Once she tried Rumpelstiltskin’s old name-guessing game, but somehow the parents found out her real name. Not Marianna, not Gloria, not Cordelia. Just Molly. Plain Molly, the miller’s daughter.

She never found out who had told them.

Their gold was worth no more than tin now. Their small kingdom’s power buckled at the knees. A few years ago, kings had clamored to wed Aurelia. Now she came with nothing but the promise of a patch of land and quite a few castles, albeit covered in worthless, unsightly gold decorations. The King barely slept as he tried to rebuild his wealth. The Queen

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tried again and again to obtain an innocent infant, but even when she cornered the most desperate mothers, it seemed someone was already going behind her back to help them.

Aurelia was eighteen when the people, hungry and frustrated, led a revolution. The soldiers defeated them easily. But the soldiers were hungry too. They did not quell the next rebellion so easily.

It was night. The King and Queen scurried around the spinning room in a panic. Their work had shriveled them until there was almost nothing left.

As they gathered their possessions in their shrunken arms, Aurelia entered. She couldn’t walk a straight line in the crowded room, but had to weave between mounds of silver, iron, fabric and trash.

“You’re here,” said the King. “Take this spindle—and that—but hurry. We must flee.”

Obedient, the young princess took up an armful. She plucked the book from the King’s hands to carry it out.

The Queen ran to the window and mounted a stool to see over the sill. Outside, far below, torches flared and voices shouted. The castle was surrounded.

“Move!” the King said to Aurelia. “Don’t you know we’re under attack?”

Aurelia, the Queen noticed now, was not in her nightclothes. She was dressed and had her shoes on.

“I know we’re under attack,” she said, pausing by the fireplace. “I’m the one leading the rebellion.”

With a flick of her wrist she cast the book into the flames.

The Queen wailed. The King reached into the fire but drew back with a roar of pain. The book’s paper and ink blended into black ash.

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Calm and quiet, Aurelia took up a torch and applied it to the nearest spinning wheel. In the spreading firelight, she looked like an empress. The Queen knew this was the person who had thwarted her plans and rescued child after child.

“Why are you doing this?” cried the Queen, while the King stomped and screamed in rage. The book was irrecoverable. The spinning wheels would soon follow.

“People do strange things for love,” Aurelia said. “The fire’s spreading. Come downstairs.”

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Fiction Spin Me Thread of Gold

About The Author

Hailing from Florida, Sarah Allison wears many hats, but her favorite thing to do is write. Her works have been published in Liguorian Magazine, NonBinary Review, and Enchanted Conversation.

Visit her blog on fairytales and folklore at writinginmargins.weebly.com.

Fiction

Words by

Ugly Ones

Kerry E.B. Black

About the story

Fairy tales long fascinated me, so when allowed a chance to explore one as beloved and compelling as Rumpelstiltskin, I jumped at the opportunity. Fairy tales allow us to examine our fears and morality from a safe distance, revealing thereby our inner-most hearts.

My version is turned a bit on its ear in where broken promises and true names have power. Although Rumpel held up his end of the bargain, people tend to believe the best of the beautiful and disdain the ugly.

Kerry E.B. Black

As I did every early morning, I took a cup of tea in the front garden and listened to nature going about its business.

Sun streamed through a clear sky. I noticed my goat needed her tether moved. Bees hummed among late-blooming flowers, and a dragonfly chased a hummingbird, nearly colliding with my head. I make my section of Hell as pleasant as I can.

The view blurred, swirled together as though the world spiraled through a funnel. My stomach clenched with an all-too-familiar dread. I closed my eyes to the disorientation, clinging to the knowledge of who I am: Rumpelstiltskin. The air grew thick with transition. My being stretched thin and became as insubstantial as stratus clouds. A scream threatened to erupt, but I pressed my will shut to prevent its escape. I would not give my summoner the pleasure of my pain.

She stood beyond my cage, more beautiful than ever, though I knew her unaltered form to be even more lovely than the artifice presented. Her hair was piled atop her head in radiant ringlets and a triumphant smile played on her child-cruel lips. Her silken gown glowed atop her corsetry and jewels sparkled from her throat all the way to her clever, moon-pale hands.

After the dizziness passed, I said, “My lady, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

I attempted to bow at the waist, but pain prevented the execution of this polite gesture. She’d drawn the circle too small and I slammed into the invisible barrier.

Her laugher shamed Titania’s fabled mirth. “Oh, do be careful, Rumpelstiltskin. Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

She walked the circle, eyes twinkling in the low light. I

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followed her progress as best I could from my confinement.

No breach in the defenses. No escape from her prison.

“Here’s the deal, Rumpie. I need you to leave my son alone.

Do you understand me?”

“Who, m’lady?”

“You know of whom I speak. Leave the boy alone. You lost. Move on with your life.”

I spun a silver ring on my left hand, recalling happier times. “I have moved on, yet here you are, pulling me back into this mess. What an unworthy action, m’lady. I’m not bothering the boy. I don’t even know his name.”

She leaned close. I inhaled her perfume, a floral conglomeration about which I dream. “He told me a troll was stalking him at the play area, asking his real name.”

I blinked my innocence. “I’m not a troll. You know that.

I’m your demon lover.”

Her nostrils flared. “You’re not my anything, Rumpelstiltskin, and the child’s nothing to you.”

I ran my tongue along my uneven teeth, enjoying the tang of blood as the sharp edges left tiny scratches. “Another unworthy comment, m’lady, but from you I’d expect nothing else. You’re a cruel mistress, dishonest and double-dealing.

The child’s mine as much as yours. You got your crown as I promised. I did the work, spun straw into gold. You connived a way out of holding up your end of the bargain.”

She twirled a lacing close to her scooped neckline, ever the coquet. “Oh, you silly creature. We signed no contract.”

“I thought we dealt in good faith.” The ring bit into my finger, a memorial to lost faith, a gift from a doomed Miller’s daughter. She’d summoned me in her hour of need, plied me with attention to achieve her ends. I licked lips aching

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for her kisses. My pointed ears echoed with broken promises. A songbird fluttered into the room and alighted on her outstretched finger. It trilled its message and left. “You’ve an assignation, m’lady, and I heard your complaint. Why don’t you release me now, unless you like my company?”

She narrowed her eyes and pinched her lips. “You’ll wait, Rumpelstiltskin, until it suits me.” Her skirts swirled around her calves as she left. I sat on the hard floor of in my invisible cell. A tentative crinkling alerted me to his presence— the boy with her eyes and upturned nose. He clutched a sleeping puppy to his chest. “It’s you again. Momma said I mustn’t talk with you.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugged. “Said you’re bad and would take me away.”

I longed to touch the fullness of his cheek, kiss the crest of his curls—my curls—the only feature of his that belonged to me. “I’d never hurt you, son.”

The boy sat near me. “I know.” His foot scuffed the magic circle. I didn’t care. He held me more effectively than her spell. “Do you like my puppy? His name’s Jiffy.”

I couldn’t help myself. “What’s his real name, son?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like we talked about before. His real name. The one his momma breathed into his heart when he was born.”

He wrinkled his forehead, considering. “Gruff, I think.”

The puppy lifted its head and blinked into attention.

I cackled. “That’s it, alright. Good job.” My heart skipped an irregular beat. I leaned closer. ”And what’s your real name?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I bet it’s Corwin.”

I felt its power and nodded. “Good name. Do you mind if I call on you now and then, Corwin?”

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“I don’t want you to take me away from my family.”

I nodded. “I’m part of your family, and I’d bring you back after our visits.”

Before the child could answer, his mother rushed in with orders for her guards. “Seize that creature and get him away from the prince!”

None of the military men noticed the symbols of witchery. They believed her honeyed assertions and disregarded my truth. With a puff of sulfur, I escaped to my home to prepare a room for my son’s impending visit.

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Fiction Ugly Ones

About The Author

Kerry E.B. Black resides in a land of bridges and fog-covered rivers where magic happens most every evening. Kerry parents 5 amazing young people and shepherds their menagerie which consists of an excellent service dog named Latte, cats named Poe, Hemingway, and P.D. James, and a superhero Betta fish. Although she enjoys every holiday to the utmost, Kerry strives to make every day a celebration. Please follow her at kerrylizblack.wordpress.com.

Fiction

Words by

Tears Seal the Deal

Benjamin Langley

About the story

‘Rumpelstiltskin’ has always been one of my favourite fairy tales – possibly because in one version I read, “Benjamin” was one of the names guessed by the miller’s daughter. I have also taught the English variant ‘Tom Tit Tot’ to some of my classes in the past to consider how the setting affected the story. With that at the forefront of my mind, when crafting my own version, I thought about where I could transport the tale to, and the Middle East seemed like an apt setting given the current refugee crisis.

I wanted to keep many of the aspects I love from the original tale in place, so I tried to work in the desperation of the protagonist, and the guessing of the name, but I also wanted to bring in an interesting twist upon that ending. I only hope that readers enjoy their experience of reading my version of this wonderful fairy tale as much as I did writing it.

Tears seal the deal

BENJAMIN LANGLEY

Maya cradled her bump as she clambered over the debris that littered the courtyard. The building had once been a mosque, but the domed roof had collapsed - another casualty of the nightly bombings. She passed through a breach in the concrete wall, crossed the street and approached a twisted doorway where she’d been told she could find a doctor. The foul stench of death told her she was in the right place.

Inside, row after row of injured people were holding wounds and gasping. The stench of infection hung heavily in the sick air. It was a smell that she knew well – a smell that had necessitated her journey. On the far side of the room, the doctor was kneeling over a patient on a makeshift bed, reapplying dressing.

“Help!” called Maya.

The doctor looked round and sighed.

“I need antibiotics,” Maya said. “I have money. I can pay.”

The doctor shuffled between bedridden bodies towards her. “What good to me is money?” He looked round at the beds full of the sick and dying. “I have medicine. Tell me, why should I give any to you?”

She thought of Adnan, and the moment the bullet tore into him during the chaos of their escape from Aleppo.

“My husband’s been shot. I got the bullet out… but the infection is spreading. Please.”

The doctor pointed at three men. “Infection. Infection.

Infection. Why is your husband more worthy than these men?”

Maya glanced at her belly.

“I don’t care about your baby. Why bring another mouth to feed into this godforsaken country?”

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“So what do you care about?”

“You want to look after your family and I want to look after mine. Can you get them out of this nightmare?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“Get my family out and I’ll give you medicine.”

As soon as she had said it, she doubted she could keep her end of the bargain. She had money, but so did all those queuing to pay the gangs that controlled the boats. There simply wasn’t enough space – but could she plead for preferential treatment or buy her way to the front of the queue?

She reached the ramshackle dock by early afternoon.

Two boats were there, already crammed with people. Maya pushed through the crowds to a man clearly in control.

“What would it take to get on a boat?” She gazed at her bulging belly, hoping to gain sympathy.

He gave her an astounding figure and wielded his rifle in a way that suggested it was non-negotiable.

So the price was still rising. Since the start of the civil war, everything had cost more. That was all she had; getting the doctor’s family on board would clear her out, leave her trapped. But if she couldn’t get them on the boat, then she couldn’t get the medicine. If she couldn’t get the medicine, then surely Adnan would die. If Adnan died, what hope did she have of surviving as a single mother surrounded by war?

Bereft of strength, she tottered over to a pile of rubble where she sat and wept. The heat of the day was getting to her, blurring her vision. How long had it been since she’d last eaten? As she pondered this, a hunched figure emerged from the crowd, walking with a stick. He wore a burgundy

Timeless Tales 9 35

kufi cap quite unlike any that she had seen before. His skin was thin and tight across his face almost showing the white of the bone through it. As he sat beside her, he smoothed his dirty grey beard.

“Don’t cry, little one,” he said, producing a handkerchief from his pocket.

Normally, Maya would be wary of strangers, but she took the handkerchief without hesitation and mopped her tears with it.

“I can give you what you need,” he said.

“I… I don’t have enough.”

“Don’t worry about how you pay.” As if uncomfortable with making eye-contact while talking business, he looked down. “We sort that out later. Agree?”

Maya nodded and padded her wet eyes again.

He took back the handkerchief and placed it in his breast pocket, patting it twice. “Come tonight. I take three. Meet there as the clock strikes one.” He pointed to a wooden building, strangely untouched by the war.

When Maya turned back he was gone. She scanned the crowd, hoping to see that kufi cap, but it was nowhere to be seen.

She returned to the doctor to explain the arrangements.

He gave her a single pill, and promised more when his family were on their way.

At home, Adnan lay under sheets soaked with sweat.

Delicately she pulled them away from his shoulder. He winced. It looked worse. She could feel the heat radiating from the red and angry wound. She struggled to prop him up, gave him water, and forced him to swallow the pill.

Then she lay beside him and fell into a troubled sleep.

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When she woke, the face of the strange man was fixed firmly in her mind. It no longer seemed real. What if she’d imagined the encounter? Would she arrive at the dock to find no one there, and have to face the wrath of the doctor?

She checked on Adnan again, forcing both him and herself to consume a little bit of stale bread. If she could move Adnan, if she could get him to the dock, they could take the place on the boat and find medical help across the sea.

But given that she could barely prop him up, there was no way she could carry him five miles over rubble and through collapsing buildings to the dock. No, she would have to wait until he was fit to escape the war.

The doctor was waiting at the dock with his wife and two young children. The strange man was nowhere to be seen. Crowds of people were still cramming on board the boats. Maya tried to spot the burgundy kufi among them, but with the only light coming from a few waving torches, she saw nothing.

Irritated, the doctor spoke: “Where is he?”

Before Maya could reply a voice cut in.

“I apologise for my tardiness.” The shrunken, old man stood before them, smiling. His teeth looked sharper than Maya remembered. “Only three,” said the man.

“I’m not coming,” said the doctor. “How do you going to get onto those boats?” He stared at those wielding guns and taking wads of cash from the passengers.

“I have transport.” He waved his hand towards the water where a black dinghy, which Maya was sure hadn’t been there before, was waiting. “Follow me.”

The old man led the doctor’s family to the boat. Soon they were out of sight.

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“I need the rest of the medicine, now,” Maya said.

The doctor handed her three pills.

“Three? This isn’t enough.”

“It will get you by until tomorrow. When I hear from my family, you will get more.”

By morning, Adnan’s fever had lessened. The antibiotics seemed to have had a positive effect, and he eagerly consumed some water. With it, he took another pill. But by the end of the day she would have none left. The infection would come raging back.

After a meagre breakfast, she journeyed back to the doctor. In his makeshift surgery, fewer beds were occupied, but the stench of death had grown. “Thank you,” said the doctor. “I heard this morning. They are in a better place now.”

“I need more pills.”

The doctor handed her four antibiotics.

Maya looked down at them, disgusted. “This isn’t enough.”

“I have a big family.”

Maya returned to the docks, and again, it wasn’t until she was in tears that the strange man emerged. Again an agreement was reached, three more people with payment to come later, and again the voyage was made.

On the third night, the doctor boarded the dinghy.

He gave Maya sufficient antibiotics to kill off the infection.

When they were all aboard, the little man returned to the dock.

“It’s time we spoke of payment,” said the man. Again he refused to make eye contact, looking down at her belly.

“Okay,” said Maya. She felt for the bulge of cash in her pocket.

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“In return for my services, you give me the child.” He stared longingly at her bump.

“No,” she cried, stepping away.

“You promised.”

“I promised you nothing.”

The man withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

“Tears seal the deal. When babe is born, mine it will be.”

With that, he disappeared.

Maya looked towards the dock, to where the dinghy should have been, but it was gone. In fact, the first of the morning light was now beginning to emerge. Had he put her to sleep? She made her way back home, back to Adnan, but she could take no comfort in his improved appearance.

Weeks passed with no sign of the crooked man. The idea of him made Maya more nervous than the threat of gas and the military groups that passed through the city. Adnan’s infection was gone, and while he did not have full movement of his shoulder, when relaxed, it was largely pain-free.

“We need to leave the city before the baby comes,” Maya said.

“It’s too dangerous. The military are sinking boats now, and they haven’t stopped bombing for days.”

“We have to go. If we stay… I’m afraid for the safety of our baby.”

So Adnan agreed to go to the docks to see if they could secure passage. As they got closer to the dock, they got closer to the blasts with buildings collapsing into piles of rubble all around them. With one of those explosions came her first contraction.

Maya leant against a pile of rubble as another wave of pain hit her.

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“You can’t have the baby here,” said Adnan. He tried to take her weight, to help her towards the boats, but he didn’t have the strength.

“I’m not sure I have a choice,” Maya replied, doubling over with the pain.

They took shelter under a corrugated iron roof, but it would offer little resistance to a bomb, or ever a decentsized chunk of debris. Maya suffered another wave of pain.

“I’ll get help,” said Adnan. He climbed over a pile of rubble and was quickly out of sight.

“Almost time to pay.”

Maya recognised the voice immediately. The man eagerly rubbed together his hands.

“I’m keeping my baby.”

“Okay,” said the man, “I’ll give you a chance. You win, you keep baby. I win, I take you too.”

Seeing no other option, and fighting another wave of pain, Maya nodded.

“Three guesses. Guess my name, keep your baby.”

After another contraction Maya stared at the warped man and blurted out the first name she could think of: “Bashar.”

He laughed, and started dancing gleefully.

This seemed familiar to Maya. She remembered the folktales she read as a child. Yes – a little imp who could spin gold from straw in exchange for a child. After another spike of pain, the name popped into her head: “Rumpelstiltskin?”

The little man’s smile faded. He glared at Maya. “No,” he said. “Why do people always think that?”

Maya felt another contraction, this one more excruciating than before. She glanced down. There was blood, too much blood. Something was wrong.

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On the rubble, the creature sat, watching the life drain from Maya.

Adnan returned and rushed to Maya. “I heard you scream.

What’s wrong?”

Weakly she pointed to the creature.

Adnan looked, but saw nothing. “You have to push, Maya,” Adnan said. “You’re bleeding badly. I can’t stop it until the baby’s out.”

Maya stared at the creature, and summoned the strength to push. “Death?” she uttered.

The creature gave a frustrated cry. “How?” His burgundy kufi cap transformed into a black cowl, his face became skeletal, and he disappeared as Maya’s baby, healthy and pure, gave its first cry to the world.

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Fiction Tears Seal the Deal

About The Author

Benjamin Langley has always been a keen reader of fairy tales, and the magic within them has crept its way into many of his published works, all of which can be found on his blog: benjaminlangleywriter.wordpress.com Benjamin completed an MA in Creative Writing at Anglia Ruskin University in 2012. Since then he has written a pair of supernatural novels set in the Cambridgeshire Fens for which he is currently seeking publication. Benjamin is also very excited to be involved in the anthology, Sherlock Holmes: Adventures in the Realm of H.G. Wells which is now available. Benjamin writes and teaches in Cambridgeshire, UK.

Fiction

Words by

The Early Years

Ray Daley

About the story

Kathleen Watson, one of my twitter followers, suggested the idea of Young Rumpelstiltskin with me filling in the actual details. My original was a gendershift story, but I got stuck and asked my tweeps for help. I guess the rest is literacy. (Bad joke)

The Early Years Ray Daley

I’ve tired of being in thse same place. They won’t let me move on until I’ve mastered spinning class. I’m at least three times older than anyone else here, including the teacher. Manakins we, patiently waiting for that most magical of events, the successful spins.

“Rum dear, you simply must show your talent. Our beloved Queen can’t be seen to have handed out nothing to one of her subjects, can she?”

I hate it when she calls me Rum. She knows how much I hate it. I can’t dissuade her from saying otherwise. I’m two hundred and forty-six. I should be treated with respect.

Instead I’m an object of ridicule, there for the amusement of others.

The rest of the class are children. I remember the first time I took this class, when I was their age...

The spinning wheels sat there with the various items we were required to test. Everyone can spin something into something else. Mostly it’s useful things, like wool into chainmail, or grass into chickens. Oh, to be Emmanuel on the day he discovered he could spin grass into live chickens.

Most plant matter in fact—not just grass. His father had him out working before the term ended. Daddy dearest had retired by the end of the following year, seeing as there wasn’t much call for being able to spin straw into slightly higher grade straw. Instead he had good old Emmanuel supporting the entire family. They were raking it in, hand over fist.

Most of my classmates found their talent quickly. They tried grass, straw, paper, cotton, any number of thin metals

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too. Macalief was the last from my first year to find his talent, finally discovering he could spin cloth into pigs.

Gloucester Old Spots. Good eating, they were.

Then it was just me and the teacher, an aging fellow coming to the end of his career. Desperate to get rid of his final commitment to education: me. “Now then, Rumpelstiltskin. We’ve tried everything I can think of. You must be able to spin something by now?” I could tell how much he tired of being in my presence. I didn’t feel all that happy about the state of affairs either. I wanted to be out of school as much as he wanted me gone.

“I’m not doing it deliberately sir. I’ve tried making things.

When I spin grass, it just comes out as threaded grass. And that’s no use to anyone. Unless someone needs fodder for their animals.” With all the free grazing so readily available, that was never going to happen.

I’ll admit, I’d come close a few times. Spun grass into wool once. Once only, mind you. Couldn’t repeat the feat, though. It’s no good unless you can do it at least three times. I was really pleased that day. My hand went right up. “Sir! I did it! I made wool from grass!”

Of course, the teacher came straight over, carrying a handful of fresh grass for me to work with. I started pressing on the treadle, feeding it in. Only trouble? It was just damn grass coming out the other end as well. No wool. I pleaded with him for an hour. “I can get this, just stay a few more minutes, sir. I had it. I really did have it!”

In the end, he had to carry me out of the class so he could lock up and go home...

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So here we were again. Miss Windcliffe still calling me Rum, much to my chagrin. The other kids calling me “old man”, or much worse when they think the teacher isn’t listening. I absolutely hated children.

I didn’t even like being one. I’d spent today working with paper and cloth. There was an hour to go. Most of them would get it before that time expired, what with the added pressure of this being the last day of term and all.

Then I heard one of their droning voices. “There’s no paper left, Miss! The old man used it all up. Does he have to be here Miss? It’s embarrassing!” I tuned them out, and stood from my spinning wheel.

There was plenty of straw left on the pile. It’s the one thing we have an abundance of. No one really wanted to use that. Spinning straw into anything else is considered more a curse than a blessing, but those who can spin straw still manage to scrape a crumb together. They don’t go hungry. Not starving, at least.

Flious, the kid behind me had now passed his third test.

He was a freak. Most manakins could spin one item into something else. The odd handful could spin two items into different objects. Before today, no-one had ever been able to spin three different things. I should know, I’ve personally witnessed most of the classes. He’d just discovered he could spin cloth into diamonds. He decided to spend the last hour throwing spit balls at the back of my head. I shook it off, wiped my neck and readied my material, thinking dark thoughts. What I’d do to that little git given two minutes alone and a sharp skewer.

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I started the treadle, began feeding the straw in. My thoughts were coated in blood and gore. Flious writhing in agony.

Then I was aware it was Miss Windcliffe tapping me on the shoulder. “Rum? Rum, dear! Can you do that again please?”

I’d had my eyes closed the entire time, feeding straw into the spinning wheel. And somehow I’d managed to transmute it into gold.

Oh hell. Not gold! That’s worse than not being able to change it at all. There’s no demand for gold in the manakin community! Not when your friends can spin grass into pigs or chickens.

“I’ve done it?” My voice surprised as Miss Windcliffe’s.

But she’d already brought two more baskets of straw over for another attempt.

I took the reel of spun gold off and replaced another blank. I ran through my head where I’d been. Doing serious mental harm to Master Flious, wasn’t it? Okay. I could get back there. I started reconstructing my head space from a few moments ago.

Foot on the treadle again. Straw ready to feed. Bloody skewers and bile. Eyes closed. Perfect bliss. And go.

“Well done dear. Once more and you’ve passed!” I didn’t even notice the passage of time between starting and having filled another reel with useless gold.

The one thing I did notice was the distinct lack of crowing from behind me. As I turned around, I saw why. There was an empty seat. Flious had taken his third pass certificate

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and quietly scarpered off home. Damn! Could I do it a third time without him breathing down my neck like a madman?

Only one way to find out, I guess.

I loaded another empty spool, readied the final basket of hay and tried to return my mind back into a state of murder. In my head I’d already substituted Miss Windcliffe’s hand on the back of my chair for Flious trying to pull my seat out from under me for the four hundredth time.

And that got me there. Death, death, die Flious, you smug little git!

I treadled like my very life depended on it. Which, quite frankly, it did. If I had to go back to this class again next year, I’d go hang myself from the highest tower in the city.

And I wouldn’t do a good job of that either. Gods know I’d tried three times already. Failed each time. I broke my hip when the noose snapped last time.

More straw. More straw. Why the hell isn’t there more straw? I’ll kill you if you don’t give me more straw! I could visualise the blood streaming down Flious’ face and chest now. Yes. His screams were sheer bliss to me. The music of the spheres, made flesh and bone. His siren calls lured me in deeper to my fate. I could vaguely hear him trying to speak through the screams of pain and agony.

Then I realised it wasn’t him speaking. It was Miss Windcliffe. I opened my eyes. Her smile was so far removed from the images I’d just been playing in my mind. It was like she was trying to coat me in pure sugar. “You’ve done it dear! You passed! You finally passed!”

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I accepted my pass certificate with all the grace that a two hundred and forty-six-year-old manakin can possibly muster. I faked a smile, shook her hand, and thanked Miss Windcliffe for her patience.

I can get one free item with this certificate. It’ll never buy enough alcohol to dull my rage. And I’ll never find anyone who needs straw spun into gold, not as long as I live.

Instead I’ll find a nice quiet cave. I’m going to just lay there until I expire from natural causes. Or a bear. Hopefully a bear.

I am Rumpelstiltskin, and I have no use.

Why did it have to be gold?

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Fiction The Early Years

About The Author

Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there.

He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10.

He is primarily a sci-fi writer. He has previously been published in the Crimson Cloak Publishing time travel anthology Steps in Time. He is currently appearing in the anthology Deserts of Fire as well as the just released When You’re Strange: An Anthology of Strangers. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he’s been writing since 1986.

You can follow his blog at raymondwriteswrongs.wordpress.com

Poetry

Words by

Addiction

Aliza Faber

About the poem

Rumpelstiltskin has always been a favorite tale of mine, and I’ve had a number of ideas for adaptations running through my head for the past few years. “Addiction” was born when I tried to fit the elements of Rumpelstiltskin into a contemporary setting. The idea of drugs, or addiction, as something desperate people are willing to give anything for popped into my mind, and the rest of the comparison just sort of clicked perfectly into place.

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ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION

A L I Z A FA B E R ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION

ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION ADDICTION

You come to me when you are desperate, when you are sold away by lies of grandeur and riches you— you poor innocent fool— cannot possibly hope to achieve.

Locked away, with demands as your prison walls and debt as the unattainable key; desperate, you turn to me, willing to give the little you havetrinkets or cheap jewels anything at all so that I will spin your suffocating, overwhelming, straw world, into a golden, blissful haze.

When you run out of things to sell you sell yourself, your body, your soul, all you have left to attain me no matter the cost.

For the piles of straw continue to grow as debt does not release you and you need me, you have no choice for without the golden haze you are as good as dead.

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When the babe is born, will it wake you from your sleep?

Or will you sacrifice it, too, to my demands and allow me to take you from your child?

Will you, at last, no matter how hard, Name me for what I am?

And by naming me finally face me, tear me in two, remove me from your life to reign over your world and hold your child safe in your arms.

Timeless Tales 9 57

Poetry Addiction

About The Author

Aliza Faber has loved fairy tales for as long as she can remember. She is currently studying folklore, philosophy and psychology in university and tries to find time to write in her (nonexistent) spare time. When she can, she likes to travel and see new places.

She has published a few pieces in Enchanted Conversations, and her attempt at a fairy tale oriented blog is slowly gathering dust at taleaday.blogspot.co.il.

Poetry

Words by

Void

Sarah Sansolo

About the poem

I wrote “Void” shortly after learning from my doctor that I have a misshapen uterus that might make pregnancy impossible.

Having kids has never been something I’ve particularly cared about, but I’d always taken the possibility for granted. Finding out that option was gone shook me harder than I’d expected. I often turn to fairytales when trying to write about feelings too big to face directly, and there are many fairytales that include infertility.

I chose Rumpelstiltskin both because of his desire for a child and because of the obsession that his Once Upon a Time version had with contracts. The idea of a broken deal became a central theme and is one of the title’s two meanings.

i Vo d sarah sansalo

The doctor draws hieroglyphs, explains the impossible: this deal I’ve inked in blood a dozen times a year is null and void. Beneath the thrum of water the fine print runs and I don’t know what it is I wish for. My hand, forced, my signature old and blocky at the bottom of the page.

Tell me no. No point in the ritual, the ache, the ruins. Suddenly the wanting begins, this candle burning in a vacuum, no oxygen.

I never asked much, never asked for the blood and break of womanhood but here I am, wanting, every crevice empty.

I could wish for change but magic, they tell me, comes at a price. I could wish for fixing, I could wish to be the one who fixes, who reaches for the desperate girls locked away and tells them I can answer any question, perform any miracle. I could be the one who pens the contracts, all the terms in my favor.

I would ask them to guess my name but it’s far too easy. There will be

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no firstborn child to cradle in the void between my breasts and call mine. There will be no debt repaid. There will be no miller’s daughters or strands of gold caught in my hair.

Only empty rooms, a handful of straw. I go home alone, divide my hair between two fists, tug until I rip, beside myself.

Timeless Tales 9 63

Poetry

Words by

The Miller’s Daughter

Sarah Sansolo

About the poem

“The Miller’s Daughter” is one is a series of feminist takes on fairytales I began during National Poetry Writing Month in 2016.

“Rumpelstiltskin” is all about names, yet the heroine is never named. “Miller’s Daughter” and “princess/queen” define her in terms of the men in her life. She doesn’t even earn a spot in the title—a man, in this case the villain—takes that as well. I wanted to explore this woman that, like her name, keeps silent. So I wrote a sonnet that takes place after the action of the story.

THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER

SARAH SANSALO

For all this talk of names no one asks for mine.

I have one—guess it if you like. It’s easy, fine for a sturdy girl who feels a fraud, fingers pricked by needle and straw.

I suppose it doesn’t matter to men what to call something they trade between them, but they carve their horses’ names onto their stalls.

My name is not written on anything at all.

I exist in the possessive sense: miller’s daughter, prince’s wife, kingdom’s queen, child’s mother, and I’m worth no more than I can spin, gold from hands and child within.

My second-born, one nobody will want to steal. Name her after me.

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Timeless Tales 9 67

Poetry Void & The Miller’s Daughter

About The Author

Sarah Sansolo is a fairytale enthusiast who lives in Arlington, VA with the world’s best beagle. She is a graduate of the American University MFA program and was the winner of the Summer 2016 Sixfold poetry contest. Her poetry has appeared in Split This Rock, District Lit, Adanna, Big Lucks, and VIATOR. For more fairytale adventures, check out: “Bedtime Stories” & Other Poems in Sixfold “Tower for Two” in Flaunt (www.flaunt.com/content/art/fiction-tower-two).

Find Sarah online at sarahsansolo.weebly.com

Fiction

Words by

A Glass of Sherry

Joshua de Vries

About the story

The vision of Rumpelstiltskin that we get in the original tale is of a broken creature who cons people out of treasure and children yet lives in a small cottage alone.

Why didn’t he have a lavish castle populated with captured slaves?

Clearly, he must have gotten something out of his deals other than the physical treasures people traded to him. So, I wanted a Rumpelstiltskin who had found a way beyond his addiction to these magical deals‌and then tempt him with another (because writers are mean that way).

A GL ASS OF SHERRY

Joshua de Vries

1886 “Hey!” Rum Stilson stepped from the carriage and regarded his home’s façade with a contented smile. He was delighted to discover himself eager for a warm fire, a glass of sherry, and an evening of reclusive inaction.

“Hey, you!”

Rum sidestepped the wide-eyed youth who greeted him, sleek boots thumping against the cobblestones of his New York street with an impatient cadence. When the youth called after him a third time, Rum turned from the waiting doorknob, lest the urchin try and follow him inside.

“It is quite rude to accost people outside their homes, young man,” he said, his voice rich and measured as fine coffee.

“Beg pardon, but I need to speak to you.”

Rum allowed himself a patronizing sigh as he opened the door. “You don’t need to speak to me. I’m uninterested in whatever you’re selling. Off with you.”

“I’m not selling nothing. My father—” “It’s ‘anything,’ not ‘nothing.’ Are you Fulton Lyon’s boy? I told him—” “Don’t know him,” the boy interrupted, scratching at something on the back of his neck. “My dad’s Tom Perkins.

And he’s sick.”

“I am no doctor.”

“And I ain’t no fool. I know you. I know who you really are.

And I want to make a deal for his life. The kind of deals you used to make.”

Rum had too much self-control to visibly pale, but he narrowed his eyes. The boy was about sixteen with pale kinetic eyes, dark hair, and a tendency to worry at a loose coat button. Nothing about him seemed familiar. And Rum never forgot anything, least of all faces. Especially the face

72 Timeless Tales 9

he now wore, traded to him from a desperate man. The face that had freed him.

“You’ve confused me with someone else,” he replied and shut the door behind him with a pointed click of a brass bolt.

“I know your real name!” the boy shouted through the closed door. “I’ll say it out loud!”

“Go ahead,” Rum muttered darkly.

The boy remained for the next two days, confronting him morning and night. At the end of the third day, Rum returned home to find him asleep in the flower beds next to his stoop.

“You’re a menace to decency,” Rum growled. He dragged the bleary boy to his feet, causing a shower of dirt and crushed leaves. “It’s a miracle the landlady hasn’t called the police on you.”

“Did,” the boy coughed. “Twice.”

Leading the youth at arm’s length, Rum all but shoved him through the open door and up the stairs. Once his houseguest was slopping through a bowl of soup, napkin untouched beside his plate, Rum sat opposite him, hands steepled below his chin.

“I want to end this ridiculous encampment of yours on my stoop, so tell me what you think you want and I will consider it if it is worth my time.”

“Father’s sick,” the boy mumbled through a mouthful of carrot, broth dripping from the corner of his mouth. “In his head. Gets confused. Forgets. Talks to nothing. He’s not right.

I want him back the way he was.”

Rum leaned back in his chair. “What happened?”

“Accident with the horse. Wild thing. Unruly. Kicked him square in the side of the head. Send him flying. Wasn’t the same after that. And we can’t afford no doctors.”

“How do you know I won’t charge you money?”

“You’re not like that. I know it.”

“Dare I ask how you know who I am?”

The boy bit into a roll. “Everyone in my family knows you.”

“How disturbing.”

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“Only Granddad knows for sure, though. It’s just old stories to everyone else, but he knows they’re true. He followed you here. Brought my mother with him when she was a baby.”

“I suppose this is my punishment for thinking I could hide,” Rum muttered to himself. He ran one hand over the other, feeling the reassuring flex of healthy bone beneath relatively taut skin, remembering the parade of punishing deformities each exhilarating use of magic inflicted on his frame. His gnarled dwarven body now decayed in a grave beneath the name Alfred Chandler, the man who gave up his body to save a dying daughter.

He looked the boy in the eyes. “I cannot help you.

Every deal affects me. Your granddad should have told you that part.”

The boy shook his head. “I can’t take over no business.” His voice jumped up in pitch. He began fiddling with the spoon handle. “I can’t run things. I haven’t . . .” He bit through a tremor in his throat. “I can’t do it. I’m weak.”

“You were strong enough to stage a hunger strike on my stoop for three days.”

“That was stupid, not smart. Please. You gotta help me. I’ll do anything.”

“Even if that ‘anything’ strips you of your life? Your family’s livelihood? Do you really know who I am?”

“I don’t care. I need Dad alive and strong again. With his mind what it was.”

Noting tears at the corners of the boy’s eyes, Rum directed his gaze to the ceiling, pondering how another magical deal would affect him. Ten years added to his life, but at what cost?

A wrinkle beneath one eye? Both eyes? A shortened bone? The inevitability should have stopped his train of thought that instant...and yet the gambling thrill seized him. He wondered how well he could hide the curse of saving one life and extending another. The thrill grew within him, warming him as well as any fireside moment of calm.

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“My terms,” he began with a stabilizing breath, “should be simple enough. Bring me a glass of sherry by the end of tomorrow, and I will help your father.”

“What?”

“It’s a simple request, though I will say that the dearness of the sherry will tell me how serious you are about saving your father’s life. Do not bring me any old cheap swill. You have your terms, now get out of my home and leave me in peace.”

Peace, Rum was disappointed to find, would only last a day. The boy did indeed return with a bottle of very fine sherry.

“I asked for a glass, not a bottle.”

“You’ve got the glasses. Lemme borrow one.”

Rum took the bottle from the boy and inspected the label.

“There’s no need for another home invasion. You did not purchase this. You couldn’t have.”

“Friend of my father’s gave it to me. Called it a donation of goodwill.”

Rum handed the bottle back. “Donations require nothing save for a bruise to one’s pride. This cost you nothing and will not help your father.”

“But the day’s almost over.”

“Then I will give you another day.” Rum folded his arms.

“You’re young and foolish. Don’t waste your second chance. I rarely give them.”

Rum found him outside his door the next afternoon, this time holding a moldy bottle with a worn label. The contents were half-gone and Rum could already tell it was undrinkable.

“Bought this from a friend’s mother,” the boy said, pride setting his eyes alight. “Not much to look at, but I used my own money. Best I could get.”

“How much did you pay for it?” He took the sloshing bottle and blew off some dust.

“Six pennies. Everything I had.”

“Was it really everything you had?”

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“Yes.” “I know that’s a lie.” He held out the bottle, expression neutral.

“You just don’t want to help.” The boy’s eyes darkened suddenly. “You’re not holding to your deal.”

“Oh, but I am. With payment such as this, I can offer your father a month of lucidity. Nothing more.”

“You’re a damn liar!”

Rum smiled. “Do you reject the deal?”

“You keep changing it! This isn’t fair.”

“Isn’t it? How about I give you one more chance? I’ve never done so in my entire life. But I feel like there’s more to this than saving your father. You need to find something in you. Something you dearly need. One more day. After that, I’ll make my final decision.”

The next day, Rum didn’t see the boy until the sun began approaching the city skyline. The boy was leading a donkey.

The easily distracted creature kept pulling his cart to the sidewalk to avoid the horses towering over him. In the cart was a large barrel almost the size of the boy himself.

“That’s not sherry,” Rum said, folding his arms in the doorway.

“No, it’s not.” The boy’s eyes shone like agates in the dimming sunlight. “It’s whiskey. Raw whiskey. Dad made it a few years before his accident. Gonna sell it in ten years. Barrel like this would feed us for a month. You’re gonna take this and you’re gonna save my dad. If you want sherry, you’re out of luck.”

Rum noted the set of the boy’s shoulders and the determined tightness of his mouth. He’s learned, Rum thought. He ran a hand over the barrel. “I will accept this. And do you know why?”

“Because it’s the best I can do.”

“No. Because it proves you wrong.”

“What? How?” “You called yourself weak. That you couldn’t take over for your father. That was a lie. And you’ve just proved it.”

“You’re not gonna help him?” The boy clenched his fists.

“Of course I’m going to help him. I made a deal, didn’t I?”

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“Then do it!”

Rum regarded the enraged boy for a moment and then nodded.

“The deal is done.” Rum snapped his fingers. Instantly, his playful grin vanished as a jolt of dark power slithered through him. It tightened the muscles in his throat and sent painful tendrils through his lungs. He gasped as the familiar sickening dizziness gripped him. An invisible horizon of time retreated, drawing out an untraveled path like wire until it sang with unnatural vibrations. His lifeline. After a second, he opened his eyes.

When Rum spoke, his voice was higher and more inclined to choked gasps of chaotic laughter. It was the voice of a creature who fell prey to the captivating power to change lives at the expense of his own body. Rumpelstiltskin’s voice.

“Run home, boy!” The youth recoiled at the sight of Rum’s demonic eyes. “Your father’s waiting for you, safe and sound.”

“What happened to your voice?”

“You happened,” Rum shrieked. “You and your deal. Now do you understand? This is what magic does. Do you like it?

You’ve cursed me as much as I’ve blessed you. Now run along, cretin! I never want to lay eyes on you again!”

The boy shoved the barrel from the cart and stumbled away with his donkey.

Ignoring the horrified stares of the street’s onlookers and the barrel sloshing about like a drunken sow, Rumpelstiltskin fell to his knees and cackled. A simmering poisonous heat suffused his limbs as he realized that he no longer had any desire for anything as human as a glass of sherry.

And he pondered what just one more deal would do to him.

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Fiction A Glass of Sherry

About The Author

Joshua de Vries dreams of living in a huge Victorian home, bookshelves filled with bestsellers, and surrounded by a thousand adopted cats. But until then, he spends his time writing, blogging, and hiking in the woods. “A Glass of Sherry� is his first published work of fiction.

You can find him obsessing over movies on his blog TheEmeraldCityCinema.wordpress.com or classic sci-fi TV shows on Tumblr at abydosarchives.tumblr.com. You can also find him on Twitter at @mr_sosotris.

Fiction

Words by

The Deal

Jaquilla Edwards

About the story

“The Deal” actually came after I became frustrated with my first two draft ideas, which had absolutely nothing to do with the concept. Originally, I had the idea of telling the story from Rumpel’s point of view, but realized it would’ve probably turned into a long novella at the rate I was going. So, I tried to do other things that were silly and had a thought about the rules with the whole ‘ I want your first born’ thing that’s in a lot of fairytales didn’t really stipulate much in anyway. So, the idea of the miller’s daughter getting one over everyone by using the loophole was pretty funny to me.

The Deal

Jaqui lla Edwa rds

The Miller’s daughter, a poor girl who was drab in every way, had a unique problem she needed to fix. It was the end of her second night in the tower and she had run out of things to gift the little man who made her gold. Perhaps the king would finally be satisfied with the amount her helper had created, which she passed off as her own.

“I don’t have anything else,” she muttered. “And knowing the king, he’ll keep lying about marrying me so he can have more gold!” She stared up at the moon. “There’s something I can do, isn’t there?”

Her mind worked the rest of the night until she had exhausted herself. In the morning, when the king opened the door once more, she decided to force the king’s hand by reminding him of his promise.

“I’m the king,” the youth blubbered, “I don’t have to marry you.”

“But you promised.” Her hands were on her hips as she regarded him, not even much older than she was. “And a king never goes back on a promise.”

Frustrated, he relented, but added, “Only if you spin the straw in this room into gold.”

“Fine,” she said, and closed the door promptly behind her.

Come the morning, the king found the room full of golden spools. Not only that, the king found himself drawn to the quaint miller’s daughter more than before. He couldn’t put his finger on what had changed overnight, but he gladly married her. Then, as luck would have it, she also became pregnant and gave birth to a healthy baby girl a year later.

All seemed well. Then, one night, the King and Queen put their darling little princess to bed. Just as they tucked her in, a little man appeared.

“Who are you?” The King demanded, greatly alarmed.

“I’ve come for the child,” he said, extending his little arms. “Now, hand her over.”

The Queen shook her head. “I can’t. There’s a problem.”

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“Problem?” He looked confused. “What do you mean ‘a problem’?”

The King glanced between them.”What’s going on here?”

Just as he spoke, a haze of smoke came from the hearth and out stepped a witch.“I’ve come for the child.”

“What?” The little man looked from her to the Queen.

“This isn’t possible! The child is mine!”

“No, she’s mine.” The witch frowned. “The Queen and I had a deal. I would help her kingdom prosper and she would give me her firstborn.”

“Well, that was our deal!” the little man growled. “I spun three nights worth of straw to gold! She promised the baby would be mine.”

“What is everyone going on about?” The King didn’t like to be ignored and raised his voice. “If you don’t tell me what is happening, I will throw you both in the dungeon.”

“Shut up, you drooling infant.” The witch glared at the King, causing him to shrink back. “Those that know nothing, should say nothing.”

The two turned to the Queen, who was calmly watching the exchange. “Well,” the little man prompted. “Who’s supposed to have the child?”

Before the queen could speak, another person appeared.

This one looked like a satyr dyed red and lashing around a pointed tail. The horns on its’ head were black and the smell of sulfur clung to it. “I have come for your child.”

“Now wait just a darn minute here!” The little man wagged his finger in front of the demon. “What did you do to earn the child?”

The Demon blinked its’ black eyes, “I made it possible for her to become queen, of course. Why? Did she promise you the child as well?”

“She did,” the witch grumbled and seated herself on a stool. She pulled out a big book and began pouring over it. “This is really unprecedented!”

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“I’ll say.” The demon conjured up a chair for himself.

“How do we resolve this?”

“Well—” the little man began, but another poof of smoke filled the room. “Gosh darn it, woman! Who else did you promise the brat to?”

“I am here for the—oh, excuse me!” A confused fairywinged woman appeared. “I’m here for the child?”

“Get in line, sister,” the witch called. “We all are. This nitwit promised her to all of us.”

“What?” The fairy frowned. “That can’t be right. She can’t do that, can she?”

“Well, she did,” the little man growled. “And it’s not worth this headache!”

“Calm down, Rumpel.” The Witch turned a page, “ It’s not that bad. After all—” Again, another being appeared. This continued until seven supernatural beings stood in the princess’s nursery, trying to figure out who would take the child.

The King, dazed and upset, turned to the queen with wide eyes. “What is going on here, Gertrude? Who are all these people?”

Gertrude lounged in her chair and ordered some refreshments brought up before answering. “Isn’t it obvious, Henry?

I made deals with Rumpelstiltskin, a witch, a fairy, two demons, a wizard, and a magical crow for things in exchange for my firstborn.”

Horrified, Henry stared at her. “How could you?”

“Oh, come off it, Henry.” She poured herself a goblet full of wine. “Children die so young here. It’s best not to get too attached. Besides, I can have more, you know. I’m still young.”

“You’re awful!” he declared, getting up. “I am going to divorce you and—” “Um, hello?” This newcomer wore in a hooded robe.

“Oh, my, it’s crowded in here.”

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The King rounded on the figure. “Are you here for my daughter too? Are you?”

“What? Oh, no!” The dark hood fell back, revealing a skull. “I’m here for you, King Henry.”

“What?” He staggered back, aghast. “What is the meaning of this?”

The Queen sighed deeply. “Henry, look, you’re literally the worst thing for this kingdom. It’s a miracle there was enough gold in the coffers for our wedding, let alone paying a staff for a full year in beer and gold. Do you know how much you go through a week, Henry? Two hundred gold pieces—on useless things!” She crossed her legs, “I couldn’t have that.”

“You banshee!” he cried. “What did you trade, huh? For my life to..this thing?”

“Hey!” the skull-like creature huffed. “It’s my first time doing this. Be nice or I will send you to the fiery place!”

“It’s not all that bad,” chimed in one of the demons. “Bit toasty, though.”

Queen Gertrude raised a brow. “ I exchanged your life for mine to be immortal.”

“So, that’s why you asked for eternal youth,” the fairy said. “I thought something fishy was going on here!”

“This is madness!” the King groaned. The skull creature awkwardly patted his back and guided him away. “You see this?” he cried to it. “She is just so evil! After everything I’ve done for her!”

“There, there.” It said. “Come on. Let’s go have a pint before I take you off.”

Henry sniffled. “Thank you, that’d be nice. What’s your name, my good fellow?”

“It’s Billy-Jean.”

“Odd sort of name, that.”

Billy replied, as they left, “It’s French.”

With them gone, the others were treated to a feast while they hashed out what they were to do. After hours of

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debating, Queen Gertrude finally decided she’d had enough of this.

“Alright, everyone,” she said, noting how drunk some of them were. “I have a solution to all our problems.”

“Oh?” the Magical Crow cawed, “What would that be?”

“There are twelve months in a year and there are seven of you. Why not allow her to spend one month with each of you and allow her to return home for the other five months? We can let this go on until she’s an adult.” Queen Gertrude paused and glanced around the room. “What say you all?”

They conferred with one another until the wizard, a rather tall elderly man, spoke up. “I see nothing wrong with that. Probably cheaper for some of us.”

“Agreed.” The witch announced with the fairy woman also agreeing to it.

“Well, then, who gets her first?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, slurring his speech a bit. “ I mean, according to my- my count, I’ll have her third.”

The Queen raised a finger. “I believe the Magical Crow—” “My name is Inquisitor,” The Crow cawed.

“Is that French?” the Fairy said.

“Spanish,” The Crow replied.

“—As I was saying,” Gertrude said. “Inquisitor will come back in five months to take the princess first.”

They worked it all out under Gertrude’s direction. After Inquisitor’s month, the Red Demon would take the princess, sharing custody with the Blue Demon—(“We do live in the same place,” Blue Demon reasoned. “And it would be better for the child.”).

Rumpelstiltskin claimed her next, and then the wizard and witch agreed to share their months (“The Demons do have a good idea, and we live fairly close, as well.”).

“Good. Everyone happy, then?” Gertrude asked and saw them all agreed. She glanced out the window. “ It’s morning.

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I think we can call it a day, then. I hope your travels go well.”

With that, the room emptied of its’ supernatural visitors, save for one. The tiny man, Rumpelstiltskin, shrewdly looked up at Gertrude and stroked his beard.

“Just how long did you plan this, girl? It’s not a coincidence, is it?”

She smiled, a touch more self-satisfied than before.

“Ever since I met the magical crow. I realized there was no rule that said I had to stick with one of you and this would leave me free of raising a child. Then, when my father ran his mouth to the king, the idea of managing a kingdom appealed to me. And so here we are.”

He clicked his tongue then nodded. “Smart, girl, smart.

That child will be someone to reckon with when she gets older, you know. “ Gertrude looked over at the crib. “That’s the plan.”

“So how did you know my name?” Rumpelstiltskin asked.

She grinned. “The Blue Demon mentioned he knew you when I asked for him to make me more appealing to the king.”

“Of course!” Rumpelstiltskin huffed, “Chad was always a twittering bird. Well, see you in a few months, girl!”

Then he vanished into thin air, leaving the Queen alone with her daughter whose future was, at the very least, going to be very colorful and secure.

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Fiction The Deal

About The Author

This is Jaquilla’s very first publication. She has a Bachelors in Animation and enjoys reading about mythology, fairytales, and romance. She’s a bit of an ambivert with a love for learning about random things. She’s a huge nerd over comics and anime—her favorite comic line being Aquaman and favorite anime being Sailor Moon (of all forms).

You can read more of her writing at nebylesofsun.tumblr.com.

Fiction

Words by

Impatient History

Dan Micklethwaite

MORE TIMELESS TALES STORIES

BY DAN:

Diva Issue 4 Perseus & Medusa

Recipe For Success Issue 5 Baba Yaga

Dan Micklethwaite

impatient history

He cannot remember going to sleep, or being asleep, but he is awake now, staring at the ceiling, and gradually he realises the worst part of it all—that he cannot even remember his name.

“Who am I?” he says, to nobody in particular.

“Where am I? “Why am I here?”

He feels like he is in exile, like he has been banished from somewhere special, some magnificent kingdom, though he doesn’t know what he did for such a judgement to be passed. Was he really a bad person? He needs his name to know the rest.

He cannot even begin to guess what it might be. Without it, he is sure this exile will become permanent—he will be swallowed up by the earth, washed away by the river until all trace is gone.

He tries to swallow, but his throat is dry. He panics. He rasps.

He turns to get out of bed, to find something to drink, but there is somebody there, next to him, on the opposite side of the crumpled white pillow.

A woman’s face. Young. Beautiful. Hair like strands of straw, or gold.

“Who are you?” he says.

“Why are you here?”

She doesn’t answer.

He edges backwards, scrambling to get out of bed and away from her. Then he realises that the face is a photograph. A picture of a stranger. And he’s still alone.

He has just finished getting changed when there is a knock at his door. His pyjamas are on the floor beside his slippers. As he reaches to pick them up, his back twinges and he stops. There is another knock. Another. Then the sound of the lock tumbling open.

Another woman, framed in the doorway.

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Framed, but not a photograph.

Perhaps, he thinks, he was some kind of lothario, like Casa… Casa… blanca? Yes. Maybe. If so, he really needs his name back, so he can pick up where he left off— But no. As she steps closer, he notices the stethoscope hanging around her neck. She is a doctor or a nurse.

Something flickers in his head, telling him that this is a routine, a regular visit, and yet he really can’t remember ever seeing her before. Perhaps she is new. She must be, he thinks, because she doesn’t seem to know who he is either.

He had hoped she would let slip his identity, but she insists on referring to him as Sir, as though he’s some kind of knight. Was. He cannot recall what he used to be, but he’s pretty sure he wasn’t a knight. He’s probably too short, for a start. He would look ridiculous on a big white charger, waving a sword the same size as himself.

“How are we today, Sir?” she says, with a strange, lilting accent.

He wants to answer her with a question, the question he has been asking himself. But for some reason he gets tongue-tied and it doesn’t come out. The nurse or doctor smiles, knowingly. They are obviously accustomed to him not replying, to his inability to find the words.

“Would you look at the way you’ve buttoned that shirt, Sir?” He looks, and, sure enough, he has pushed the top button through the third slit down, and carried on from there. He moves to redo it, but she gently guides his hands away and sorts it out herself.

He is a short man, he knows this much, and yet he feels shrunken even further in her presence. He suspects this is usual, this feeling. They mean well, of course, and he cannot remember ever being mistreated, but they make him feel like a baby. Feeding and cleaning, feeding and cleaning.

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A baby doesn’t really need a name, because it cannot understand it or talk. It only requires this reassuring tone of voice, a smile, and a bottle or its mother’s teat.

“You’d like some milk, wouldn’t you, Sir?” the nurse or doctor says.

He blushes, then looks over at her, and sees that she’s standing by the kettle.

“In your tea, Sir? And sugar, yes?”

He can only nod. He remembers that he likes tea. He thinks.

Before leaving, the nurse said something about a visitor coming later. But he couldn’t find the words to ask her who, or when.

She left him sitting in his chair in the corner of the room.

He hasn’t moved.

He finished the tea a while ago, though he still has the cup. He stares into the bottom of it, as if searching for a sign, a prognostication. There seem to be a few grains of sugar that haven’t dissolved. Does that mean the omens are sweet ones, that good things are coming? Or that they’re bad for his health?

If he’s ever known how to read such things properly, he doesn’t anymore.

He shivers, and something clinks against the side of the teacup. A gold ring, on the third finger of his left hand.

A clue?

He looks around the room, for other hints. He dimly recalls nights spent in budget hotels, possibly alone, possibly with company, but this place has a similar feel. A standard steel-framed bed, with standard white sheets. Standard pine tables. Standard, old kettle on standard stained tray.

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Abstract paintings on the walls, depicting fruit or simply swirls of colour. Standard door to a small en-suite.

Whereas hotels suggest a kind of transience, by now this room is pretty much the only place he’s ever known.

That is, he can’t remember anywhere else—not for certain, not on demand. The memories he does have are fleeting, repetitive, constrained, as if scheduled by a puritanical public service broadcaster. Most of the channels he’d like to watch are fuzzy and grey, hissing like a kettle when it’s coming to the boil.

He doesn’t have a television here.

Has he only just realised this?

It doesn’t matter.

He can look out of the window, and that, from this angle, is interesting enough. He can see the forest, line after line of pine trees, tall and grand and green, spearing up into the grey-blue sky. He can watch the birds that haunt the tree-tops, so many kinds of them. Haunt, he thinks, because they could be the spirits of people who’ve been exiled out here. They could be their dreams, their hopes, their histories.

Would he recognise his? He doesn’t think he has yet.

Below the birds, beneath the branches, between the treeline and this building, there is a clearing. It is a car park. Various people come here, in all kinds of cars, and get out and walk up to the entrance.

Visitors, he thinks.

He looks over at the photograph on his bedside table.

The smiling face, the hair like strands of straw or gold.

Another clue.

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“What is the point?” he says, after trying and failing to reach a solution.

Typical of his words to come back now, when there’s nobody around to hear.

He repeats the question, growing more and more frustrated. He turns it over in his mind, as if it were a puzzle, a riddle, but he cannot hope to solve this either. He tries for a few minutes longer, and then gives up.

“Who am I?” he says, but there’s still nobody to hear him. Not inside the room, and if any of the birds do, it doesn’t stop them flying past.

He stamps his feet, but the big soft slippers cushion the sound.

He looks at the picture again.

He thinks perhaps he used to have a companion. Maybe.

Somebody to share things with. Secrets. Mysteries. Tension and laughter. The static hiss breaks off for a moment into pealing bells. White spots like confetti dance in his vision.

He shuts his eyes, trying to pause and hold the vision tight, but the signal is lost, just as quickly as it came.

He would adjust the antenna, the satellite dish, only he doesn’t know where they are. Or, entirely, what. Dish means little other than his soup or cereal bowl, and why would anybody want to stick one of those to the side of their house?

House. Home.

What was his address?

His name was always written at the top of that, the first part, before even the number pinned on the door. As though the name itself was part of the accommodation, a kind of storage unit for his soul.

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A pretty, gilded bird-cage?

Without it, his soul is loose, vagrant, and like all vagrants it is looked down upon or ignored or abused, or simply given a few spare pennies, not even enough for a nice warm drink.

On instinct, he sips at his tea, but the cup is still empty.

He looks back out of the window, despondent, just in time to see a new car arrive.

There is more knocking at the door. He remembers this morning. Vaguely. It will be the doctor or nurse. Pink outfit and stethoscope. He checks that the buttons of his shirt are still done up in the right order. Of course they are.

They are done up nice and tight.

They might as well be a straightjacket. Or chains fixed to the wall. His big soft slippers suddenly feel like lead weights. He cannot get up to answer.

There is another knock.

Another.

If he could only remember what he’s called, he knows he could escape. He could speak his identity like a password, like an incantation, and disappear elsewhere in a tremendous puff of smoke.

But he can’t. The door swings open to find him still there.

It is not the nurse or doctor, however, who steps into the room.

It is an old lady; definitely old, though still tall and slender, slightly hunched, but elegant regardless. Rather than the pink outfit of the medical staff, she wears a slightly faded summery dress—light blue and orange, with

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flickers of green. She wears a locket around her neck, rather than a stethoscope.

She is his visitor?

“Who are you?” he says, somehow managing to find his voice in her presence.

The old lady smiles, and yet at the same time looks sad.

He clutches the empty teacup tighter. It rattles on the saucer.

The old lady moves closer.

“Why are you here?” he says. He tries to stop his hands from shaking, and the ring clinks repeatedly on the side of the cup.

“You almost remembered yesterday,” she says. “You nearly had it.”

She doesn’t call him Sir. She knows he isn’t a knight, but has come to see him anyway. He cannot quite think of the answers, but she has come to see him anyway, so she can’t be a stranger. She must know the truth.

“Where am I?” he says. “Why am I here?”

“That’s not important just now,” the old lady says. She takes a deep breath, and then makes quite an effort to crouch down, so they are eye to eye. She reaches out to take his wrists, to stop them from rattling the empty cup.

He notices there is a ring on her left hand, too. It is cool on his skin.

“Are we—” he says, then stops, searching her face. “Who am I?” There is something familiar about her smile now. About the hope in her eyes.

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About the traces of gold in her silver-grey hair.

“You nearly had it,” she says, gently squeezing his wrists, “but I can always remind you.”

He smiles as well, when she tells him his name.

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Fiction Impatient History

About The Author

Dan Micklethwaite does most of his writing in a small, wet town in the north of England. He escapes via his short fiction, which has travelled extensively to such wonderful, exotic locales as Birdville, Eunoia, BULL, 3:AM, Litro, and The Missing Slate, in whose New Voices competition he has been a runner-up.

His debut novel, a contemporary riff on Don Quixote set in the aforementioned small, wet town, was released in 2016 through the brilliant Bluemoose Books. In the meantime, if you’re curious, feel free to pop over to his website www.smalltimebooks.blogspot.co.uk and/or follow him on Twitter @Dan_M_Writer.

Fiction

Words by

Foolish Promises

Melinda Brashar

About the story

I always wondered about the motivations in Rumpelstiltskin. What kind of woman would marry a man who threatens to kill? Was Rumpelstiltskin just being cruel when he demanded her firstborn child? Was he testing her? Punishing her? Or something else? I had a lot of fun with the daemons and their strange little personalities and the oddly normal details of their lives.

I also enjoyed using the brother’s perspective. I love invisible characters we don’t hear about in original fairy tales, or who play small roles in the traditional tell-

ings. For example, I’ve always wondered about the father in Cinderella. What would he have thought if he saw what happened to his beloved daughter? My story, “Ethereal,” answers that question. It was one of my first fiction sales. You can find it online at Enchanted Conversation or read it in my collection of short stories, flash fiction, and travel essays: Leaving Home.

FOOL ISH PROMISES

M E L I N DA B R A S H E R

I was fourteen the day the king’s men stole my sister away.

Laina was eighteen and worldly-wise. She’d been to the city a dozen times, eaten beef, and talked to real soldiers.

She knew her sums so well that Papa had her do the books at the mill and decide who got credit. Men went funny around her. When they shuffled their feet and tripped over their words, we could double our prices. Papa always joked she could turn anything into gold.

Apparently he joked about it to the wrong people.

“Straw?” Mama yelled as the gleaming carriage drove out of sight. “You told His Grace she could make gold from straw? The king’ll cut off her head. Then he’ll come for ours.”

“Son,” Papa ordered me, “Ride to the woods and hide. Now.” But I wasn’t afraid. I would steal her back.

When I reached the silver castle gates I demanded to see my sister.

“The straw girl?” The guards laughed, but let me in. They unlocked the door to a room bigger than our house, with tippy towers of straw on all sides, but no sister.

“Laina?” I whispered.

Maybe she’d already escaped. I should have expected it.

I’d never beaten her at anything. But, after a moment, she peeked from behind one of the mounds of straw, holding a stool over her shoulder, weapon-like.

“Oh, it’s you.” She swung the stool to the ground. “I told them it was a harmless jest. Then the king himself came—so handsome—but if this isn’t gold by morning, they’ll kill me.

You have to go to the temple. Make an offering to the God of Lost Causes. Flowers and bread and good spices. Go.”

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I found the temple tucked into a corner, the door hanging half off its hinges. It smelled of mice, and the everlasting fire burned low. I quickly knelt.

Laina was so clever. If she wanted me to plead with the God of Lost Causes, surely I should. But it was Papa’s boast that got us here. So I prayed. Hard. But not to the God of Lost Causes. To the God of Foolish Promises. I sprinkled the spices so carefully around the altar that I burned my fingers. Prayed again. Nothing. I should have followed Laina’s advice.

I ran outside to buy another offering and tripped over an old man so short I first mistook him for a child.

“Watch your clumsy feet,” he snarled. Hair sprouted in gray-white tufts from a wrinkled scalp, and his boots reached halfway up his thighs. “So where is she? This sister of yours?”

I stared.

“You mute, boy?”

“Uhh…” “Speak up. The ears aren’t as good as they used to be.

So what’s the problem? She promised her young man she’d wait while he made his fortune and now she’s found another?

Promised her dying mother she’d never tell a lie?

That’s always a good one.” He shook his head. “Never telling a lie. Absurd.”

I’d never seen a real daemon before. Grandmother had.

And the blacksmith claimed a beautiful raven-haired daemon pulled an anvil off his leg after the big accident.

If this was a daemon, the gods were good.

“My father joked that my sister could spin straw into gold. Now the king’s going to kill her if she can’t.”

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The old man cackled. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I get all the stupid ones. So, let’s talk payment.”

“Payment?”

“You expect me to work for free? You think Of Foolish Promises pays enough?”

“But—” “You want to help your sister or not?”

I offered him my hat.

Laughter.

My pony.

“Too much upkeep.”

My last two coins.

“You ask me to spin straw into gold, yet tempt me with two specks of copper?”

“Laina has a ring with a real ruby.” A gift from our parents the year she turned fifteen and single-handedly tripled our profits.

The old man rubbed his hands together. “Better.”

He grabbed my arm with bony fingers and stomped three times. Light burned my eyes. I tumbled onto a hard floor, where Laina sat before a spinning wheel, staring at us.

Long into the night he twisted the straw into bundles and fed it into the wheel. Out came yard after yard of gold thread.

But the king suspected a trick. “If you can do it again, I’ll spare your life,” he declared.

Laina surrendered her silver necklace to the daemon.

Gold rose higher than the piles of straw.

The guards took pity and let me sleep outside her room, but kicked me awake when the king arrived. This time he left with a skein of gold thread in one hand and a smile on

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his face. Then he saw me, covered his nose with a kerchief, and ordered the guards to get rid of the “riff-raff.”

“He’s going to marry me,” Laina whispered, beaming, before they threw me out. “I’ll be queen. I just need that wretched daemon back once more.”

I spent my last two coppers. The flowers wilted before I even placed them on the altar. No daemon. I prayed all night, until bells of celebration broke the dawn. Soon the news arrived: the king was to marry the gold-spinner.

Only for a moment did I wonder what she’d given the daemon for his third night’s work.

I offered my fervent thanks to the God of Foolish Promises.

“You’d think Rumpelstiltskin would get a little credit,” a voice said behind me.

I threw myself at the feet of the little old daemon, thanking him over and over again.

“At least one of you has sense. Good day.” He stomped three times and disappeared.

They never again let me into the castle. “The queen-tobe won’t see you,” one guard explained gently. “Queens can’t talk to millers’ sons.”

I returned home. News of Laina’s marriage overjoyed Mama and Papa. “Told you she’d make good,” Papa said. I kept silent.

She sent one letter, all about her new life, new friends, new dances. We would be so uncomfortable at court, she said. Papa laughed and agreed.

We received no invitation to the wedding. “We’d be an embarrassment to her,” Mama said, but later I caught her sniffling over the laundry.

After the wedding, the king’s men brought us a fine horse, young and strong, and Papa went on about how

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generous Laina was.

Two years passed before we heard she was with child.

Soon the kingdom welcomed a baby prince, strong and healthy, but rumors abounded of a daemon tormenting the poor lovely queen, threatening to steal her child. I wrote to her, as I’d done every month since she refused to see me. She’d never answered my letters. Then one day I found her standing on the stoop, dressed in pearls and diamonds and pale blue silk.

No greeting. No questions about our health. “The cursed little man wants the baby.”

“Why would he—” “I didn’t have anything to give, that third night. So he asked for my firstborn child.”

“And you promised?”

“I thought the king would find the scoundrel and protect me.”

“But—” “What did you expect me to do? Let them kill me? He says he’ll steal the baby unless I can guess his name. I’ve tried everything. Three more days. Then the king will hate me. I’ll lose everything. Go to the temple. Find the daemon.

Threaten him if you have to. Get his name.”

“Stay here for two days with Mama and Papa. If you at least pretend you love them, I’ll try to find his name.”

“I love them.”

“Good.” I stormed out.

At the temple I burned herbs and wheat from the mill.

After the fifth prayer, I heard him. I spun with questions on my tongue, but it wasn’t him.

A tall man scowled down at me. “The-gods-are-greatyour-faith-is-strong-state-your-request.”

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I craned to see behind him.

He folded his arms. “Most people are thrilled about now.

Do I not look daemon-enough for you?”

“No, no, I…I was just hoping to see Rumpelstiltskin.”

“That old fool? He’s gone barmy. Spends all day and night making cribs and toys and pestering you sorts about what type of food human boys like, and when to start teaching a child to read. The old cabbage-head begs me to practice stupid games with him.” The daemon sniffed in disdain. “But I’ve had to answer more than my share of prayers. So tell me what you want and I can get back to fishing.”

“I…” “What foolish promise did you make, boy?”

“I promised to find a name. But I already know it.”

“Doesn’t seem too foolish to me. If everyone only promised to do things they’ve already done, you wouldn’t need the God of Foolish Promises. I could retire to the lake. As I shall do now.” Three stomps and he was gone.

When I returned, Mama and Papa were still fussing and flittering over Laina while she sat on the very edge of our best chair.

“What’s he like?” Mama asked eagerly.

“Wonderful,” Laina cooed. “He gives me such beautiful gifts, and you should see him ride off on the hunt.”

Mama’s face creased in confusion.

“Not the king,” Papa clarified. “Our grandson. What’s he like?”

“Oh. He’s...a baby.”

“Does he eat well? Has he learned to sit up?”

“I don’t know. The nursemaid says he’s clever, but he mostly cries when I visit.” Then she smiled. “They say he’ll grow to be just like the king.”

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Like the man who’d threatened to kill a girl for not being able to spin straw into gold? Who would probably never let my parents even see their grandson?

While Mama and Papa went looking for something nice for the tea, Laina hissed, “Did you find the name?”

“I’m still looking.”

I spent hours at the temple. Finally he appeared. The tall one. “What now, boy?”

“Do you have children?”

“Bah! Disgusting little things. But the God of Lost Children’s daemons have a nasty habit of taking them in.

They make a lot of noise at our picnics.”

Picnics?

“Are they happy?”

“You’re the strangest assignment I’ve ever had.”

“But are they?”

He shrugged. “One child seems much like another.”

“What happens when they grow up?”

“They don’t make so much noise at picnics.”

“Do they become daemons?”

“You can’t become a daemon, foolish boy. Mostly they go live among you humans and sometimes visit us. Now, if you don’t have a foolish promise you need help with, I’ll be off.” And he was gone.

Laina hardly lasted the promised two days. “I can’t lose my son. Having another one will take months—and you can’t imagine the pain of childbirth. And if it’s a girl, what would the king think then? Tell me you found the villain’s name.”

Rumpelstiltskin. Rumpelstiltskin. Rumpelstiltskin.

“I tried.” I took a deep breath. “But I failed. I’m sorry.”

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Her hand flew across my face. She called to her coachman without saying a word of goodbye to any of us.

While the kingdom mourned their prince and our parents mourned the grandson they never knew, I prayed every night to the God of Lost Children, the God of Foolish Promises, and the God of Dangerous Mistakes. But they never answered.

I’m not sure what that means.

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Fiction

Words by

The Miller’s Daughter

Claire Southwell

The Miller’s Daughter Claire Southwell

Once upon a time, there lived a poor miller whose wife had died, leaving him to bring up their only daughter. The two of them lived happily together on the green bank of a blue river, and the daughter wore her mother’s picture in a gold locket around her neck. Although the kingdom grew poorer as the years passed, their mill never wanted for grain. What’s more, the miller and his daughter dearly loved each other, and being so loved, the miller’s daughter could not help but to grow up as beautiful as could be.

One day while the miller’s daughter sat spinning in the sunshine, the king’s only son, Prince Gerald, rode past.

When he saw her beauty, he immediately fell in love with her, and crossed the river to tell her so.

“However,” he said, “I am bound by duty. I must marry a bride who meets my father’s approval. He will never allow me to marry a woman who is without fortune, for our kingdom lies in grave need. Nevertheless, I will find a way.” He kissed her hand, promising to return soon, and galloped away.

When she was alone, the miller’s daughter despaired.

“How can Prince Gerald possibly marry a commoner?”

“Not so fast,” said a shrill voice. The miller’s daughter stared. There stood a tiny, hunchbacked man with wiry red hair and beard. He had a long, hooked nose, and was dressed all in green. “I am Rumpelstiltskin,” he said, “and I can give you your wish. But nothing comes without a price.”

“What price?” she asked.

“Nothing you cannot afford, I assure you,” whined Rumpelstiltskin, twisting his green cap in his long, bony fingers. “So now, shall I make you rich, so you and your prince may wed?”

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“Very well,” the miller’s daughter said, although his words rested uneasily with her.

“I am glad to hear it,” Rumpelstiltskin grinned. “Now, when you take your spinning wheel, sing this song, and you will be able to spin straw into gold: “Spin, good wheel, and bring me gold in time, Yield your treasure, that it may be mine.

“When thus you use the wheel, I will return to take the payment.”

He vanished.

When Prince Gerald returned to the mill, the miller’s daughter met him with a smile.

“I had a visitor last night,” she told him. “And though I may be a poor miller’s daughter, I shall soon be rich enough to please your father.”

Prince Gerald was overjoyed. “How, my love?”

“A mysterious man named Rumpelstiltskin taught me to spin straw into gold.”

“Then I can imagine no further impediment to our marriage,” he said, kissing her. “Let us go to my father.” So the miller’s daughter told her father goodbye, took her spinning wheel, and rode with the prince along the river to his father’s castle.

The king welcomed the miller’s daughter to the royal family, but he had one request. “Before you wed Prince Gerald, I must see this wonder,” he said. “Spin for me.”

The miller’s daughter took her wheel, and as she spun the straw, she sang:

“Spin, good wheel, and bring me gold in time, Yield your treasure, that it may be mine.”

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Long she spun, and the straw turned to shimmering gold in her fingers till her reel was heavy with it. When she stopped, Rumpelstiltskin appeared.

“You have used what is yours, and I have come to claim what is mine,” he said to the miller’s daughter. And reaching up, he took the locket from her neck, and vanished. “ ‘Tis no such matter,” the king told the miller’s daughter, seeing the sadness on her face but not understanding it. “The gold you have spun is more by far than the gold of the necklace. We can soon find you another.”

The king and queen showered the miller’s daughter with fine clothes and jewels, all fit for the princess she would soon become, but it was not jewels she cared for, but her mother’s picture.

Soon afterwards, she and Prince Gerald were married.

A year later, the old king died, and Gerald became king.

Although the kingdom’s fortunes grew no better, he and the miller’s daughter were perfectly happy. Before long, a prince was born to them.

One day, Gerald told his wife, “The treasuries lie almost bare. We must use your wheel again. Whatever trinket Rumpelstiltskin takes in exchange will be little loss, if you can spin enough before he comes.” So she took her wheel and sang her song: “Spin, good wheel, and bring me gold in time, Yield your treasure, that it may be mine.”

She spun long into the night, and the gold lay in heaps on the floor. Finally, nodding with sleep, she stopped.

Rumpelstiltskin appeared.

“Twice you have used what is yours,” he said, “and twice I have come to claim what is mine.”

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“Do you mean to take my crown?” the miller’s daughter asked.

“Not your crown,” Rumpelstiltskin cackled. And gathering up her baby from where he slept by the fire, he vanished.

Gerald heard her cry and came running. “Has Rumpelstiltskin been here?”

“He took the baby,” she cried. “Each time I use his gift, the price he takes is dearer. How will we find our son?”

Gerald thought. “Then, what is dearest to you in the world?”

“Why, you are, of course.”

“Then spin again,” said Gerald, and his voice was suddenly firm. “Let Rumpelstiltskin come for me, and when he does, I will go with him to find where he has taken our son.”

The miller’s daughter dried her eyes, took her wheel, and sang. Sure enough, when she stopped spinning, Rumpelstiltskin appeared to them.

“Do not be afraid,” Gerald said, squeezing his wife’s hand.

“Thrice you have used what is now yours, and thrice have I come to claim what is now mine,” Rumpelstiltskin said. Taking Gerald with him, he vanished.

Long they travelled in the dark. When Gerald could finally see again, it was by the dim light of a fire on the walls of a cave. He found himself lying on a rocky floor, tied hand and foot. By the shadows on the walls, he could see Rumpelstiltskin coming towards him. He shut his eyes.

“He’s in a dead faint,” Rumpelstiltskin chortled, poking Gerald with his foot. “What kind of king does he call himself?”

When Rumpelstiltskin had gone, Gerald felt cautiously around him until he found a sharp-edged fragment of rock.

With patience, he cut through the rope that bound his hands. By this time, he could hear snores echoing from

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where Rumpelstiltskin lay asleep. With his hands free, he took his hunting knife and cut the rope from his ankles, then went to look for his son.

The floor of the cave was strewn with rocks and broken bones, and carpeted with gold and silver coins. Some of them Gerald recognized as from his own realm, although minted as much as a century earlier. Many of them, however, were designs he had never seen before. The coins clinked on each other, and Gerald had to go on tiptoe across the cave. Although it was not large, it had many shadowy crevices. In one of these crevices, Gerald found the baby.

When Gerald picked him up, he awoke, but did not cry.

Gerald picked his way around the edge of the cave, staying as far from the sleeping Rumpelstiltskin as he could.

There was only one doorway. It had to lead out. He made his way to the door in perfect silence, but the moment he stepped through it, Rumpelstiltskin’s snores broke.

“Stop! Thief!” he screeched. “Bring me back my dinner!”

Gerald ran down the tunnel, with Rumpelstiltskin hot on his heels, shouting spells after him. The stones of the roof overhead began to fall, but Gerald dodged them. Then he heard a cry, and when he looked back, he saw Rumpelstiltskin lying in the tunnel, struck down by one of the largest rocks. No more fell. Gerald kept running until he found himself outside, in the very woods where he had been accustomed to hunt since he was a boy.

“Home is very close,” he told his son, who was chewing contentedly on his doublet’s button. They made their way back to the castle. When the baby saw his mother, he held out his arms for her, and she held him tight while Gerald described their escape. Finally, when the tale drew to its

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close, she noticed something gold around the little prince’s neck.

“Did you take a chain from Rumpelstiltskin’s cave?” she asked Gerald. “I never dressed him in this.”

She pulled the chain from under the baby’s shirt, and gasped. It was her locket, lost so many years before, with her mother’s picture still safe inside. Then the miller’s daughter cried again for joy, for all that she had lost had been restored to her.

King Gerald put Rumpelstiltskin’s treasure to good use, and from that day forward, the kingdom began to prosper.

What’s more, he and the miller’s daughter loved each other dearly, and so they lived happily ever after.

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