Of Straw and Gold

My thanks to Andrea for the delightful awardicon on this story which had been entered in her fairy tale contest.

Of Straw and Gold

Everyone knows that the best stories, the “happily ever after” stories, begin with “Once upon a time.” Let my story begin like that. That’s what I’d like.

Once upon a time there was a daughter of a liar.

That seems so harsh. Daddy wasn’t a liar, exactly. He just padded the truth a little. Of course, Mother once said that if you added up all of Daddy’s stories he would have to be 100 years old to do everything he’d said that he’d done. But Daddy loved us. After all, most of his best stories were about us. According to Daddy, Mother was a Princess who had run away from her kingdom and I was a bird who had landed on their doorstep . . . or a bunny rabbit or a fox . . . depending on the day, the drink or the listener.

Daddy did enjoy his drink. Most afternoons Mother would send me down to the Public House to bring him home for dinner. I’d find them - Daddy and his friends, deep in their cups, sometimes shooting pool or throwing darts, but usually listening to one of Daddy’s stories. The Pub Keeper, a gentle, kindly man, would generally serve me a frothy pink innocuous thing with great pageantry while Daddy finished his tale. I’d sit on a place of honor, a stool, the only child – and the only female – in the room. As I sat there, frequently Daddy’s stories turned to bragging of me. I would supply the details. When Daddy told of me being a bird, the men would ask me how it felt.

“Even on a hot day, I felt only cool breeze in my face. All I could hear was the wind and the motion of my wings.”

Daddy’s tales were harmless bits of fancy. No one took him seriously, in fact, once a rowdy listener asked the Pub Keeper if he paid Daddy as part of the entertainment.

In the end, what happened played out like one of his stories.

The Kingdom’s heir apparent, Prince Darryl, had returned from a trip to the neighboring kingdom. It was said he was out scouting for a bride. His carriage broke a wheel and he was at the pub while it was repaired. The Pub Keeper greeted me at the door that day.

“Bad news Bets. Your father’s deep into his tales and Prince Darryl is here listening to him.”

“Prince Darryl? Here? Well, what of it? Surely he doesn’t believe I was once a bird . . . oh dear, it’s the one about Mother being a princess, isn’t it? He’s angry? Is there a punishment for insinuating royalty where there is none?”

“No Bets. It’s a new story. And it looks like Prince Darryl believes it.” He looked uncomfortably down at his feet.

“Well, what is it? What did he tell him?”

But at that moment, Daddy saw me at the door. “There she is. There’s my daughter. I told you I wouldn’t have to get her; she comes and gets me. C’mere Elizabeth. Prince Darryl wants to talk to you.”

“Hello Elizabeth. Your father has been telling me all about you. Tell me, what’s it like when you’re spinning straw into gold?”

Straw into gold? Straw into gold? I pretended to cough slightly and asked, “Excuse me?”

“Your father has been telling us all how you can spin straw into gold. I was just asking what it felt like.”

I never saw the danger and I had never denied my father one of his stories. I looked at Daddy’s face, that crooked, slightly drunken smile, those large brown, puppy dog eyes.

“It’s like spinning any fine fabric. Except at the moment straw becomes gold there is a pure, sweet, bright tone that only I can hear. It’s an undignified comparison, but it's like a dog hearing the tone from one of those dog whistles.”

Prince Darryl looked at me and only then did I sense my folly.

“As you have admitted that you can do this thing, Elizabeth, I’m going to ask you to come and demonstrate this talent for my father. You will be rewarded handsomely, unless, of course, you fail. The punishment for lying to a member of the royal family . . . . . is death.”

The King’s guards, Prince Darryl’s companions, each took one of my arms and they drew me out to his carriage. The Pub Keeper watched me go, stricken. All of the patrons looked upset. Only Daddy seemed unfazed. He shouted, “See you tomorrow, Elizabeth! Show them what you’re made of, girl!”

My father apparently believed his stories. Funny how I had never really realized that.

The ride to the castle was uneventful. If there was talk, I didn’t hear it. My head swirled around one question: Do they give the condemned any last requests?

Two days later, I stood in a 6x6 room filled with straw. I suppose it is a question of character, what one does when faced with an impossible task. One person may sit down and immediately cry, while another may give it a whirl anyway. I gave it a try. I fed the straw in . . . . and it fell out onto the ground on the other side, still straw. Luckily, I had already convinced Prince Darryl that the magic wouldn’t happen if anyone else was watching. But it was pointless. Tomorrow the prince and his father would see a room still filled with straw and soon after they would see me dead. Now I sank down into the straw and gave in to tears.

A voice startled me. “Stop your crying, stop your crying!”

“Wha . . . who are you?” I asked. By now I was crying with those big hiccup like sobs.

“I can help you. Just for the love of . . . . stop your crying.”

I looked up, rubbing my eyes. “No one can help me. Unless they can spin straw into gold.”

“I can.”

“I just told you that no one can help me unless they can spin straw into gold.”

“And I just told you that I can spin straw into gold.”

“What? You can spin straw into gold? You would do that for me?”

“I might, but the question is, young miss, what would you be doing for me back?”

“Well, I don’t know . . . . if the straw doesn’t become gold, I die. So I suppose I can do anything you want . . . that isn’t worse than that.”

Now, I know people have told my story over the ages. My father himself has been known to tell it down at the pub. And I know the story goes that I gave the man a necklace, a ring, and my first born child. Don’t believe everything you hear.

“A lock of your hair.”

“You would spin straw into gold for a lock of my hair! Shoot, have two if you like.” Realize, I knew what witches could do with a lock of hair, but it seemed a simple enough price.

“Done.”

To tell you the truth, I didn’t see much. In fact, I never even saw the man. I don’t know if he bewitched me or if I was just that tired. I woke up the next morning in a room full of gold never having even seen the man remove a lock of my hair. The king and prince were delighted. They pranced around the room rubbing gold against themselves. Really, you’d think they’d never seen the stuff before. That should have been it. You’re free to go home Elizabeth. Thanks very much. But less than a half hour later, guards were escorting me to another room – this one 9x9 – and I was presented with the same deal. Spin straw into gold or die.

You just can’t trust royalty.

I waited until approximately the same time of evening and I began calling. “Sir? Oh sir, if you’re here, I need your help again.” I had already cut off a lock of my hair. I was just about to give up and begin crying, when I heard.

“So they want more gold, huh? Never fails. What will you give me this time?”

I held out my lock of hair.

“No deal. I’ve got one of those. What else?”

“I’m still looking at death otherwise . . . so you tell me.”

“Your mantle.”

“It’s yours. . . Can I wear it until you’ve finished? It’s a little chilly in here.”

“Done.”

The next thing I knew, I felt the gentle pressure of someone removing my mantle. I opened my eyes a very fine slit. The room around me was filled with gold. All I could see of the man removing my cloak was a patch of his neck. On that patch of skin, there was a spiral scar.

He hovered by me a moment as he finished, no doubt studying me to see if I had seen him. I held my eyes tightly shut.

The rest of the day played out much the same as the first one. Father and son danced with gold, delighted. Guards escorting me to another room; this one 12x12. The only difference was this time I wasn’t threatened with death; I was offered Prince Darryl’s hand in marriage.

Ok, not that different, really.

Once again I waited before calling. “Sir? Sir? I’m in a bind again. If you could see your way to help me?”

“Still more gold? Greedy buggers. What’ll you give me?”

“I’m afraid I have more of a problem this time. They haven’t threatened to kill me; they want me to marry Prince Darryl.”

Silence.

“Did you hear me? They want me to marry Prince Darryl.”

“And that’s a problem? Sure, wouldn’t any girl your age want to marry royalty?”

“Perhaps. But I’m in love with another.”

“Ah, that’s a problem. So what would you have me do, then?”

“I don’t know. How do I convince that I can’t spin straw into gold anymore and that I don’t feel worthy of marrying Prince Darryl? Or in other words, how do I get out of marrying Prince Darryl without them getting angry or looking for me again later?”

“Leave it to me.”

This time I awoke to a voice whispering in my ear. “Look as tired as possible. Tell them the magic is done and that you don’t hold them to marriage since there is only half of the gold and no more to come.”

When he had left, I looked at the room around me. Half of the room was filled with gold and half was filled with lead.

King and prince greeted me with mixed emotions. They had fully enough gold once again to fill the first room, but you could see the greediness grow in their eyes: the greediness of a man holding his last glass of water in front of a dry well. No argument was made that I should still marry the prince and I was free to go, but no carriage ride was offered for the return trip. It was just as well; I had a lot to think about.

I had recognized the spiral scar.

The pub was just closing as I reached home, but I went in anyway. He was behind the bar.

“You never told me your price for the last room, Stilts.”

He turned in surprise.

“How did you . . . ?”

“How did I know it was you?” I ran my finger over the scar on his neck. “I saw this on the second morning. Thank you for helping me. I guess that’s how you can keep the pub when so many run tabs?”

Stilts smiled sheepishly.

“Your price?”

“That depends. Why didn’t you just tell the prince your father was just telling a story?”

I thought about it. My father, once a proud miller, had lost his business and survived on odd jobs. His was one of the largest tabs in the pub, I was sure.

“Sometimes all a man has is his stories.”

He considered my answer and smiled a little. “On the house then. Consider it a wedding gift.”

“But I’m not marrying Prince Darryl.”

“Well that other one, then. The 'another' that you love.”

“We won’t marry. He doesn’t know how I feel.”

He looked at me straight on and seriously then. “Tell him then Bets. Life is too long when you’re alone.”

And I did. I stepped closer to him and took his face in my hands. “I love you Rumplestiltskin. You are a fine man who knows what’s really gold and what isn’t.”

The best stories end “happily ever after.” But so seldom do we believe it. Let me just say this. The last thing I gave Rumplestiltskin was my heart and my love; it was he who gave me my first born.