Spin: Rumpelstiltskin Retold

ONE Kempenich winced as he reined in his horse. Even that slight movement set off the pain in his chest. Truth be told, he should not be riding at all, and he knew it. But some things could not wait. The destrier's hooves caught on something, but the horse righted himself before Kempenich was thrown from the saddle. He breathed a sigh of relief. Darkness had carried him into many battles at the order of King Karl the Great, while the monarch had lived. Now he'd outlived his king, the time had come for what might be his last battle, and he intended to ride the black beast home from this one. He slid down to the ground. "I seek the witch!" he bellowed. It took every bit of his strength to stand tall and stride toward the cottage, as a knight should. The witch emerged, her arms folded across her chest. There was pity in her dark eyes, but she stood firm. "I am sorry, Sir Rumpelstiltskin, but there is nothing more I can do for you. You're dying." Mistress Kun turned away. Sir Kempenich von Rumpelstiltskin refused to admit defeat. "I may be dying, but there is still something you can do for me." She sighed. "I assure you there is not, but why don't we go inside and discuss it? I can see you need a pain draught. That, at least, I can give you." Kempenich followed her inside the cottage, then sank gratefully onto a bench. He would drink anything she asked, if only she would grant him one last favour. Mistress Kun darted about the cottage, assembling what she needed to make the draught, and Kempenich summoned his resolve. Once more into battle...not for his life, but for the future. "Mistress, I have heard tales that you are more than a herbwife and healer. More than a usual witch. There are tales that you are what heathens call an enchantress, a woman who works magic. They say that you have power over earth and rocks, and when a child from the village fell down a well, you cracked open the very earth itself to retrieve her, then commanded the rock to return to its previous place, and it obeyed." Kempenich held his breath, praying she would confirm the story. Kun glanced at him. "There are all sorts of tales. Why, I have heard people tell stories of unicorns and dragons and immortality to children around the fire at night." Kempenich bowed his head. He, too, had told such tales to his children. Including one he hoped was more fact than fiction. "There is a story about an ancient king who was granted a wish. He wanted to be the richest man in the world, so he wished for everything he touched to turn to gold. It is said that gold comes from the ground, and a wielder of earth magic might be able to do such a thing." Kun lifted a bucket of water and poured some of it into a small pot over the fire. "Then you must also know the end of the king's tale. He could not eat or drink or touch his family, and he feared his wish would kill him, so he washed his wish away in the river, and shunned gold for the rest of his days." "I will soon be beyond such mundane things as gold or food or even days, Mistress. But my family will not. And I have spent all that I have in physic for what ails me, seeking a cure that will let me live long enough to restore my family's fortune. If I die now, I will leave them little more than the Rumpelstiltskin house on stilts my father left me, on the rock King Karl granted him for his service. Other knights are building castles along the river to secure their lands, and if my son does not have one, he will lose his lands to a richer man who does. He needs gold, and I would give anything to give it to him." Kun sank onto a bench and squinted at him in the dim light. "You ask me to curse you. Not for yourself, but for your son, who you will never be able to touch again. You will never be able to eat or drink, and your own wife will not be able to hold your hand as you take your dying breath. You even wish to hasten that dying breath." "Yes. I am no use to them like this. Better to be dead than to be a burden." Kempenich took the cup she offered and drained it. Silence stretched between them. But it was Mistress Kun who broke it. "There is some truth in the tale, but the enchanter who cast such a spell was a fool. I can restrict the spell to your hands, while you live. You may still eat and drink, as long as your hands do not touch it. But when your heart stops, the spell will spread throughout your body, turning it all to gold." Kun bowed her head. "This I will do for you, but you must swear to tell no one about the source of your wealth. Breathe a word to anyone that I cast the spell, and that breath shall be your last." "I swear on my honour, and that of my father, that I shall tell no one," Kempenich promised. "Then hold out your hands, palms up," Kun instructed, picking up a knife. She pricked her thumb with the point, then used the welling blood to trace lines on Kempenich's fingers, then his hands, until she swiped her thumb along the lines on Kempenich's wrists, right the way around. "By my blood, I bespell yours. Everything your hands touch from this moment until the day you die, will turn to gold." For a moment, Kempenich's hands glowed, then lit up in a blinding flash of blue that made him turn his head away, lest the brightness hurt his eyes. When he saw his hands again, the light had vanished, and so had the blood, though the blue tinge to his fingertips had taken on a greenish hue. Dead hands. Kempenich shivered. Did he dare touch anything with them? What if the spell hadn't worked, and he tainted whatever he touched instead? "I would offer you a cup of wine to toast your family's fortunes, but..." Kempenich grimaced. "No more wine for me, now. It does not agree with the draught you gave me." Kun nodded. "I have just the thing. One of the dairymaids brought a pail of milk this morning, and it's been chilling in the cellar ever since. I mean to keep the cream for butter, but there will be more tomorrow." She rose and headed for the cellar. When she returned, she carried a brimming jug that she poured into two cups and a bowl. When she caught Kempenich eyeing the bowl with curiosity, she shrugged. "That's for Butter. He usually comes running as soon as I go into the cellar, for he loves his milk." She raised her voice, and called, "Butter! Puss-puss-puss!" But the cat did not come. With increasing urgency, the witch kept calling, leaving Kempenich alone in the cottage as she moved outside. After a while, Kun fell silent. But she didn't come back in. Kempenich debated whether to follow her, or stay and wait. He wanted to head home before the effects of Kun's draught wore off, but even the walk to where he'd tethered Darkness wore him out these days. He knew in his bones this would be his last ride. "You did this!" Kun shrieked, bursting into the cottage. In her arms, she cradled a piece of gold-coloured fur. It took a moment for Kempenich to realise the fur was still attached to a feline body. "I've never seen that cat before," he said weakly. It wasn't a lie. Too late he remembered his horse stumbling as he arrived the cottage. Had Darkness lost his footing because he trod on the cat? Kun pointed a shaking hand at Darkness. "He had a muddy hoofprint on his back that could only have come from that enormous warhorse of yours. You come here for my help, yet you kill my cat without a care? It's not my fault your ailment is beyond my powers. You, Sir Kempenich von Rumpelstiltskin, have no heart, and that is what is killing you. Take your golden curse, but know this: every male born of your blood will bear the same curse. His heart will fail him in his prime, just as yours has, and his only warning will be the curse, heralding his death. And you – " She waved her hand, and Kempenich found himself soaring through the air, to land in the saddle. "You shall have a daily reminder of the creature you killed." Another wave of her hand, and a pair of gloves appeared on Kempenich's hands. Golden brown leather, lined with golden fur. Kempenich glanced at her, only to find the cat's corpse had vanished. He now wore it on his hands. His belly roiled, but he fought to keep the bile down. But Kun wasn't finished. "As long as you wear these gloves, you may touch things like a normal man. Take them off, and all you touch turns to gold. A curse on you, and all who follow you!" "Please. Curse me...kill me, do what you will with me, but don't hurt my son," he begged. Her eyes were the cold of black ice. "Bring my cat back to life, and I will consider it." "Please..." She clapped her hands. "Go!" The tether holding Darkness broke and he galloped off, forcing Kempenich to cling desperately to the reins so that he would not fall off. "And don't return!" she shouted after him. As his world dissolved into despair, Kempenich knew one thing for certain: he would never return to the witch's cottage. For if he survived the ride home, it would be a miracle indeed. He remembered little, until something in the horse's slowing gait made him open his eyes. After several blinks, the blue-green blur before him revealed itself to be the corroded bronze lion that protected the bridge to the island where the house of Rumpelstiltskin stood. Without thinking, he pulled off his glove and patted the lion's head, as he had done every time he returned home safely. This time, his fingers tingled at the touch, and too late he realised what he'd done. The blueish bronze was neither blue nor bronze any more, but bright, shining gold. He shoved his hand back into the cat-fur glove, cursing witches and their cats. His son would die young, and so would his grandsons, because Kempenich had been a thoughtless fool who sought out a witch. He should have left things well enough alone. But it was too late now. What had he done? And how would he ever set it right? As his vision faded and Kempenich slid from his horse to the ground, fighting for air that did not seem to breathe life into him any more, he had one last, fleeting thought. Even if he died before he could restore his family's fortune, at least his son would have a chance to do it. Before this curse killed him, too.