Spin: Rumpelstiltskin Retold

Part 4

FOUR

Molina trekked up to the pools, panting a little as the slope grew steeper. The track led to the topmost pool, the biggest and deepest of the three. The cool, blue water tempted most newcomers into taking a dip, but Molina knew better. The glacier fed stream was ice cold still when it fed the top pool, and the overhanging trees did little to let the sun in to warm the water. The second pool was little better, for it was cut into the cold stone of the mountain itself, which seemed to drink the warmth the water gained from the sun glittering across its surface.

The third pool, however, was an overflow for the other two. When the snowmelt was too much for the top two pools to take, the water trickled down over the rocks into what was now a third pool, but after Midsummer, would be little more than a depression in the ground, where the softest, thickest grass grew.

Now, it was waist deep – perfect. No trees grew around this pool. The rocks left them no place to take root.

Molina clambered down to the bottom pool, before she stripped off, laying her clothes out on the rocks. She was under no illusions that the water would be warm, and she would appreciate her sun warmed clothes when she donned them again.

She stretched her towel out on the biggest, flattest rock, where it would be within easy reach.

From up here, you could see almost clear to the other side of the valley and all the town in between. If anyone approached, she would spot them at least a mile away, as they took the road leading out of town – more than enough time to dry off and dress.

So she plunged into the water, hissing at that first, cold contact, before she grew used to the temperature and began to wash. She used the soap on her body first, lathering and rinsing as she surveyed the valley below. Then, checking that she could still feel her feet, she decided to take advantage of the afternoon sun to wash and dry her hair, too.

Unbinding it took some time, and washing it even longer, for the thick, dark mane was her only vanity, not that anyone noticed. Most of the other girls in the village had hair in varying shades of flax. The darkness that made her different didn't appeal to any of the village boys. Not that she wanted it to, Molina reminded herself. When she was satisfied that her hair was hidden under the thick layer of creamy lather, she lay back, floating on the surface of the water as she rinsed the soap from her hair. She combed her fingers through it again and again, sending bubbles over the lip of the little waterfall which in turn fed the stream that turned her father's waterwheels.

She squinted at the turning wheels, which looked like toys from this distance. If she could only attach a spindle to the axle of one, and yet keep the distaff close enough...

Molina shook her head and ducked under the water. Under the surface, the world was murky and green, much like the strange ideas that wanted to take shape in her head. Watermills for spinning and weaving. Why, even Lord Bachmeier thought her daft, having such ideas. Perhaps he was right.

No, she was not daft, she told herself firmly, surging out of the water. Her father listened to her, just as he had listened to her mother. Her ideas were new and different, much like Mother's, and the town did not like different. The floods had proved that. The floodwaters might have washed away crops and buildings, but it seemed the swirling waters had taken some people's sanity with it, too. Once things settled down again, perhaps then they would be open to new ideas. Lord Bachmeier could not live forever.

She used her towel to dry herself off as best she could and squeezed the water from her hair. She pulled on a shift to cover her nakedness, then began to comb her hair. When the tangles were gone, she stretched out on the rock where her towel had lay, letting the sun dry her hair, before she braided it back into a style more suitable for a virtuous miller's daughter. Resting her head in her hand, once again she watched the waterwheels turning, the cogs of her mind turning with them.

A spindle, a distaff, and a wheel...all placed together so that she had no need to hold them, leaving her hands free to spin, and spin faster...

She found a fire pit, long since extinguished, where the farmhands heated up their dinner on flax harvest days, and dug out some charcoal. A piece of bark, caught between two rocks on the edge of the pool, sufficed as her canvas, and Molina began to draw the design taking shape in her head.