The Woodcutter (16 page)

The last physical proof he carried of her touch.

He placed the dry bread in his mouth, letting it melt slowly upon his tongue.

And then it was gone.

His hands were empty.

Gone.

He looked up at the trees, the tall, slender trees that never touched except for their branches.

He heaved a sigh that seemed to echo to the very depths of his being.

And there, alone in the forest with no human soul to hear, he wept.

Chapter 45

The trees here knew him by name. They whispered in greeting, in hushed excitement.

“What did you learn?” they begged.

The Woodcutter exhaled, and on the wings of that breath, his story unfolded.

The leaves of the aspen shivered silver and sage. The pine’s cones fell in fear.

The Queen…the Gentleman…
they shook.

But the Woodcutter would not stop, could not stop to whisper hope to his friends, for he knew each footstep brought him closer to his doom.

He had spoken to the Crone and she had told him the future of anyone who dared to face the Beast.

His feet could not stop until they reached the end of the path.

So he walked on, a day and a night, and a night and a week until he reached the inn, the inn he had rested in that first night so long ago.

He walked to the tavern and laid his wooden coin upon the counter.

The barkeeper did not look up from his wash, “Your money is no good here, Woodcutter.”

The Woodcutter walked up the stairs and into the whore’s bedroom.

She lay sprawled upon the purple coverlet.

She lifted a drooping lid, “I don’t work tonight. Find yourself another room.”

But he would not be turned away.

He sat down upon the chair, “Who are you?”

The woman turned and pressed her face into a pillow, “Didn’t you hear what I was saying? Leave me alone.”

“Who was your daughter’s father?”

She glared at him and reached her hand towards her dust box, “I have no daughter.”

The Woodcutter remained silent.

“Are you still here?” she asked.

Still he remained.

She lifted her head and growled at him, “Why won’t you go away?”

“Who is your daughter’s father?”

“Some noble. Are we finished?” she replied.

The Woodcutter felt his blood run cold within his veins.

“And do you have any other children by this man?” he asked.

Her eyes were glazed and her head lolled back upon a tasseled pillow. She ran her fingers through her mess of blonde curls, “It was so long ago…”

“Another child?”

A trickle of red bled from her nose. She lifted the back of her hand carelessly to stop the flow.

It spilled upon her fingers and dripped down upon her forearm.

The Woodcutter pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly to the blood. She barely lifted her eyes to him, but smiled in gratitude.

“It was so long ago…” she whispered. “I never told anyone.”

“What didn’t you tell?” he murmured back.

“About my other daughter.”

Chapter 46

He stepped out of the brothel and lit his pipe, thinking back to the conversation.

A sister.

A sister to the half-blood.

A sister with the same blood.

A sister who would be killed as soon as she was discovered, because she, like her unknowing sister, was the next rightful heir of the Ninth Kingdom.

“And where is this sister now?” he had asked the woman.

The mother’s eyes closed as oblivion enveloped her, “East of the sun and west of the moon.”

The embers of the Woodcutter’s pipe shone orange in the dusk.

Chapter 47

The tree was silent and dark, like a hole in the forest. It did not murmur to its friends. It did not answer the Woodcutter when he called out to it.

It stood like a warning.

A small, round door and a small, round window fit themselves into the gnarled trunk. The Woodcutter placed his hand upon his father’s ax. The fae were not always good. He knocked upon the tree.

A short little man with wiry red hair opened the door. He wore a rust-colored tunic, a fine gold necklace, and a lady’s ring. The dwarf’s eyes were dark and beady and regarded the Woodcutter with suspicion.

“What do you want?” he wheezed in a high-pitched voice.

“I seek shelter for the night,” said the Woodcutter.

The dwarf held the door, “And what is it you would pay me with for such a service?”

The Woodcutter tried not to stare at the jewelry shining gold against the dirt caked into the pores and crevices of the dwarf’s neck and knuckles.

“I have a fine pipe, which I would gladly share,” offered the Woodcutter.

The dwarf wrinkled his nose as he considered the bargain, and then stepped aside.

The hovel was far larger than the tree it was within, but the walls were still wood and the floor was still dirt. Roots had grown up out of the earth and twisted upon themselves to form chairs and tables. A cold fire burned without wood or coal in the hearth.

The dwarf settled himself in his chair and glared at the Woodcutter, “So what is this you say about a pipe? I suppose you have matches and fire?”

The Woodcutter opened up his pack. As he bent over, he commented upon the dwarf’s necklace and ring.

“Those are quite fine,” said the Woodcutter.

The dwarf stroked his jewelry possessively, “Indeed, they were the gifts from a princess for services rendered.”

The Woodcutter looked at the dwarf sharply.

Far too many were mingling in the affairs of the Twelve Kingdoms’ royalty.

“And what services did you provide?” he asked casually.

The dwarf laid a finger aside his nose, “Ah, ‘tis a secret, human.”

The Woodcutter pulled out his pipe and his tinderbox. The dwarf licked his lips, eyes never leaving the Woodcutter’s hands.

The Woodcutter stopped, aware of the dwarf’s intent interest. “I suppose I should just light my pipe by your fire?” he said.

The dwarf shook his head, “No, no, you must light it with your fire. Your warm, consuming fire…”

The Woodcutter took a match from his box and lit it. The dwarf held out his hands and closed his eyes, enraptured with the heat. The Woodcutter let it burn itself out.

The dwarf’s eyes flew open, “Where did it go? You must bring it back! You must bring it back now!”

“Of course,” said the Woodcutter.

He lit another match and, this time, lit the pipe and handed it over to the dwarf. The dwarf puffed on the pipe like a suckling babe. When he finally got his fill, he leaned back and exhaled. The smoke filled the entire house.

The Woodcutter stroked his beard, “I can see, friend, you are a fine connoisseur of flame.”

The dwarf licked his lips again, staring at the embers inside of the pipe.

“Perhaps you would like a larger fire?” said the Woodcutter.

The dwarf looked at him in awe, “You would give me fire?”

The hair on the Woodcutter’s neck stood up in warning.

“I will share my fire, but in the morning you must give it back,” said the Woodcutter.

The dwarf agreed, “Indeed! Indeed, I have been so cold, so cold since I was forced to live above the ground. Name your price!”

The Woodcutter pretended to think, “Let us not talk of business, now. It will take me awhile to build the fire. Let us go outside and, while I work, we can talk of what might be an appropriate settlement.”

The dwarf nodded greedily, “Indeed! Let us go outside and discuss! You are a wise man indeed!” He patted the Woodcutter’s arm in excitement, “Out we go!”

While the Woodcutter dug the fire pit into the earth, he sent the dwarf out to gather dry, dead branches from the ground. Soon a bonfire taller than a man roared, rising up into the night sky.

The dwarf danced with glee, warming his hands and then his backside and then his hands again. “I thought I would never be warm again!” he exclaimed.

The Woodcutter left the clearing, giving the dwarf time alone with the fire. The dwarf began dancing, faster and faster until his feet blurred and his face glowed red.

The dwarf sang out in joy, drunk from the flames as they rose and leapt, “Little coals, little embers, tonight you dance for me! Fire taken away for greed, now you feed upon the tree!”

The Woodcutter rested his hand upon a tall pine. The tree leaned against him and whispered for him to wait.

So he waited for an hour and then an hour more, watching as the dwarf fed the flames, as he continued his songs of nonsense and songs of love, as the world ceased to exist beyond the light of the blaze.

But then the tree leaned forward, and so the Woodcutter leaned in, too. The dwarf began a new song as he swayed in the heat, “Today do I bake, tomorrow I brew, the day after that the Princess comes in; and oh! I am glad that nobody knew that the name I am called is Rumpelstiltskin!”

The tree shifted. The time for waiting was done.

The Woodcutter returned to the clearing and dropped a load of dead branches into the bonfire. Rumpelstiltskin let out a whoop and leapt ten feet over the top of the flame.

The Woodcutter settled his back against the tree to smoke his pipe, watching the dwarf as he danced. The Woodcutter tapped out the ashes from his pipe and filled it again. Offhandedly he asked, “What was the favor you granted the Princess?”

Rumpelstiltskin looked back at the Woodcutter, “I shan’t tell.”

The Woodcutter’s eyes bored into the dwarf, “It is the price I ask for the fire that you have danced around.”

Rumpelstiltskin looked at the fire with such longing and then at the Woodcutter and then at the fire again. He waved his hands above his head in irritation, “Oh, she wanted to spin gold out of straw, so for two nights I did as she wished.”

“And what happened on the third night?”

Rumpelstiltskin crept closer to the fire to bask, “I was told to bring her home with me.”

“Who told you that?”

“A Queen dressed in red. She said to bring the girl to the Woods and to leave her for the monster to devour before bed.”

“And did you?” asked the Woodcutter.

Rumpelstiltskin began dancing again, “Oh I brought her here, but I’m smarter than that. Such a girl is worth a ransom and I will find what the Queen values her at. So I brought her here and here she stays, spinning gold from straw for the rest of her days.”

The Woodcutter winked at him, “My, you are a sly one, indeed. And very cunning, too.”

“Indeed, I’m a sly one. I’m a cunning, sly one.”

“And where is she now?”

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head and leapt across the top of the bonfire again, “That information is worth much more than the fire that you shared. Give me what the Queen would pay, and I will tell where the girl disappeared.”

“And what is the ransom?”

“I like babies. I like first born babies and fire,” said Rumpelstiltskin as he cut a jig.

“I have neither to give you.”

“Then you shall not have the Princess,” said Rumpelstiltskin.

The Woodcutter looked at the trees, knowing why fire had been taken away from this dwarf. His greed grew with each crackling limb.

“What if I promised you her firstborn?” the Woodcutter said.

Rumpelstiltskin stopped. He licked his lips greedily. But then wagged his finger at the Woodcutter, “You cannot promise the child of another.”

The Woodcutter leaned forward, “Well, you know that and I know that, but the Princess is sure not to know. I shall tell her I was forced to strike a bargain. When she gives birth and you go to collect the child, I am sure you can trick her into it. You are so cunning and sly.”

Rumpelstiltskin clapped his hands, “You’re right. You are right, indeed! I am a cunning fellow. Trick the girl and get a free baby in the bargain! You are right and have done me a favor.”

He slapped his thighs and danced. He pointed off to a large boulder and sang to the blaze, “We shall go that direction and walk until we reach a cave. She is inside, you’ll see! And then, my dear fire, there will be babies for me!”

The Woodcutter gathered up his things. Hypnotized once more by the inferno, Rumpelstiltskin swayed in the light and did not pay him any attention.

But just as the Woodcutter was about to step out of the clearing, he turned his head over his shoulder. “I almost forgot,” he said. “Your name is Rumpelstiltskin.”