Rumpelstiltskin
Copyright 2011 Leila Bryce Sin
Smashwords edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Leila Bryce Sin
The miller paced the floor of his modest cottage, wringing his hands. The tax collector was on his way, he would be here any minute, and the miller had nothing to give. The terrible drought that year had left his crops meager, barely producing enough wheat to make enough flour to keep his tiny family from starving. But there was nothing left to pay his taxes. If he didn’t think of something he would be taken in irons and his wife and daughter would be left all alone.
A sharp rap sounded at the door, startling the miller and stopping him dead in his tracks. He stared at the door, hardly daring to breathe; maybe if he held perfectly still the man would just go away.
“Miller! I know you are home, open this door in the name of the King!” a voice boomed behind the door as a fist pounded against it again. The miller’s heart sank and he trudged over to the door. He unlatched the lock and pulled it open. The tax collector strode in as if he owned the cottage. He was a large man, always dressed in black and silver. His black Van Dyke beard twitched as he turned on a booted heel, taking in the room and the sparse furniture.
“Sir,” the miller greeted him, bowing his head.
“Enough with the pleasantries,” the tax collector snapped. “Just pay your tithe so that I may be on my way.”
“Yes, sir,” the miller said, his voice small. “My tithe, well you see, there has be a drought this year.”
“The King has no concern over the weather man,” the tax collector said, cutting the miller’s explanation off.
“But you see, because of the drought my crops were poor and I have no money left to pay the tithe,” the miller finished, his head bowed. The tax collector did not speak and his silence was terrifying. The miller’s stomach was in knots and his hands were sweating. He desperately wanted to sit down but he knew the man in his living room would see it as disrespectful and dared not insult him now.
“So then you squandered your money away and now have the gall to look me in the face and say you cannot pay what is due? You’re special, are you?” The miller bit back his reply, wanting to tell the man he wasn’t looking him in the face. He wanted to say so many things, but he knew none of them would help him just now.
“Sir,” the miller started to speak but the tax collector held up a hand to stop him.
“I thought you had a wife and daughter?”
“I do, sir.”
“And you don’t care about their safety? You realize not paying taxes is a high crime. I will clap you in irons and take you away. That doesn’t trouble you?”
“Yes, sir, it does.” The miller’s face flushed red with rage and his shoulders were shaking with the effort of not attacking the man in front of him. But the King’s man was much bigger and stronger than he; years of comfort and never having to wonder where your next meal was coming from kept him fit and firm.
“But you insist you have nothing?”
“Yes, sir,” the miller sighed. He heard the jingle of the irons as the tax collector took them from his belt. He was right; if he allowed himself to be arrested he left his wife and daughter unprotected. His sweet daughter who was so beautiful and so naïve about the world, how could he leave her to the evils of men who would surely come as soon as he was gone? His daughter was barely eighteen, and her beautiful flowing golden hair, lovely green eyes and sweet face made her desirable enough that the men of town didn’t care she didn’t have a dowry. Thinking about his beautiful daughter and her spun gold hair gave the miller an idea. It was a crazy idea, one that might get him killed rather than arrested, but one that might buy him a little time to pay his taxes.
“Wait!” the miller shouted just as the tax collector was reaching out for his hand. The tax collector jumped in surprise, nearly dropping the irons on his booted foot. He glared at the man and thought about striking him but he held his hand.
“What? Have you suddenly remembered where you’re keeping your money?” he sneered.
“No, sir, I am not lying to you, but,” the miller hesitated, swallowing audibly. “I may have something his majesty would rather have.”
“Really,” the tax collector said with an arched brow. “Do tell.”
“My daughter.”
“My dear man, what would the King want with a peasant girl?” the tax collector sighed and shook his head, taking a step closer to the miller to handcuff him. It was well known that the King had yet to take a wife, refusing to marry someone not as rich as or richer than he. Many other kingdoms had sent their eligible women to woo his heart, but they had all come from families in desperate need of a sponsor. He would be no one’s sponsor.
“No! No, no, sir you misunderstand me,” the miller said frantically, raising his hands and backing away from the threatening irons.
“What then?”
“My daughter has the ability to spin straw into gold,” the miller said, the lie tumbling from his mouth and stopping the tax collector cold.
“What?” he said, gaping at him.
“Yes, and I would prove it to you, but as I said, our fields are sparse from the drought. I am sure the King has plenty of straw that he could have my daughter spin to gold for him,” the miller’s heart was pounding in his chest, threatening to burst through and betray him. A sheen of sweat was building on his forehead as the tax collector stared at him, deciding whether or not to believe him.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I imagine the King would much rather have that than your pitiful tithe.” The tax collector nodded his head slowly, considering the miller. “You realize of course, if you are lying, you’ll be hanged rather than imprisoned.”
“Yes, sir,” the miller replied.
“Very well, bring me your daughter.”
The miller’s daughter sat on the tiny stool in the room she had been led to and locked inside of. The room was full of piles and piles of straw and one lonely spindle and wheel with a tiny stool for her to sit. The guards told her they expected her to spin this straw into gold and to have it all done by morning. If, when they came to check on her, they straw wasn’t all transformed into gold, she would be executed for lying to the King. She had no idea why they thought she could perform such a feat! When the King’s men came for her in the garden and bound her in irons, tossing her into the cart, her father was yelling and calling out to her, apologizing. At the time she had no idea what he was apologizing for, but now, sitting in this room, she thought she understood. In an act of desperation he must have told them she could do this ridiculous thing.