by Alex Flinn
“Why do you need it, if you can make gold?”
“I told you. People only value that which has a price.” That makes me think of Karl. I gave myself too cheaply.
I slip the ring from my finger. He reaches toward me with a hand long and bony and nothing like Karl’s powerful ones. I drop the ring into his outstretched palm. He pockets it and then rummages in a bag he carried on his back. He pulls out a book that is barely a book, more a collection of old pages, held to its broken spine by a bit of ribbon. He holds it out to me. I fear to take it, for it crackles so much in his hands that I worry it will fall to dust in mine.
He says, “You will sit with me and read as I spin. You will keep me company.”
At the very sight of the book, my eyes start to close. I would much rather sleep than talk or read. But I can hardly deny his small request when he is about to do so much for me.
Having relieved himself of his burden, the man drags the spinning wheel over to several large bales of straw. He sits upon one, and it crunches. He gestures to me to sit upon another.
I want to watch, to see him spin straw into gold, but when I look at him, he points to the book. “Read,” he says. “You do your work and I mine. You spin stories as I spin straw.”
So I open the book and begin the story of Kriemhild, the prince’s sister, who has a dream of a falcon killed by eagles. Her mother says this means that Kriemhild’s husband will be killed. So Kriemhild vows not to marry.
How incredible to be able to make such a choice! Oh, I just choose not to marry! Of course, Kriemhild is obviously a rich woman, and rich women have more choices.
As I read, I can hear the whir of the spinning wheel, the crinkle of the straw. But any time I hazard a glance up, the little man stops working and points at the book. I notice that the lights have gone dim again, with only a circle near me from the lantern he brought, so I can read, listening to the whir of the wheel as I tell about the childhood of the hero, Siegfried. But just as I begin chapter three, the lantern goes out entirely. I sit silent, listening to the whirring, whirring, whirring of the wheel.
“Why did you stop reading?” the man asks. His voice sounds different in the darkness, or perhaps it is only because I cannot see how small and slight he is. It is a manly voice, low and musical and bigger than he appears.
“The light went out, and I was very sorry, for I wished to know if Kriemhild made good her vow, or if she grew up to marry Siegfried.”
He chuckles. “What do you think?”
I lower the book down to the ground. I have no need of it anymore. I lean against the scratchy straw. “I think . . . why would the writer tell us about Kriemhild’s prophecy if she were not going to marry?”
“Clever girl. Do you want Siegfried to marry Kriemhild even if it means he will die?”
I think about it, but not for long. “We will all die someday.”
“That is true enough.” The machine never stops whirring as he speaks.
“To die without true love is a great tragedy.”
A sigh. “That is true as well.” The wheel continued to whir. After a time, he says, “Do you want to know what happens in the rest of the story?”
“Do you know?” I ask, surprised.
“Indeed. It is my favorite story, a story that helped me in many a lonely time. And it is an old legend. Some believe it to be partly true.”
“Then do tell me.”
So, as he spins and spins, the bookseller also spins the story of Kriemhild bathing in dragon’s blood to make herself invincible, then helping the king, Gunther, to win the hand of the warrior, Brunhilde (like our cow, I think). Siegfried does marry Kriemhild, and so, of course, he dies. About an hour before dawn, the man asks me to rise from the bale of straw upon which I sit. I do, and I sink down in the corner, but I cannot find a comfortable spot, as the entire barn floor is covered in something hard as stone. The bookseller’s assistant continues, and as Kriemhild learns of Siegfried’s murder, the sun begins to rise, and I behold a room full not of straw but of gold, sparkling all around me. In the middle of it, the little man stands, spinning the last of it, smiling.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I nod. I do, of course, and yet I feel a twinge of something, some emptiness, some regret. I do not know why. I am going to marry the prince! I am going to be a princess! To have everything I ever wanted!
And yet, like Kriemhild, my story is tinged in tragedy.
I say, “Yes. Thank you. But I am sorry too.”
“Sorry?”
I nod, slowly realizing the reason for it, what must be the reason. Karl does not really love me. I will never have true love. I see that now. No one will ever love me.
I think of the baby growing inside me. Perhaps he will.
“I do not . . . I will not know how the story ends. Can you leave me the book when you go?”
In truth, I am not ready for him to leave. I am scared to see the king again. What will he say to me? What if he asks me how I spun the straw?
But he laughs, a rather cruel laugh. “Silly girl! I have given you riches, a barnful of gold, and you want more. You want my book?”
The light glinting off the transformed straw hurts my eyes, and I shut them. “Sometimes, a story is worth more than gold. Sometimes a story is everything.”
“I agree,” the man says, his face growing solemn. “And some of us have only stories to keep us company. Books allow us to be what we will never be in reality, have what we will never have. I am afraid I must take my book with me.”
I nod. “You have done much for me.”
He takes the book from my hand. “You can always read the other book with your beloved.” His voice, when he says, beloved, is caustic, just as it was when he said handsome prince, like someone spitting out a bad flavor.
I stare at him. “What book is that?”
He gathers up the pages of the book, fumbling with the ribbon that had held them together. “The history book.”
“How did you know about the book Karl sent me?”
His eyes meet mine, gray and strange with a hint of surprise, like a cat startled at ferreting out a mouse. “How did I . . . ?” He looks down, tying the ribbon not very well. “Why . . . Kendra told me, of course.”
Having gathered the pages, he bows. “I must go. Best of luck to you . . . princess.”
Princess. I will be a princess. I smile at the thought.
And he is gone as suddenly as he appeared. I cannot even see where he went. I run to the window to try to find him, but I only see the orange sun, hurting my eyes. When I turn back, they burn so much that they fill with tears.
I sink onto the golden floor. It is so hard, and I remember the story of King Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold only to find it gave him no happiness. The barn floor is cold and hard, uninviting. Still, I curl up on it and fall asleep.
7
“What is this?” A voice wakes me. “She’s done it? Is it true? Go and tell His Highness and the king.”
I do not, cannot stir. Too tired. Also, the voice is not the one I want. Not Karl! I barely hear the barn door slam before I go back to sleep.
“My darling! Wake up!”
It’s him! This time, it is him. My eyes flutter open. Is my hair neat enough? I feel a bit sick, as it is morning, but it is Karl! Karl, leaning over me!
“I did not believe it possible,” he says. “Why did you not tell me of your wonderful talent before?”
“Are you the only one who can have secrets?” But the golden light assaults my eyes, and again, they well with tears. I turn away and see men, burly men with wheeled carts, already hauling the gold away.
“Father is so happy, my darling!” Karl’s hand is upon my shoulder, and I try again to look at him. Again, my eyes ache. I reach up and draw him toward me.
“Are you happy, my love?” Over Karl’s shoulder, I notice more men, this time bringing something in. Straw. More straw for the animals, of course.
“
Of course I am happy, my love.” He kisses me and holds me so tight I can feel his heartbeat. “There is only one thing.”
I twist away from him. I do not want one thing. I have had enough of things. When someone says, only one thing, it is never a pleasant thing!
“Well, uh, Father wondered if, perhaps, you could do it again.”
Behind him, the four bearlike men are still hauling away the gold while the other men bring in straw, more straw, mountains of straw.
“Again?” The dust from the straw—or possibly the gold—sticks in my windpipe, making it impossible to swallow, nearly impossible to speak. Finally, I choke out, “Why?”
He smiles his glorious smile and squeezes my hand in his. “It is just . . . I am so proud of you, darling. Your ability is so wonderful, so astounding, not at all what is expected from . . .” He stops speaking.
“From a commoner? From a miller’s daughter?”
“No!” He shakes his head. “No, not that. From anybody. To have such an ability, it boggles the mind. Father has told all our guests about it, and they do not believe him. So he thought to have you do it again, show our guests the straw and then, in the morning, the gold.”
“That makes sense . . . I suppose.” But I have no abilities, none at all. What if his father’s request is merely a trick to reveal that? And what if the little man does not come back?
“Of course it makes sense.”
“Of course.” I want to run away, to go home even to face my father’s wrath. I say to Karl, “Of course. But since I have done your father’s bidding, must I be a prisoner here?” It is bold, but I have no choice.
Karl raises his eyebrows and furrows his fine, high brow. “You have never been a prisoner, my love.”
“I have. I am. Your father did not believe me. He threw me into this barn to trap me into it.”
“No, my darling. No.”
I continue. I need to get my belongings and the mirror. After all, I cannot spin straw into gold, and what if Kendra forgets me this night?
“Please, may I return to my room and tidy myself? I want to look pretty for you. And I need my belongings. Perhaps we can read the book you sent me. I brought it with me.”
Behind me, a rope of gold drops with a thud, and Karl’s fine face is blank with confusion. “Book? What book?”
“The history book, of course. The one you sent me when first we met.” Is it possible he does not remember? Has he been sending presents to milkmaids and shepherdesses and miller’s daughters across the land, to such a degree that he does not recall them all?
But no, there is light in his eyes. “Oh, of course. The history book. It is in your bedroom, you say? Of course I can retrieve it for you.”
“Can I not go outside then?” I feel, again, as though the dust from the straw is choking me. “I am your beloved, am I not?”
“Yes, my love.” Karl leans over to kiss my forehead. “Try to get some sleep. You look frightfully tired.”
“I am. And hungry. I need to eat and drink, but especially, I need my belongings.”
“I will get them.”
And then he is gone. I walk over to the side of the barn that is already filled with straw, more straw than the previous night, away from the workers who are hauling away the gold. I wonder what it would be like to be a worker, a man, free to do what he pleases, instead of a woman trapped—literally trapped—in a barn and in my life, trapped with a baby, my only hope to be made a wife.
Even if Karl is not my true love, he is the father of my baby. He must marry me.
I sink into the straw. Ordinarily, my worries would prevent me from sleeping, but I am still so weary, so exhausted, and my weariness pulls me downward, sends me plummeting into sleep as I dream of the river running through the mill, turning, turning, turning it into oblivion.
I wake to a shaking. My eyes flutter open. “Karl?”
But he is not there. Instead, it is a woman, a maid, judging from her crisp black gown, though it is finer than my everyday clothes.
“Oh, no, miss. His Highness is not here, but he asked that these items be sent to you.” She shakes me yet again, and the sour expression upon her face lets me know she is well aware of my situation. I am still blinking, blinking at the shame of it, not from the light shed by the gold. The gold, indeed, is gone. Instead, I am surrounded on three sides by walls of straw. My dress is covered in dust.
I look at the items the woman is gesturing at. My satchel, which I trust contains the book and mirror, is on the right. On the left sits a picnic basket, the very same one Karl brought to our meetings.
I realize I am starving. I fall upon the picnic basket, fumbling at its contents, hoping there will be some note, some explanation from Karl. There is none, only a loaf of bread, a roasted chicken, and some fruit. I fall upon it, ravenously, but I leave half of each item and all of a chocolate cake. If my helper comes tonight (pray to God he does), I should feed him in exchange for his kindness.
Only after I consume the feast do I go for my satchel. I should pick up the mirror immediately, but instead, I snatch up the book. The book from Karl. I stroke its gold-edged pages. I open it, randomly, to an illustrated plate of a great battle with armored horses and men carrying spears. The pages feel cool, smooth. I inhale deeply, remembering exactly where I had been when I first breathed in the book’s clean scent.
But the book reminds me of someplace else. Not my home. Not Karl. But the bookstore. I had talked about it to the little man that day.
I seize up the mirror. “Show me Kendra!”
She appears, clad in purple brocade and holding a large black volume in her hand. Is it a book of spells?
When she sees me, she laughs. “Haha! Did I not tell you that you would be able to spin straw into gold?”
“But I can’t. And now Karl’s father believes I can. He has boasted about it to his guests and will be humiliated if I cannot do it again.”
“Again? Humph! Sounds a bit greedy.”
I think so too, but I say, “I must do it if I am to marry Karl.”
Kendra shrugs. “Is he even worth it?”
“Worth it . . . what does that have to do with anything? I must marry him or what else will I do?” My choices, narrow before, have constricted to only one: marry, or die?
Kendra shrugs again, as if the situation does not seem dire to her. “All right. I will help you. Be ready at sunset.”
And that is it. After she disappears, I sit and read the book some more until the barn grows gray and the words compress to nothing.
“Are you waiting for me, milady?”
I start. It is him! The gold spinner, standing before me. I feel an urge to run toward him, to embrace the only familiar, good thing. Instead, I say, “I do not know your name.”
“It is of no importance, is it?”
“It is your name. I want to have something to call you, as you are being so kind to me.” In truth, I wanted something to call him when I asked Kendra to send him. It was odd to admit I had never asked his name. But we had met numerous times, and at some point, it seems like the opportunity is missed.
He smiles, a little grin that twists to one side. “Is that what I’m being, kind?”
“More than kind. Wonderful. You are saving my life.”
He opens his mouth as if to reply, then shuts it. He looks around, his gray eyes taking in the bales and bales of straw.
“Really, I have no time for pleasantries right now, do I? If you still care about my name after you have married your prince, I will tell it to you, certainly.”
I try to protest, but he says, “What payment do you have for me, for this wonderful kindness I am about to do?”
“A necklace?” It seems at once too little and too much, too little because he is doing me so great a favor. Too much because the necklace is all I have in the world, all I have of my father, my family, the home to which I might never return.
His stare is greedy. “You are certain?”
“I have no choi
ce.”
“One always has choices. But, if you want to marry a prince, I suppose you are correct.”
I don’t know if that’s what I want. A week, even a day ago, it was. Like most young women, most people, I suppose, what I want is something I barely consider. My life has been ruled by what is expected of me. I am expected to be a good daughter, expected to help, expected to marry, have babies, expected to die. Perhaps it is the same for Agathe or even Karl. Unless you are king, someone else makes the decisions for you.
I quickly unclasp the necklace and hold it out. For a second, it dangles between us, catching the waning light, and I remember my mother putting it on me when we went to church.
He hesitates, and in that instant, our hands meet beneath it. I don’t know if I want him to take it. I don’t know what I want at all. But finally, he snatches it from my hand and pockets it.
“To work, then! I brought you this to read.” He hands me a book with a title in gilt script I can barely make out, Faust: A Tragedy. “I showed it to you last week, and I am longing to devour it. It is what I had planned for this evening before I heard of your plight.”
“The proprietress allows you to read any book you desire then?” I take it from him. “Even the new ones?”
“As long as I do not crack the spines or muss the pages. You must be careful about that too. She thinks I can better sell a book to customers if I have read it myself.”
“You are the luckiest creature in the world!” I rub the book’s embossed cover, then hold it to my nose to sniff. Someday, when I marry Karl, I will own dozens, even hundreds of books, and when I smell them, I will always remember this day, this place, this man.
It will not be a happy memory.
“Lucky? Because I can read a book?” He laughs, and his eyes sparkle as he does, and for an instant, he seems less plain.
“You can read any book and come and go as you please and stay out late without anyone caring and up late without someone telling you that you had best get to bed because there is work to be done in the morning. Your life is your own.”
He looks away, feeding the straw into the wheel and beginning to spin. He does not tell me to keep my eyes on the book this time, I notice.
