Five Magic Spindles: A Collection of Sleeping Beauty Stories

by Rachel Kovaciny

  He struck his head on a stone and lay still.

  Blood pooled in a red circle.

  Helpless, the green-eyed man watched as the horse turned and bolted up the road, back toward the miller’s house. “Eliana!” he whispered, his breath fogging the surface of the crystal ball. “The poor dear girl . . .”

  Two days later Eliana found herself walking back from the churchyard, following many paces behind Mistress Carlyn and her daughters. Her heart felt like a stone in her chest, its heaviness so great, she struggled to lift one foot after the other.

  Behind her, the miller rested in his new grave beside the grass-grown grave of Eliana’s mother. Eliana could only hope that their eternal souls were reunited in heaven even as their mortal remains were reunited here on earth.

  Too many thoughts pressed at the gates of her mind, crowding against each other so that none could get through, leaving her in a foggy haze of pure misery. The loss of her mother had been devastating, but the love of her father had supported her through it. But with Papa now lost to her as well, whom could she turn to for comfort?

  The three figures ahead of her shed no tears. They exchanged tense whispers, their voices too low for Eliana to overhear, but she knew that they did not mourn the miller’s loss. Once more she found herself struggling to stifle resentment. After all, they did not know him as she did. Mistress Carlyn had met him only a few weeks earlier, and Bridin and Innis could view him only as the usurper of their own dead father’s role. How could they possibly comprehend what his loss truly meant? How could they when they did not love him?

  The walk home from the village church was only two miles, but it seemed much longer to Eliana. The forest shadows hung oppressively above her, and the whole world seemed to mock her with sunshine and greenery and flowers. By the time she neared the mill yard, even the familiar sight of the big mill wheel struck her as somehow cruel. How could it go on turning? How could the stream go on flowing when her world had suddenly come to such a crashing halt?

  Her stepmother and stepsisters waited for her inside the cottage. Practically strangers. But what could she do? Stand out here in the yard for the rest of the day?

  Her fingers moving without conscious thought, Eliana touched her mother’s gold necklace and rubbed the dainty gold ring. They seemed to warm under her touch, and with that warmth she felt a sudden glow of love deep down inside her—a mother’s love that never dies and never truly goes away.

  She knew then what she must do. She must enter her father’s house and face those three strangers. She must reach out to them with her heart and love them, her new, strange family. She could not bear to live in a world without love, and if they would not love her . . . well, that was their business. She could only do her own small part.

  With this determination bolstering her spirit, Eliana approached the cottage door. But Mistress Carlyn stepped into the opening and blocked her way before she could cross the threshold.

  “Eliana,” Mistress Carlyn said, her voice freezing the warm summer air before her very lips. “It seems to me that a young girl in mourning should not adorn herself in flashy golden trinkets.”

  Eliana gaped at her stepmother in surprise. Then she looked down at the ring on her finger and touched again the necklace that lay against her heart. “They were my mother’s,” she said softly. “I wear them always to remember her by.”

  Mistress Carlyn’s eyes narrowed. She did not need to speak for Eliana to clearly read her expression, which said with more power than mere words: Why should you have pretty jewelry when all of my own daughters’ fine things have been sold away?

  “Take those off at once, Eliana,” Mistress Carlyn said, and held out her hand. “Give them to me.”

  For a terrible moment, anger flared in Eliana’s gentle soul. She clutched the necklace tightly, felt the pressure of the ring band about her finger. She wanted to fight, to lash out at this woman who was not her mother, who would never be anything like a mother to her!

  But then she recalled her own mother’s dear voice: “Real gold loses its luster if those who own it cling to it too tightly. You must promise me, if someone asks you for either this ring or this necklace, you will give them what they ask right away, without question.”

  A sob welled up in Eliana’s throat. But she swallowed it down and, without a word, unclasped the necklace and slipped the ring from her finger. She placed both into Mistress Carlyn’s outstretched palm.

  Her stepmother closed her fingers over them and stepped back into the cottage. As she did not forbid Eliana to follow, Eliana stepped inside, her shoulders hunched, her head bowed. Bridin and Innis sat on low stools near the hearth, their arms wrapped around themselves as though cold, though the day was warm. Mistress Carlyn approached the two girls, and Eliana knew she intended to offer them the gold ornaments as gifts to lighten their spirits.

  But even as her stepmother opened her fist, Eliana saw her pause. She lifted first the necklace then the ring up to her face for closer inspection.

  Then, much to Eliana’s surprise, Mistress Carlyn spat a vicious curse. “Painted!” she said. “Painted clay! Cheap trinkets, not worth a penny.”

  With this, she flung both of Eliana’s treasures into the ashes of the cold fireplace, where they landed in little clouds of dust.

  “Come away from there, girls,” Mistress Carlyn said roughly to her girls. “Upstairs with both of you. Bridin, I want you to help your sister move her things out of your room and into Eliana’s. No child of mine will have to share a bedchamber!”

  “Where will Eliana sleep?” Innis asked meekly, possibly the first words she had spoken since arriving at the miller’s house days ago.

  Mistress Carlyn shot Eliana a cold look. “She can sleep in here, close to the hearth. She’ll be comfortable enough, I’m sure. It’s not as though she is used to nice things.”

  Bridin and Innis exchanged glances. Neither dared look Eliana’s way. At a sharp word from their mother, they jumped to their feet and hastened up the stairs, and Mistress Carlyn followed close behind to see that they obeyed her properly.

  Eliana felt as though the ground gave way beneath her. She half knelt, half fell to the hearthstones, her hands plunging into the cold ashes. One hand found the necklace, the other, after some searching, the ring. She pulled them both out, blowing away the grime and rubbing them on the sleeve of her mourning dress.

  Painted clay? Perhaps they were. She saw now, as though for the first time, how chipped the paint was, how ugly they were, when one bothered to notice. Real gold, her mother had called them, but perhaps she didn’t know what real gold was? Mother wasn’t a fine farmer’s wife like Mistress Carlyn, after all.

  “I don’t care,” Eliana whispered. She slipped the necklace back around her neck and slid the ring back onto her finger. “They’re real gold to me.”

  Her tears fell hot and fast, splashing into the ashes and trailing streaks through the soot on her face.

  The green-eyed man blinked several times. What was this strange pricking in his eye? He frowned, shook his head, and put up a finger to catch that which fell down his cheek. A tear? Was it possible that he could actually weep for a mortal?

  “Whatever have you found that enraptures you so?”

  The green-eyed man startled so violently that his tear went flying, crashed to the floor, and split into a million tiny fractals. A shame, truly, for faerie tears are worth more than a kingdom. He turned on heel and drew himself up to smart attention, offering a salute even as Her Sovereign Majesty, Queen Titania of the Faerie Folk glided across the chamber toward him.

  She was the most glorious woman imaginable, so beautiful that even the green-eyed man, who had seen her innumerable times, still caught his breath at every new glimpse of her. Each of her movements flowed like a bubbling brook over stones. Her hair was long and luxurious, as golden as a waterfall in the setting sun, and countless wild flowers adorned her head.

  “It must be a fair sight indeed,” said she, drawing
near to peer into the crystal ball for herself, “for it has held you captive so long that my kingly husband has started asking after you.” Her luminous eyes studied the image revealed of Eliana kneeling in the ashes and weeping into her hands.

  Queen Titania frowned, though the crease in her forehead and the downturn of her lips did nothing to mar her perfection. “A mortal?” she said, turning a gaze of compelling inquiry upon the green-eyed man. “What is the meaning of this, good captain?”

  The green-eyed man saluted again, his mouth momentarily too dry to speak. “I—I made a promise,” he said at last. “A promise to watch over this mortal maiden, to go to her if her life should be imperiled and to intercede as I may.”

  Titania tilted her head to one side, her golden locks shimmering as they slid over her shoulder. “A promise to whom?”

  He hesitated but could not deny his queen. He spoke a name—a name that made his queen suddenly smile.

  “Ah!” said she. “Now that is a promise worth keeping.” She looked again into the crystal, one exquisite eyebrow rising slowly up her porcelain forehead. “Yet I do not see that this maiden’s life is imperiled at the moment. Perhaps not as full of sunshine and sweetness as she would like, but she is in no ready danger. You, however”—once more catching the captain’s eye—“are at great risk of displeasing your Lord and Master, who has been bellowing for you for quite some time. As you value life and limb, you should make all haste and go to him.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” the captain replied. But he could not resist a last lingering glance at the crystal even as he bowed. Loyalty to his master drove him, however, and he hastened from the tower room, taking the steps three at a time in his descent.

  Titania watched him go, a variety of expressions playing across her lovely face: curiosity, amusement, intrigue . . . and, finally and most prominently, mischief.

  “This,” she said to herself, her voice like a cat’s velvety purr, “may prove most amusing.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Fateful Boast

  “Eliana.”

  At the sound of her name sharply spoken, Eliana sat upright abruptly in the kitchen garden, both of her hands still full of weeds. Her stepmother stood over her, arrayed in her finest dress—much too fine a dress for the widow of a miller. Eliana had cringed when, three months ago, Mistress Carlyn returned from town and unwrapped this and two similar gowns from paper bundles.

  But two years had done nothing to teach Mistress Carlyn any sense of economy. So while Eliana labored to keep the mill working—with the help of Grahame, the milkman’s boy, whom she hired to do the muscle work—and scrimped and saved whatever she could, her stepmother and two stepsisters did their best to ignore their reduced circumstances and live the same extravagant lives they had enjoyed back home.

  Mistress Carlyn fastened a pearl-headed pin at her shoulder, scarcely looking at Eliana as she spoke. “Bridin, Innis, and I are on our way to visit the vicar’s wife. Do see to it that the bread is baked, the hearth swept, and all the other little odds and ends are seen to that need to be seen to. Understand?”

  “Yes, Stepmother,” Eliana said, wiping sweat from her forehead with a dirty hand, leaving a streak of dark earth across her pale skin.

  Mistress Carlyn’s lip curled at the sight of the smear. Without another word she walked away, calling out to Bridin and Innis. Grahame led the donkey into the yard, hitched to the same little cart in which Mistress Carlyn and her girls had arrived at the mill two years ago. He assisted Mistress Carlyn into the driver’s seat then turned to help the girls. Eliana wondered if he noticed the little smile shy Innis sent his way. If he did, he certainly dared not respond in front of her mother.

  The trio drove off down the road. Eliana watched them go, a sigh in her throat. She had never minded hard work. She had worked hard all her life, brought up by both her father and mother to see honor in labor well done. So the fact that Mistress Carlyn ordered her about like a servant, well . . . she could shrug that off easily enough.

  It was the constant struggle to keep the mill afloat despite her stepmother’s extravagances that left her bone-weary each night when she collapsed on her straw pallet before the fire, shivering beneath a thin blanket.

  She looked down at the ring on her finger, so caked in dirt it was almost invisible. Rubbing it clean, she impulsively gave it a kiss and whispered, “Dear God Above, grant me courage! And give me strength.”

  Mistress Carlyn aspired to better things than the lot life had thrown her. And while there was little enough the widow of a humble miller could grasp, she grasped whatever she could.

  So she and her two daughters sat in the parlor of the vicarage, looking down their noses at the other middleclass ladies who inhabited the village. Mistress Carlyn considered herself superior to these women, but there was no better society to be had for many miles around. So she condescended to be part of this small circle, intimidating the vicar’s wife with her coldness.

  Bridin and Innis sat quietly on either side of their mother and dared not speak a word.

  “My boy Ailbert is back on a visit,” said Mrs. Barclay, the draper’s wife, smiling round at those in the parlor, though that smile skirted quickly away from Mistress Carlyn’s frosty stare. “He works as a stable boy up at Craigbarr,” she added with pride.

  Everyone murmured approvingly at this, even Mistress Carlyn. Craigbarr was King Hendry’s summer palace, some twenty miles away. Even a stable boy who worked there must be afforded some honor.

  “Surely young Ailbert must hear interesting news from court?” said the vicar’s wife, her eyes shining with dreams of kings, princes, crowns, and jewels—things far removed from her own modest surroundings.

  “Oh yes, indeed!” said Mrs. Barclay, nearly spilling her cup of tea in her enthusiasm. “Yes, they say the prince is to choose his bride come the Spring Advent Ball. All of the most eligible young ladies of four kingdoms will be at Craigbarr! Such a glamorous occasion.”

  The other ladies tittered and chattered enthusiastically, but Mistress Carlyn’s mouth hardened into a severe line. All of the most eligible young ladies . . . and yet her own two daughters must sit at home in a miller’s cottage, with no better prospects than milk-boys and cobblers for husbands! They were surely the equal of any blue-blooded lady of the realm.

  “The Princess of Greer won’t be present at the ball, from what my boy tells me,” Mrs. Barclay continued. “It is said that she will be wed before the spring is up . . . to a peasant boy, no less!”

  “A peasant boy?” exclaimed the vicar’s wife. “How on earth is that possible?”

  “Oh, the tale our Ailbert relates is wondrous indeed!” said Mrs. Barclay. “Apparently this young lad climbed a magic beanstalk into the upper realms where giants dwell. He returned from that land laden with treasures beyond all measure . . . and rescued the king’s own daughter in the process! The King of Greer was so delighted—particularly with the treasures, one must imagine—that he immediately agreed to the princess’s request to marry the boy.”

  More chatter erupted at this tale, much speculation and curiosity. Mistress Carlyn continued to say nothing until at last, when there was a brief lull in the conversation, she spoke in her iciest voice: “I don’t see what is so marvelous about this peasant boy’s adventure. Once the treasure is gone, it’s gone.”

  Everyone stopped to look at her, shocked that she had broken her silence. Suddenly she was speaking without realizing what she said: “My daughter can spin gold out of straw! How else do you think we can afford to wear these lovely gowns? And she only grows more talented by the day. Now that is a skill that will bring in wealth for decades to come!” She sniffed and took a sip of her tea, which had grown quite cold under her breath. “More than a suitable match for any prince,” she murmured.

  Mrs. Barclay and the vicar’s wife exchanged nervous glances, neither one able to think of a response to such an outlandish remark. But wheels were turning already, picking up pace much more qu
ickly than Mistress Carlyn could possibly have imagined.

  “Straw into gold! As I live and breathe, that is what she said.”

  Young Ailbert looked at his mother with slanted eyes. “I don’t believe it,” he declared stoutly.

  But three days later, when he returned to his work at Craigbarr, he whispered to one of his mates as they brushed down two of the fine carriage horses: “Supposedly she’s getting better at it by the day. Soon she’ll be able to spin a whole room full of straw at a single sitting!”

  “Coo,” said his mate, shaking a wondering head as he rubbed down a powerful chestnut shoulder. “A whole room full, you say?”

  The head ostler walked by at just that moment and snarled at the two lads: “Are you two lazybones wasting valuable time with idle chitchat?”

  “Not chitchat!” young Ailbert protested stoutly. “No, I just heard about this most wonderful lady.” And, despite the ostler’s forbidding scowl, he poured out his mother’s story as best he could remember it . . . possibly with a few embellishments to make it sound more credible.

  The ostler listened until the tale was told then smacked the boy upside the head and told him not to dilly-dally over such nonsense. But the story stuck in his head, and by that evening he found himself whispering it to the pretty scullery maid who sometimes brought him nice scraps from the kitchen. She listened with complete attention as he told her of this incredible young country lass, and when he was done, she breathed, “Well, that beats just climbing up beanstalks any day, don’t it?”

  She returned to her work, the rumor burning on her tongue. Not being a girl given to restraint where gossip was concerned, she told the tale as soon as she could to one of the under-cooks, who in turn passed it on to the head cook.

  The head cook, who wanted to impress one of the posh and pretty young footmen, told him the tale the following morning. “I swear upon my mother’s head!” said she, raising a solemn hand to her heart as proof of her veracity. “Straw into gold!”