“No gold!”
“No gold!”
“No gold!”
I walked slowly. I was so small, no one would notice me—as long as I didn’t panic. I passed the village square and approached the mill, where the miller stood outside with his nine sons and Opal. Three soldiers were about to go inside, but the miller didn’t look nervous. Maybe he’d already traded all the gold. But when he caught sight of me creeping toward the trees with my suspicious little bundle, his eyes went wide with horror. I shook my head and tried to point in the direction of The Woods. I could slip by. If he kept the soldiers’ attention, they wouldn’t notice me.
But the pixies noticed me. All the gold in my bundle was just too much to hide from them. They flew to me one by one, and the sound grew. It started as a soft twitter, like the distant chirping of birds, and then built to a high, steady hum.
Then there was silence.
It was the kind of silence that lasts only a moment or two, but feels like a hundred hours because you’re just waiting for something awful to happen.
I remember when I had this idea that I could fly. I built myself wings out of sticks and chicken feathers, and I climbed a high rock and jumped. I didn’t fly. I broke my arm. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was just the moment before, when I went from the exhilaration of soaring through the air to the horror of plummeting toward the hard earth. I knew I was going to hit the ground and feel pain.
This was like that moment. The moment before everything went bad.
When the pixies attacked, I flung my arms up and swatted at them. I swung my bundle of gold. I clawed at the ground, flinging mud and dirt and snow in all directions. Finally, the pixies were gone and everything was quiet again. Even quieter than before.
I took stock of myself. I still had my bundle of gold tight in my hand. I turned around. The miller and his nine ugly sons and his one pretty daughter and the three soldiers all stared at me, and then at something on the ground. I followed their eyes, and my stomach twisted. There on the ground was a spool of gold, unraveling toward the soldiers.
The spool rolled again and again and my life unraveled before my eyes, one roll for every year. I snatched up the gold, clutching it to my chest, then I turned and ran for The Woods. I don’t know why I thought I could run, but I was going to, until a giant horse blocked my path and there were shiny black boots right in my face. Boots with giant gold buckles.
King Barf looked down at me, and his piggy eyes narrowed on the gold I still clutched in my hands. He sniffed, as if he could smell the rest of the gold in my bundle.
“Well, well,” he said. “The pixies seem to find you even more enchanting than they do me. How fascinating.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Miller’s Lie
“Give me the gold in your hands,” said King Barf.
The miller stepped in front of me and gave me a warning look. “The gold is mine, Your Majesty,” he blurted.
“Yours?” said the king and I in unison, but nobody seemed to notice me just then.
“I asked the boy to bring it. He’s my servant. Come here, boy, quick. Bring the rest!” he snapped.
I didn’t move. What trick was he playing? He would certainly be punished for hiding gold. Why would he risk his neck for me?
“Move, boy! Excuse him, Your Majesty. He’s a half-wit. Doesn’t know his own name!” The miller laughed and his big belly jiggled.
“No,” said the king. “Give the gold to me. All of it.”
I tried to move but my legs grew roots into the ground. My tongue swelled and my brain fuzzed. I don’t know why I said it, but the words just spilled out.
“What will you give me?” I covered my mouth, and everyone gasped. The air grew still and cold. King Barf moved his horse so close to me that the tip of his sword was level with my nose.
“Give me the gold and I will spare your life,” said the king, his nasal voice now quiet and dangerous.
Slowly, trembling, I held out the gold to King Barf and he snatched it from me. He examined the skein, and then he opened the bundle and stared inside for a long time. Finally, he pulled out another spool of thread. He stretched the gold in his beefy hands and moved it back and forth, watching it gleam in the sunlight.
“How is this done?” King Barf asked, holding out the gold to the miller. I had become invisible again.
“Well, see … Your Majesty … ’tis a strange business. Full of mystery and, and … and magic.”
The king stiffened. Not many people tolerated magic, and King Barf not at all. He didn’t like anything that might have more power than he did.
“Not the witchy kind,” said the miller quickly. “A good kind … magic that makes good things. You see, my daughter here—she’s not just a beauty, she’s talented too—spins with a touch of magic. She can spin straw into gold!”
My mouth dropped and so did Opal’s. Her blank face became horrified. She looked from her father to the king, back and forth, her tongue whipping out again and again.
King Barf didn’t even glance at Opal. He simply held the gold up to the sun, turned it so it caught the light, and smiled. “I have heard of those who can spin more than just wool or cotton. I have never seen it. Show me.”
“Oh, but you see her work in your hands!” said the miller.
“Show me the spinning. Show me how she turns it into gold.”
“Oh. Well.” The miller laughed nervously, as if he hadn’t expected this. “That’s part of the magic, Your Majesty. Not even I have seen her do it, and she does it right in my own house. But, mark me, you give her a pile of straw, a roomful of straw, and the next morning she’s spun it to gold! ’Tis a marvel.” The miller gave me the tiniest glance, and then, “We can spin you more, this very evening.”
King Barf finally looked at Opal and appraised her. Opal stood frozen and pale, not even her tongue flicked out. She was so pretty, I might have believed she really could spin straw to gold, but I knew that she couldn’t. And so did she. Opal began to tremble.
“Why have I not heard of your daughter’s marvelous gift before?” asked King Barf. “Such talents would bring me great pleasure and would be rewarded openly if I did not think it was deceitful. If I did not think you were trying to steal from me.”
The miller blathered. “Oh no, Your Majesty … Yes, Your Majesty … Of course, no … Yes, not to worry. We mean no deception. We are humble, honest subjects. We live only to serve. My daughter has just discovered this gift. It is something that has grown with her, grown with her beauty. We merely brought the gold for trading to make sure it would hold its value, to know that it was real so that we might present a tribute to you and know that the gold was worthy of you, Your Majesty. Never to deceive you, Your Majesty.”
The king waved one of his soldiers to come forth and issued a command in his ear. The soldier went and stood beside Opal.
“It pleases me that your daughter should accompany me to my castle,” said the king. Opal looked up, her wide eyes full of terror.
The miller gaped. “Well, I … I … well, yes … ’twould be an honor, Your Majesty, but see—”
“If what you say is true,” said King Barf, “you and your family and all The Mountain shall be rewarded. But if not, the punishment for deceiving the king is severe. Dungeons or death.”
Opal was pulled up onto a horse and led away with the king’s procession. King Barf cradled the bundle of gold like a baby to his chest. He looked back at the miller with a triumphant grin. I couldn’t see Opal’s face before she disappeared.
The miller swayed and his sons gathered around him. “Oh, what have I done? What have I done? What have I done?” He buried his face in his hands.
I never liked the miller Oswald. He was a liar and a cheat and greedy. It was his fault that his daughter was being led to her doom. But, no, that wasn’t true. It was my fault. I was the greedy one. I had spun the gold. I had traded the gold. I had fumbled and tripped and spilled the gold. Now Opal was
all spun into the mess and she hadn’t done anything at all. Poor, beautiful Opal. That thought poured icy water over my head. An innocent girl was being led to her doom because of me.
A pixie fluttered up to me, shaking her fists and squealing as if she were reprimanding me. The pixie bit my nose, and in a minute it swelled so large I had to breathe through my mouth. Now my nose was bigger than my face.
I guess I deserved that.
It was still morning, but no one was working in the mines now. Everyone was scattered around the town, buzzing about King Barf and all his soldiers. A gnome ran past my feet and down the road chanting, “The king is gone! The king is gone! He took the miller’s daughter along!”
Gran once said there would be times in my life when I would be trapped, with walls all around me too high to climb and no way out. Then I would need someone from outside and above to throw down a rope and pull me up. I believed Gran; I just always thought that she would be the one to throw the rope.
I needed help. I needed advice. But I couldn’t think of a single person in all The Mountain who could help me. Red was mad at me. The miller probably wanted to strangle me. Milk and Nothing had nothing to offer. And the magic and the gold had spun me into a bigger heap of trouble than I could have imagined.
And that’s when I realized who could possibly help—the one person who might be able to give me some answers about my mother and the spinning and the magic.
I needed The Witch of The Woods.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Witch of The Woods
I grabbed a gnome by his leg just outside The Woods. I held him upside down with both my arms. He grunted and swatted his stubby hands at me, but once I said I had a message for him to deliver, he clapped his hands and smiled, showing tiny yellow teeth. I set him down and recited my message.
For Red:
I know you are mad at me, and this might make you madder, but I am going to see the witch.
If I don’t return, please take care of Milk and Nothing.
Rump
“Now repeat, and be quiet. Only Red should hear this.”
The gnome repeated the message in a croaky little voice and then sped off to deliver it, chanting, “Message for Red! Message for Red!” over and over.
I stood on the edge of The Woods. They were so dark you could hardly tell that it was daytime, and spring’s warmth seemed far away. There was a clean blanket of snow on the ground, and it was unnaturally quiet. It should have looked peaceful, but it felt eerie. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat and ears.
I looked for the path that Red had shown me before, when we went to the honey. Something about that path made me feel a little safer, but I didn’t see any sign of it. Perhaps it was hidden beneath the snow. Perhaps the witch didn’t want to be found.
I started to think this was a very stupid idea.
Just as I was about to turn back, a twig snapped and Red appeared, her cheeks and nose rosy with cold and her breath raspy from running.
“What do you mean you’re going to see the witch?” Red asked.
“I have to,” I said.
“Rump, witches don’t help with things like this. It’s not that they can’t. They don’t like to, and even if they do, sometimes they cause more trouble.”
“Opal is in trouble because of me.” My chin began to tremble.
“Opal got taken away because her father is a greedy pig!”
“No,” I said. “Because I spun all that gold. And then I traded it with the miller, even though you told me not to. And then I tried to hide the gold, but I dropped it right in front of the king!” I held my breath to keep the tears from spilling over.
Red was stunned into silence. She probably thought I was a bigger numbskull than ever. I thought she might hit me over the head again or punch me in the nose. Instead, she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into The Woods.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m taking you to The Witch of The Woods.”
“You are? You know where she lives? How?”
“Just stay on the path.”
“But there isn’t any …” I trailed off as I looked down to see the path beneath my feet again, stretching out into The Woods. Now I was certain this was a path that only revealed itself for Red.
We followed the path for a ways until dark trees surrounded us and the village had disappeared behind. This path didn’t wind or wander much. It was narrow, but clear, with stones along either side.
Red walked fast and determined, still pulling me by the arm. A squirrel chirped and screeched right above my head. “Squirrel!” I squeaked, crouching down and covering my head with my arms.
Fitzgerald, a boy younger but much bigger than me, was once challenged to run into The Woods and he got attacked by mad squirrels. He still has little teeth marks all over his face and neck.
“They won’t attack you,” said Red. I slowly looked up and saw that the squirrel was gone. “And they never attacked Fitzgerald, either. That’s the story he tells, but his scars are really just from the pox and scratching so much.”
We were walking uphill now. And the farther up The Mountain we went, the colder it got. Soon snow began to fall, even though it had been warm in The Village. Big, fat flakes came and settled, threatening to cover the path if we didn’t hurry. My feet were numb.
Then finally, as if it had just materialized before me, we saw a cottage, nestled in the trees, smoke rising from the chimney.
I stood frozen for a minute and I almost ran back just as fast as I had come, but the door unlatched and someone came out, hobbling bent over a stick.
I stared. My mouth hung open.
“Red, child, is that you?” said the old woman.
“Hello, Granny,” said Red. “Rump wanted to see you.”
My mouth ran dry. Red’s granny! The Witch of The Woods! Red’s granny was The Witch of The Woods!
My tongue got all wrapped around my teeth. “Y-y-you-your granny! Your granny’s the W-w-w …”
“She’s not actually a witch,” Red said defensively. “She’s perceptive.”
The witch laughed. “Yes, very,” she said with a wink.
“You have very good senses, Granny. Ears and eyes and nose and all. It’s part of your destiny.”
“Oh, and what a treat to feast my senses upon. Well, come in, my boy. I’ve been waiting for you. I am sorry about your gran.” Red’s granny didn’t look how I always imagined a witch would look. She was old, of course, but she didn’t have warts or green teeth and her smile was sincere and inviting. Maybe witches were supposed to be inviting, so they could lure you in to chop you to bits and put you in a stew.
“Come on. I’ve got stew brewing in the fire.”
I stepped back again. “Stew …? What kind of stew?”
“She’s not going to eat you, Rump.” Red shoved me forward. Then I smelled the stew. My mouth watered, it smelled so delicious. I walked in the door.
At first I saw what I would expect to see in a witch’s lair. There were bottles everywhere, tiny vials to giant jugs. It was too dim to see inside of them, but I imagined they contained eyeballs, blood, snakes, or roaches. Little fingers, maybe. A hen clucked and rattled its cage in a corner. Herbs and plants and flowers hung from the ceiling. They looked very fresh, and I wondered how she managed to grow things in the frozen ground—not to mention in a haunted wood. By the fireplace there was a giant pot. That’s where the witch would put all my little chopped pieces, no doubt.
The witch, or Red’s granny (I didn’t know how to think of her now), beckoned me over to the fire. The pot was full of broth and vegetables I hadn’t seen in ages, even though I had been eating a lot. Basil, celery, onions, meat, and other smells reached my nose and made my stomach rumble.
“So,” said the witch, blocking the path to the stew, “the trouble has begun.”
“Begun?” I asked.
“Oh, you’re just getting started, my boy.” She laughed, a wheez
ing cackle. “Spinning gold? Bargaining with the miller? Great mountains, boy, where did you ever get such an idea? What would your mother say? Oh, how things come full circle!” She laughed some more.
“It’s not funny,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” said the witch. “It’s dreadful. So dreadful I have to laugh to not cry.”
I was starting to feel surly. I hadn’t come here to be teased. “What do you know about my mother?”
“Sit.” The witch pointed to a chair by a spinning wheel, and I froze.
“I don’t want to,” I said. I would never touch a spinning wheel again. Never!
The witch ladled a bowl of steaming stew and held it before my face. “I’m not asking you to spin.”
“I don’t want to,” I said.
“Then don’t. Now sit.”
I sat on the floor, and she chuckled and handed me the stew. I sniffed it. Could you smell poison? Poison or not, it smelled delicious. I took a steaming spoonful and let it sit in my mouth until I had sucked out all the flavor before swallowing. I had never tasted such a wonderful stew, full of flavors I couldn’t name.
“Now, then,” said the witch. “Did your gran ever tell you why your mother left Yonder?”
I shook my head. “I never even knew she was from Yonder, not until Red told me.”
“Hmmm. Where to begin … Well, I suppose the best place to start is the beginning. Your mother was a born spinner. Here, on The Mountain, we search for gold. In The Valley they farm, and in Yonder they raise sheep and gather wool. They dye their wools and they weave and knit and spin. Your mother was one of the best, an unusual spinner. She had … special gifts.”
“You mean she was a witch,” I said.
“Well, I don’t think that word means what people think it means. Magic is nothing but transformation of what is already there. The gold in this very mountain is embedded in dirt and rock. How did it become gold? The earth is full of mystery and magic, and so was your mother. So, yes, in that sense she was a witch. Spinning with magic was in her blood.”
I looked down at my hands, wondering if I could see the spinning blood in my veins.