Forty-Five
The force of the blow—but not the pain, for he feels no pain at all, only a warm wetness spreading across his chest and dampening his t-shirt—sends him to his knees. The last thing he sees is the rag rug rising up to meet and cradle his nose. Such craftsmanship, he thinks; he wonders who wove this rug. Surely not a machine. And then he's standing in a pitch-black tunnel. No, more like a sensory-deprivation tank, because he can't hear or smell anything either. But he really couldn't say for sure because he's never climbed into a sensory-deprivation tank, though he heard that the Red Poppy Day Spa on South Moncton has one and he's been kind of curious to see it, except for Mr. Gold to walk into a spa—
His vision closes in on itself as gentle hands lift him by the shoulders and legs and gentle voices speak comfortingly in the ancient tongue, a language that once was his but now he struggles to remember. He's laid on his soft mattress. In the little space of sight he has left, he watches the blood bubble and pool and stream around the blade of the tacky dagger. His blood is a pale red laced with streaks of purple—his magic, wrapped around his blood. The mixture stinks like rotting dragon flesh in a clogged sewer. His stomach churns in disgust at his own body.
He should have taken his shirt off; that's $9 wasted. He and Estrilda and Bae or Adele as the case may be could live for a month on $9. Why is the hut so cold when Saer has a cook-fire burning and the old man bent over it, stirring a spicy lamb stew in a kettle? Rumple bites down on fresh baked bread and butter, butter that he paid for with his own earnings at market, which makes everything taste twice as delicious except the butter tastes coppery-salty-sweet. Belle douses the cook-fire with a ladle of water and the ashes hiss but some of the embers still glow. From his now undraped window he can see the moon floating swollen on a mattress of clouds.
He can feel the messenger's magic seep into his pores, streaking through his veins on a search-and-destroy mission; when her magic finds a corrupted cell, it attacks decisively, crushing the cell, obliterating it, then moving on. The strong threads of her magic strike his heart, weave a cocoon around it, then her magic prods and tugs, absorbing the poison it finds. Such a war it is, raging in his body; he observes with a cool detachment, unafraid.
When he awakens he has heartburn; he gets that a lot these days because he's an old man. . . . because he's a man. He lifts his hand and orders the magic into his fingertips but the tingling and burning won't come and the hand remains a plain, saggy-skinned brown, not the swirly purple it's supposed to turn, so that's how he knows he's just a man now. But the hand hovering over his chest, the hand that he knows isn't his because it holds the dagger in place, that hand is glowing as it should, a reddish purple, a deeper, richer color than his own magic produces, a magic that doesn't shimmer as his does but rather remains constantly strong. Another hand strokes his forehead, spreading peppermint oil from temple to temple. He wants to ask them to turn the heat up but he falls asleep again.
This time when he awakes he's alone. He's lying face up on his sleeping mat and he can hear morning birds tweeting, which tells him he's overslept, but he's so tired anyway as he fumbles for his walking stick and hauls his creaky old bones into the day. He needs to get breakfast on for Bae, who sleeps so soundly in Estrilda's bed, seemingly unaware that his mother has abandoned him. Rumple picks up the leaky wooden bucket and hobbles out of the hut toward the communal well.
Except when he leaves the hut it's not his yard he walks into, it's the Great Hall of the Dark Castle. The fireplace is cold and empty: Belle must have overslept too. On his windowsill a crow caws, laughing at him as he leans heavily on his gold-handled cane. A clunk-clunk overrides the crow's laughter and Rumple turns his head to track the noise to its Source. In the corner where his Great Wheel should be a loom has been erected and a woman in white silk sits on a bench beside it. She's working so studiously she doesn't notice his approach, nor does she react when he sets a hand on her shoulder and leans in to admire her lovely little tapestry depicting a blissful meadow scene with a spinning wheel waiting on a hill. He wants to compliment her on her artistry, until his scalp starts to itch and he becomes aware there's something not right: she's weaving backwards, she's unweaving, taking the pretty little tapestry apart, and he protests as her hands unweave the sun and the sky and the green hills and finally the Great Wheel. It's all gone, all gone, and he is insulted as at last she acknowledges his presence, turning on her bench to drop the now separated threads into his hands. He tries to shout at her but his voice won't work and his mouth fills with blood.
She grasps his hands, her own brown wrinkled hands closing over his, forcing his to close into a fist. He gapes as a magenta cloud surrounds the four closed hands. She releases him and he spreads his hands to discover not the pile of loose threads but a new tapestry depicting a golden star in night sky. He runs his fingertips across the threads: he's never felt anything so fine and delicate before, not even the silk Belle brought him to spin.
He tucks the tapestry into his blood-soaked shirt, next to his war-battered heart. Like his old tapestry, the new one carries four distinct energies: Bae's, Belle's, Rumplestiltskin's and Gold's. The energies hum against his skin, reassuring him that everyone lives, everyone is well. But there's something missing; he ponders a long while before he realizes this tapestry holds no magic.
He shudders and steps back as the spinner watches him. His body doesn't fit him any more. He closes his eyes and lets go.
When he awakens this time, he's back in the prison cell, the one the dwarves built and Emma furnished just for him, the one he will spend the rest of his life in. With an average life expectancy of 75.6 years, he should have about twenty-four left. But there's no way to know for sure, with a monster who's already lived nearly three centuries.
The three messengers of the True Morning Star surround his bed. They say nothing but they watch his face anxiously. He smiles at them, and they smile back in relief. He struggles to sit up. Beretrude's arms lift him; Waldo adjusts the pillows behind him.
He should change his t-shirt. He wonders how he'll explain to Emma where the blood came from. "Don't get up. You should rest," Waldo urges.
He looks from one to another, finding reassurance, before his gaze settles on Helewise. Helewise in her white gossamer and silk, Helewise in her scaly green-gold skin and pirate's bullion eyes.
"I'm sorry," he says.
She answers with a maniacal giggle. "Just an after-effect, dearie. I found traces of the Dark One leeching your heart." She grins, displaying rotten teeth. "And I crushed them, like snails beneath my boot. It felt grand." She lifts her hands to show him what she holds: the bloody dagger, its blade broken in two.
Beretrude waves her hand and Helewise vanishes. Before Rumple can protest, she explains, "It was an intense battle. I sent her home for some R & R. The Master will see to her injuries Himself." She pats Rumple's shoulder. "Don't worry; she's in His hands. He's so proud of both of you."
"Now, why don't you get some rest too?" Waldo suggests. "We'll be nearby if you need anything. Before we go, would you like something to drink? Are you thirsty?"
He assesses his body. He's a little sore, a little tired, but his body feels strangely quiet, now that magic no longer thrums through it. He breathes in deep, his sinuses and lungs clear for the first time in months, and his nose is no longer assaulted by the stench of fairy dust. And there's an unfamiliar rumbling in his belly. Abruptly, he names it: "I'm hungry."
Beretrude claps her hands with a laugh, and Waldo wiggles his fingers, producing a bed tray overloaded with food. He bows elegantly. "Milord, breakfast is served."
Emma storms down the stairs, tears around the corner and comes to a screeching halt in front of his window. She starts to speak, but decides on an annoyed "aw, hell, forget this," then fumbles with the keypad. "Aw, damn." She responds when the door doesn't open; she jabs at the keys again and finally gains admittance. She gapes at him, sitting there so placidly at his spinning wheel, thread between his fingers, and then her eyes fall on the dirty dishes waiting on a tray on his bed. There are signs that the dishes once held eggs, biscuits and cream gravy, grits with honey (Belle's told her how she got Rumple hooked on Southern cooking in the days before—well, in the days before). Once held, but there's barely a crumb left now, and a dirty fork and dirty spoon have been laid neatly and properly across the plate, a cloth napkin discreetly covering it all. Ms. Manners would be proud. Hell, Ms. Betty Crocker would be proud of the way Gold tucked into that breakfast, obviously.
"So," she clears her throat.
"So," he answers with a smile.
She nods. "All right then." She nods again. "See you at lunchtime." Her head cocks to one side as she walks away, trying to figure this out.
At 2:54, voices issue from the top of the stairs.
"You can do this, Belle. Take your time."
"I will do this, Archie. I won't let that bitch take him away from me again."
After a few minutes of silence, she shouts, "Rumplestiltskin! I will do this!"
He hears a door close. A few minutes later, Waldo brings him a note. In a bold flourishing hand she's written the number 5, and under it, "Where you go, I go! Love, Belle."
At 3:30, the pitching battery and the outfield of the Coon Cats arrive for their afternoon story. Today he tells them about a blind craftsman and his young apprentice, and the nasty pocket-robbing bullies that the two overcome together. The children have to wait their turn for the story, however, because some of their parents got here first—not for magic lessons today, but to deliver little thank-you gifts in return for previous lessons. There's a basket of strawberries, picked just this morning from Ma Hubbard's garden; there's a Tupperware container of Marco's from-scratch lasagna; there's a bowl of Bo Peep's lamb stew; there's a plate of Belle's Nawlins style red-beans-and-rice. There would have been a bottle of Granny's elderberry wine, except Emma had to put the kibosh on that (rules, you know).
In the evening, after the impromptu picnic has broken up, the dirty dishes have been collected and everyone's gone home except those who must remain to fulfill all that the law requires, Regina toys with the stem of the last of the strawberries and leans out, as far as the bars will allow her, to try to see her neighbor. "Gold," she calls in a voice that for once is neither angry nor mocking. "Are you awake?"
He leans out too, as far as the bars allow. He wonders why she chose to call him Gold, but he doesn't ask. "I'm awake."
"What happened this morning?"
He doesn't answer right away, so she presses, "Three of the guards were in your cell a long time. You weren't. . . sick, were you?"
"I was. I'm fine now."
She grunts. "Obviously. You tore through that lasagna like Sherman tore through Georgia. Why didn't they send for Whale?"
"He couldn't have helped." Rumple shifts his weight onto his left hip; it's an old habit. He still sometimes reaches for his cane.
"I heard the Blue Fairy say you were going to die unless you gave up your magic."
"Yeah. That's what happened this morning. I gave it up."
"Really?"
"Really."
She's silent for a long moment before she asks, "How does it feel?"
"Different," he admits. "Human."
"You only just got your magic back a few months ago. Must've been tough, giving it up again so soon."
"It's kind of a relief. Like I'd been hauling around an anvil on my back all these years and now I can let it down."
"How are you going to protect yourself now?"
"The human way. I'm stronger than I look, dearie." He shifts his feet again. "But I don't expect to need to do much fighting any more."
"You seem to be losing enemies by the minute."
"Yeah. Too bad it took me all these years." His tone grows bitter. "All that time wasted. I could assess to the penny the value of any object you can name, common or exotic, but I never knew the value of the things that matter."
"Rumplestiltskin?"
"Regina?"
"I'm sorry I called you Gold just now. I know that's not who you want to be."
"I've come to terms with it. Gold has qualities I never had, ones I find I need. Patience. The ability to evolve. He's less a stick-in-the-mud than I am, really. A better listener, that's for sure." He draws in a breath and holds it a moment; breathing comes so easily now. His clothes are much too baggy but his belly is full and his hands no longer shake under unnatural power. "Regina, if you want a relationship with Henry, you'll have to give up your relationship with magic."
He's just thrown cold water on their warm moment. She's suspicious now. "You mean like you did this morning. Surrender my magic to a bunch of simpering, glorified bootlickers. Surrender my power."
"Take back what's rightfully yours and let go of what's not."
"I don't know how you could've been so weak as to trust them. They're worse than fairies, can't you see that? I guess you'll find that out soon enough, now that you have nothing to fight them with, when they make a bootlicker out of you. We're dark ones, Rumple! Rulers of the earth and all that walks upon it. Where's your pride? It's what we were meant to be, our destiny, and you threw it away for—what? Lasagna and strawberries. You were Rumplestiltskin! There was a time that meant something. Kings would quake and cower at your feet. Queens would trade their firstborn to curry your favor. They ruled lands but you ruled them."
"I'd rather have my son's respect and my wife's trust than quaking kings cowering at my feet."
"Better to die a warrior than to live a belly-crawler."
"I won't die a killer."
"You fool. You threw it all away for bread." She slams her hand against the wall that divides her cell from his, since she can't have the satisfaction of slapping him. "Don't talk to me any more, coward. I'll have no more to do with beggars."
He hears her bed squeak as she throws herself upon it. Ah, but he's planted a seed and it will grow, he knows it, and it will bear good fruit someday. He lies down on his own bed, the new tapestry tucked into his fresh shirt, Belle's notes in his hand.
It's hard to keep track of the days in his head, so Emma allows him a calendar, and that's how he knows when November 3 has arrived. A Scorpio Sun joined a Sagittarius Moon to produce the adventurous, loyal and bold Belle, and it is this pairing that Rumplestiltskin represents in his gift for her: a tapestry of a scorpion archer aiming for the moon against a field of blue.
The only question is, how will he get it to her?
Any number of messengers would be happy to make the delivery, of course, but he wants the pleasure of watching her eyes light up, her quick smile catch fire; he wants to feel her arms fling around his neck as she presses a grateful kiss on his eager mouth. But so far, she's stuck at Step Seven and not even the kindest of sheriffs can grant a day's furlough for a prisoner with a life sentence.
He folds the tapestry carefully, wraps it in the pretty silver paper Emma has allowed him to have, and sets it on his nightstand. He'll ask Henry to deliver it.
But at 3:30 when half the Coon Cats arrive for their story, Henry isn't with them, and at 4:00 when they run home to complete their homework before supper, Henry still hasn't come. Henry has been so devoted to this mission, he even has a name for it: Operation Storyspinner, which Rumple rather likes. "Have you heard anything about Henry?" Rumple-Gold asks Waldo. "Is he ill?" But Waldo shakes his head.
At 5:00 the door above the stairs opens. That will be Emma, bringing supper; he'll ask her about Henry, and then he'll ask her to deliver the birthday gift. But he's learned to identify each of the guards by their footfalls on the stairs, and it's not Emma's boots that are clattering down the stairs; in fact, it's more than one set of feet. He picks out Henry's sneakers—although not skipping every other step, the way Henry usually does—and the shoes of two women, one in flats, one in heels.
And then there's a voice, shouting to him: "Rumplestiltskin! Ten!"
He flies at the bars of his window. He could almost rip them off in his excitement. Before he can catch his breath, she's there, the smell of a crisp autumn breeze in her hair, her fragrance (it's called True Rose, Snow has told him) light on her wrists as she raises her hands to cup his face.
"No physical contact between prisoners and visitors," Helewise warns before pointedly turning her back to the prisoner and addressing Belle's second escort. "Master Henry, I have a sudden thirst. Will you accompany me to the coke machine?"
Henry hooks his arm in true gentlemanly fashion so the lady can slip her hand through the crook. "Sure thing, Ms. Helewise."
Belle's skin is chilly as he runs his fingertips across her cheek, but she quickly warms under his touch. He finds that not even iron bars can keep a determined woman from the lips of the man she loves. When she finally pulls her face back to catch her breath, he laughs in delight, and it's a new sound, neither Rumplestiltskin's giggle nor Gold's reserved chuckle. "All ten, Belle," he praises her. "I'm so proud of you." He kisses the back of her hand, then turns it over and kisses her wrist. "I know what it cost you."
"I had a lot of help. But I'm finally free of her." She glares in Regina's direction for just a moment, then returns her full attention to him. "No more nightmares. I'm free." She flushes suddenly. "Oh, I'm sorry." She stares at the bars separating them, and he realizes she thinks he's still imprisoned just because he's in prison.
"It's all right, Belle."
She cocks her head. "Your voice is different. Your eyes are different."
"I'm free too."
Belle leaves at 7 p.m., her lovely new tapestry tucked under her arm, Henry's hand in hers, and Henry's mom, escorting them both out and pretending not to notice how late it is. Helewise wanders over to Rumple-Gold's cell, a plate in her hand. She uses the back of her fork to pat up birthday cake crumbs and when there's absolutely nothing left to taste, she sighs in contentment. "What do you call that flavor again?"
"Angels food," Rumple-Gold replies.
She winks. "I know. I just wanted to hear you say it. Sure you don't want another slice? There's plenty left and you could use the calories."
"No, thank you."
She turns away, but he calls her back. "Helewise, welcome back. And thank you."
"You're welcome." She carries her dishes back to the nurses' station, then returns. She catches him studying her. "I'm fine, I promise. No lasting effects. See?" She widens her blue-green-brown eyes and leans forward.
"He took good care of you."
"He always does. And you look well too."
"They removed the fairy dust, the day after. But they didn't really need to."
"Does it feel strange not to have your magic?"
"Yes, but I'm getting used to it."
"You're worried, though, aren't you?"
"A little," he admits. "I can never leave, and without magic, how can I bring Bae here?"
"Don't worry, Rumplestiltskin. Just keep listening." She brightens. "How about a game of checkers?"
Just as he nods, the upstairs door opens. "Ah, Bertie. Right on time. Rumplestiltskin's ready to meet your challenge once more, provided you let him be red."
The boy sets down his backpack, retrieves the checker board from the shelf above the nurses' station and punches the code into the keypad. He rolls a chair into the cage as Rumple drags the spinning bench over to make a table of it. As they settle in, setting up their checkers, Rumple remarks, "You really need a haircut, young man."
Bertie guffaws. "You sound just like my father."
