Oh, hey, look. I did manage to write the new chapter before an unacceptable amount of time went by. Don't get used to it. Gotta keep working on the other fics. But reviews still appreciated. Enjoy!
There was a beast, a felltop tiger, or some strange hybrid of a tiger and dragon, with glowing orangey eyes. Elphaba was sitting in its folded forearms as if on a throne.
"Horrors." she said again, looking without binocular vision, staring at the glass in which her parents and Nanny could make nothing out of the darkness. "Horrors."
—Gregory Maguire, Wicked
Chapter 2: The Spinner
Rumplestiltskin stopped practicing magic the day after his mother died. He resumed practicing it, in his own feeble way, after his wife was gone. That didn't mean he never used magic. He always felt it tingling beneath his skin. Each day he lived with the fear that, like a lightning rod in the midst of a perpetual thunderstorm, the sparks would hit and fly through him at any moment. If anyone had known his dilemma, they would've understood why he tiptoed like a water-strider in public. His limp helped distract people from this aspect of his gait. So did the label of 'village coward', which left most people to assume that Rumplestiltskin shied away from his own shadow.
For those, however, who paid attention to the trivial traits of others, and who had known Rumplestiltskin before his disastrous participation in the Ogre Wars, they would have observed that the slight, short man had always walked with skittish caution. His awkward glances could've been interpreted as fear of outside threats. They also could've been attempts to see how great a spectacle he'd make of himself should he suddenly lose control. Yet even such people would be hard-pressed to arrive at that conclusion. His parents had made an admirable effort of concealing his unearthly abilities from the rest of the village. Samhain kept him indoors as much as possible with housework and apprenticeship as a spinner. If he ever went out, she pinned him close to her side. But she knew that he needed some daily interaction with children his own age—to be at liberty to play and not fret over what may happen.
Unfortunately, an incident when Rumple was seven years old made interactions with other children a bit complicated. He had been walking home from playing pirates with his neighbors (they'd forced him to walk the plank again) and took a detour down to the rocky beach under the elevated houses on the wharf. He liked going down there alone to search for pebbles or debris that captured his fancy, and to escape his mother's loving but often smothering presence. He also snuck down there whenever his parents threw another row and couldn't keep their voices at a controlled volume.
Rumplestiltskin rarely met anyone on that forbidding beach, but on this day he encountered Maxmilian, a boy with more meat and fat than brains. He was three years older and twice as large. He spotted Max poking an overturned horseshoe crab. Actually, Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure if he was just poking or outright impaling the helpless creature. As soon as his eyes observed the sharpened stick in the older boy's chubby hand, Rumple stopped dead and silenced his breathing.
Max didn't look up while Rumple walked on the clacking peddles, but as soon as his feet stilled the other boy peered up. The crab was quickly forgotten. Max held onto his stick. He smirked and stalked over to Rumple, who started to shiver. Even so, his feet couldn't uproot themselves.
"Hey." The smirk pinched Max's right cheek. "If it isn't Spindleshanks. What's your skinny arse doing down here?"
Rumple's gaze retreated to his toes and the rocks surrounding them.
"Oh, not going to talk? Good. You got such a whiny voice. If you're not gonna talk, then listen: this is my place. You don't come here no more, understand?"
Deep eyes widened and pink cheeks paled. Rumple looked up at Maxmilian. The notion of never being able to come back to his special hideaway frightened him more than the prospect of Max socking him in the face or gut. For the moment, anyway. His lips somehow became unstuck. "But—"
"Now you're talking? More like squeaking. You sound like a mouse." Max laughed and shoved Rumple in the chest. "Scurry home, mousy! Don't let me catch you here again!" Another shove.
Rumple took the painful hint and turned to run. Yet as much as his soul was willing to surrender, the terrain and his feet had other ideas. His right foot stepped at an odd angle and snagged on a hidden rock anchored beneath the smaller stones. He fell face-first. Max howled with humor. Then he pounced on him, grabbed Rumple's thin locks, and smashed the younger boy's face into the pebbles.
"You like rocks, don't you? Eat 'em up, Spindlerump! Eat eat eat!"
The assault went unchallenged. Rumple could only squeeze everything shut and fight the tears while the rocks bruised and scratched his face. In his mind he screamed for Max to let him go. When the brute finally pulled up Rumplestiltskin's head, the twiggish boy's words and tears spilled out of him, unmitigated.
Contrary to what he expected, Maxmilian seemed to take his words into consideration. He shifted to examine Rumple's battered face. A malevolent light flickered in the older lad's hazel eyes. "Actually, I changed my mind. I like having someone to play with." He hauled Rumple up by the back of his tunic and dragged him over to the still overturned horseshoe crab.
"This one doesn't want to wake up," explained Maxmilian with glee. "Why don't you give it a kiss?" He forced Rumple to his knees and pushed his head down toward the pungent sea creature's belly and prickly legs.
"Max!" Rumple coughed and gasped and strained his neck and back to resist the bully's pressing weight. "Please! I won't come back, I swear!" His tears dripped onto the crustacean. The animal flinched and wriggled. The stinking odors of the ocean and its exposed guts from the stab wounds caused Rumple's stomach to writhe. He would be sick if he couldn't get a breath of fresh air.
"Too late for that. You're here now. Let's have some fun. Now, come on, give it a kiss. You're the prince, that's the princess. You need to wake her up, Rumps! Don't keep her waiting!"
Maxmilian had every physical advantage. Rumple's face descended closer and closer to the point that his nose grazed the crab's wet, ribbed underbelly. When it did, the bristled legs wriggled again and touched Rumplestiltskin's cheeks and chin. The smell poured into his nose and mouth. A violent gurgle erupted inside him. The eruption ascended hot and fast to the top of Rumple's throat and spew all over the horseshoe crab. Everything from the tip of his tongue down to his belly burned.
"Now look what you did!" Max let Rumple up and kicked him in the backside with some satisfaction. Rumple barely had time to wipe his mouth before his tormentor locked his arm around his neck. "You sure are a mess. Better wash up!" And with that both of them went hurtling toward the water.
The scene played out in Rumplestiltskin's mind before it happened: Max would drag him into the waves, mild as they were on this stretch of coast, and hold his head underwater for as long as possible. In that moment Rumple felt sure Max wanted to kill him, or at least come close to it. Abject terror summoned his limbs to action. He kicked and screamed, abandoning words for any means of escape. Fingernails, stubby and pale, slashed at Max's thick arm to no avail. His scrawny legs, though quick, lacked the force and coordination to effectively hurt the bully into freeing him. With nothing else left, Rumeplstiltskin squeezed his fingers around Max's arm, closed his eyes and wished with all his heart Max were small enough for him to crush.
He felt a gut-deep stirring, which he interpreted as a sign that he was about to be sick again. Yet he didn't feel ill. This feeling happened both inside and outside of him. It lasted only a few seconds. His bones vibrated and his skin shivered and flushed, leaving him all at once drained. He tumbled forward freely into the waves.
Rumplestiltskin spluttered for air and whipped his sopping head around. Maxmilian was out of sight. While wet clothes slowed his movements, panic endowed him with the adrenaline to run out of the surface and search. Had Max just vanished? Did he let Rumple go and run off somewhere? There was no other body to be seen on the beach.
The boy turned back to the water. No one out there, either. Just the foam of the wave crests and the green-gray water lapping toward his feet. A round brown shell was caught in the surf. It rolled with every push from a crashing swell. Rumple nearly dismissed it before a thought crossed his mind. That shell looked like it belonged to a hermit crab—except not. Curiosity alleviated his anxiety, like ointment on a sore. He knelt on the pebbles and soaked sand for a closer look. The little body he saw emerging from the shell wasn't a crab or any sea creature he'd ever seen. It was soft, squishy, slimy. Some moments of racking his brain passed before Rumple could name what he was looking at.
It was a snail. A snail caught in the salty waves. A snail that had most definitely not been there before.
While it took Rumplestiltskin several hesitant seconds to recognize the creature, he understood in only a blink that the snail was Maxmilian. In his young mind it made perfect sense. Amid the confusing collision of excitement, empowerment, surprise and terror, Rumple recalled his mother saying that snails had a strong aversion to salt. It burned them, or something like that. He scooped up the snail and frantically dried it off with his tunic. Other concerns returned to the forefront once the snail was out of immediate danger. He let the little icky thing rest in his palms. It poked its shapeless head out of the shell and felt around with gooey antennae.
"M-max?" whispered Rumplestiltskin.
The snail turned its head up to him. Rumple swallowed. A giggle and a sob both lodged in his throat and fought to come up. He had done this. Rumeplstiltskin had turned the awful grunt into a garden pest. What now, though? Several choices came up. Throw him into the ocean. Drop him on the ground and squash him like he wanted to before. Just leave him on the beach for whatever fate awaited him. He'd make a nice meal for a seagull. Or better still, leave him next to the horseshoe crab he had tortured. All appealing options.
But Rumple could see what would happen when Max didn't come home. His mother would panic. As awful as Max was, he had parents and siblings who would come looking for him. People who cared for him.
He chomped down on his lip. It wasn't fair. He didn't even mean to do it. Well, maybe he did, but he didn't think he actually could do it. And now he dreaded to think what Max would do to him should he manage to change him back. If the boy hadn't intended to kill him before, he would now. And he would definitely tell people. Rumple's mother had told him too many times not to say a word to anyone how he could sometimes move objects with just a feeling or thought, and by a simple touch he could turn wool on a spinning wheel into gold. Rumplestiltskin did not yet understand why secrecy was important. But his mother worried about anyone knowing to the point that should wouldn't let his father sell the spun gold. That inspired enough fear in him to obey. And as for Maxmilian, Rumple didn't know if he could change the boy back. He could try, but . . .
On swift feet Rumplestiltskin hurried back home, the enchanted snail slithering across his hands. "Don't kill me, Max, please," he panted. He hurried up the steps to the wharf and ran down the old planks to his house. Behind it where the planks ended, wooded land began. There stood a garden for herbs and all the fruits and vegetables Samhain could crowd in without exhausting the soil. On reaching the squat abode, Rumple felt all notions of telling her about the incident fleeing. He darted past the door to the garden and tossed the snail into it. He had an idea of where it landed among the leafy shrubs, though he preferred not knowing at all. After making certain no one was around, Rumple walked back to the front, opened the door and poked his head inside. He sighed to see his mother boiling water over the fireplace, her back to the window facing the garden. Rumple sidled in without a word, quiet as a cat, and went straight for the spinning wheel. His feet still didn't reach the floor or the wheel's pedal when he sat on the stool. The wool was already tied on, waiting for him. He snatched up the fluffy bundle on the seat and with a soft push sent the wheel spinning.
"Oh! Rumple, I didn't realize you were home." His mother wiped her forehead, then her hands, and came over beside him smelling of roasted fish and steaming vegetables. She smelled of home and safety. Rumplestiltskin relaxed.
"Did you have fun?"
He nodded and kept spinning. He shuffled forward to hit the footpedal with his toes and send the wheel whirling.
"You don't have to do that now, love," said Samhain while running her fingers through his hair.
"It's okay," he mumbled. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want his squeaky voice to intrude on the calming melody of creaking wood and bubbling brew. He wanted to focus on the taut wool between his fingers and his mother's hands in his hair and on his shoulders. He wanted to forget the snail now munching on their garden, plotting his vengeance. If he never had to leave home for the rest of his life, Rumplestiltskin fancied he would be quite happy.
Much like any other morning, Rumplestiltskin found himself sitting and spinning at the wheel three years to the day after Milah had been spirited off by a pirate captain. He alone reluctantly recalled the annual marking of the event. Baelfire seemed his usual self when he left to feed their dog Till and take him to let out the sheep from the pen. If only Rumplestiltskin were so fortunate. He could spin and spin all he liked, both wool and gold, but the memory never left. Its clarity receded, perhaps, like paper left in the sun. But it came back more vibrantly in his dreams.
He remembered many things about his marriage to Milah, most of which he preferred to bury deep. A reminder of one detail that refused to let him alone sat under his bed. That had been a painful day when she, in the midst of spring cleaning, had discovered the covered basket and what hid inside. When he came home from market, the look on her face—she hadn't been angry at first. That had been a surprise, since the first question to come out of her mouth was, "Did you steal this?" He tried to lie, but saying he stole it would've placed too much pressure on his brain. He fumbled through some feeble yarn that thinned Milah's patience.
"For gods' sake, Rumple," she snarled, "if you stole it, just say so."
He didn't. He told her the truth instead, which of course she didn't believe. So he demonstrated for her. That was when the anger burst to life like fire from a lightning strike. It filled her eyes as they watched the wool change to gold on the spindle and drop to the floor in a shimmering tail. She couldn't speak for an hour. Rumplestiltskin thought it informative to time it for future comparison should he reveal his secret to anyone else.
While she sat at the table, collecting her thoughts, he busied himself with boiling water for dinner, wiping off the dishes left over from lunch and hanging up the new bundle of herbs from market. He was considering finishing the sweeping and airing out the mattress when Milah asked, "How long have you been able to do this?"
His cowardly heart bounded about inside him like a restrained, terrified colt. He would never be forgiven. Milah would never understand. Yet somehow, little by little, he explained his childhood, his parents, the village he'd grown up in. He thought about telling her about Madame Holda, the eccentric apothecary whose shop provided a rare source of familiarity and comfort for him even though he had no idea why; the woman who, when he was still a child, had been executed by the clerics for the crime of witchcraft. But he didn't. It might have helped, but like many things, speaking about it gave the memory too much power, and Rumple couldn't cope with it. He stuck to the vital details. A shame they changed little. There were times Milah appeared to try to understand what he'd been through. In the end, though, her anger—the feeling of betrayal—overwhelmed any other emotion. Things only worsened when she demanded that he sell the gold. The more he resisted her, the more she raised her voice. He begged her to not shout, to lower her volume. That only infuriated her more. In the end he grabbed the basket and told her he'd dumped it in the river, as he should've years ago. He should have buried the gold at his father's house the day he left.
He did go down to the river. For the first half of his walk, Rumplestiltskin burned with conviction. He would do it. He'd dump the cursed gold and live in peace. It wasn't as if Milah would hold a knife to his throat and force him to spin more gold.
Well, he hoped she wouldn't. If she did . . . no, she'd never do that and risk little Bae surprising them.
As his mind ran laps, his resolve weakened. His feet brought him to the riverbank much too soon. The slow-flowing water whispered in his ear: dump the gold, and you'll be poor for the rest of your life. Dump it, and you'll have nothing to offer Milah should she decide to make you spin for her. And what if their circumstances changed? What if by some windfall they became better off, and suddenly it would not be so strange for them to trade pure gold threads at market? In this state of mind, Rumplestiltskin stood watch over the river. This part of it ran in the deep woods; not even the village's bravest boys came out here on their own. Woodcutters sometimes frequented the area, but that being the case, their attention was focused upward, not downward. Rumplestiltskin waded across the river, climbed back up shivering like a drowned weasel. Up the steeper westward bank he went, then found a tree with papery bark. With his whittling knife he prepared to carve his first initial. No, no, that was stupid. Instead he took out the pendant hanging around his neck—a circular, metal ornament that glinted almost like gold. On its concave side were engraved two characters from no language Rumple recognized (his readings skills were severely limited anyway). He recreated the letters in the bark. The characters were comprised of simple straight lines, which made them easy to write and inconspicuous to the unsuspecting passer-by. The first was just one vertical line. The other looked like a child's drawing of a table with only two legs showing.
The sigils complete, Rumple checked around. It was still daylight, but he felt very alone. The forest sang with bird chirps and squirrel chatter. No snapping twigs, though. No sign of anything bigger than a rabbit coming or going. Still, he kept panting until he had the gold strands buried far down enough that he could pack the earth above them. He threw a branch and some leaves over the spot to mask the disturbed soil.
He returned home, guarded with a fresh, foolproof lie. Milah still kept turning an evil-eye on him for the next two weeks. Uncomfortable as it was to endure, he worried more when Bae started to notice his mother's unrelenting anger. For him Rumple pleaded with Milah to wait it out. He'd done it protect them, after all. No, there were no clerics here, but that hardly promised safety for a magic-user. Of course Milah rebutted, "Then let's move to a place where we know that sort of thing won't bother anyone, or where no one will know we're poor. We can begin a new life."
Milah would never understand. Rumplestiltskin knew a truth about the gold deep in his bones. A truth that ran even deeper than his mother's paranoia. Even if his spinning could buy them a cushy life elsewhere, it would come at a price. Danger lived all over the world; at least here he knew what those dangers were. He wasn't young anymore. He wouldn't be able to adjust the way he used to. He'd left his native village only out of absolute desperation. He'd been alone then, too. To leave for a new home meant a greater chance of losing his wife and child to forces he didn't know.
But it seemed he was destined to lose much. His knee, the village's respect, and his wife.
He spent many troubled nights after the day he told his son another necessary lie both blaming and defending himself. Rumplestiltskin remembered his reasons for not moving as Milah had suggested—well, begged. Before the temptation of a pirate's company got her kidnapped. Then, a few nights ago, he recalled the first time she'd brought it up regarding the gold, and what he'd done with the spun gold after she found it. For once his memories served him well. Last night, after Baelfire fell asleep, he worked up the nerve to return to his cache. The tree and its mark were still there. Some gray moss had grown over the burial site. Rumplestiltskin ripped it away and dug with a spade, hoping and fearing he would find what he sought. And there it was, tarnished by grime and time, but still whole. He stuffed the strands inside his trousers, not daring to risk getting caught with them in hand and being taken for a thief. The cold metal chaffed him all the way home.
Now it was back where he first kept it, like he was repeating a part of a play. Only now there was no Milah. No one privy to his secret, and no one pushing him to sell the gold for profit and rescue them from this sad life. That had been part of it. For all its disappointments and trials, and the fact that he was branded a cowardly wretch and despised by nearly all, Rumplestiltskin had believed he was still content enough to live out his life as it was. He had a family to care for; that should've been enough. It was only after his wife was gone—after Bae had been robbed of a mother—did he feel the full force of his misery. It was possible that he'd used Milah as a crutch of sorts. She didn't make him happy anymore, but having a wife to work side by side and raise a child with him allowed things to be bearable. Bae alone lit up his world, and it stung him more than anything that such a good, strong, sharp-eyed child should be denied his mother's loving embrace and tender words. Milah wasn't the best at those things, admittedly. But she had tried. She'd tried in the beginning.
That was why Rumplestiltskin sat at his wheel, caught between wanting to forget and wanting to do what he should've done long ago. He needed to do what Milah found it hard to achieve. He had to be both father and mother to Bae, and that meant considering what was best for him without looking for excuses. It'd been hard. It still was. Today, though, his recollections wouldn't leave him alone. He tried some spinning to fight them, and ended up spinning more gold by accident. He shuddered, and took it as a sign. Despite the danger, he had to try it for his Baelfire.
Baelfire's reappearance could not have been bettered timed. The child pulled back the curtain over the doorway and let the sunshine in. His lithe figure, spritely even for a ten-year-old, stood out against the light. "Papa?"
Rumplestiltskin looked up and smiled at him. It was difficult not to wonder if Bae hadn't a touch of magic in him. Why not? "Hey, Bae. You let the sheep out?"
"Yes, papa. May I go play now?"
The spinner chuckled and reached out to his son. "If you're going to see Morraine, I suggest a little washing up first."
"She doesn't care," Bae protested in a high-pitched whine.
"Maybe, but I do." Rumple beckoned with his hands again. "No son of mine is going to visit a lady without trying to look his best."
One eyeroll later, Baelfire was at the basin scrubbing his face and arms. Thank goodness he wasn't old enough to worry about more potent body odors. Rumple could stand to wait many more years before dealing with those developments. "How long are you going to be out, son?"
"Morraine said she had to help her mother with dinner since it's her papa's birthday. I think she said I could stay till lunch." He turned to his father, face now red from working off the dirt. "Cuddy said he and the others were going to the woods. Can I go, too?"
"That's fine," chirped Rumplestiltskin. Bae often asked for extra playtime if there were no urgent chores to attend to. Thank goodness a friend had made an offer, though. Otherwise he would've needed a ruse to keep Bae out for longer than usual. "I have to go to Longbourn for the day, anyway. I should be back around dark."
"Oh." Bae's arms dropped. His eyes held a sweet, guilty look that Rumple couldn't resist smiling at. "I'm sorry, Papa. I would go with you . . ."
"No, no! I want you to spend the day with your friends. It's no matter. We can go together some other time."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely!"
Bae set the rough rag down and, still shirtless and wet, gave his father a hug. "You're the best, Papa."
With his son's arms around him, and him beaming gratefully while still smelling of sheep and hay, Rumplestiltskin wanted very badly to believe it was true.
The prospect of getting to play all day got Bae out the door in a timely fashion. Rumplestiltskin had just enough nerve to maintain a collected, nothing-unusual-about-today façade until the boy pranced out the door toward Morraine's place. Then the spinner collapsed onto the bed and spent some time with his head in his hands to recollect himself. This would be a long day.
His marrow rattled as he gathered his cloak, his coin purse and the covered basket under the bed. The damaged tendons in his leg mocked him during his efforts to leave as quickly and discreetly as possible. He could still move speedily if he wished; like anything else, it took its toll. The road to Longbourn was a tiring one for someone in his condition. Already barely half an hour out he had to take a respite under a handy oak that shamed his stature and weakness. Its thick trunk gave him plenty to lean against, at least, and its height and thick foliage protected him from the midday sun. If only he didn't need to rest. Other people used the road, too, and walked on and on like worker ants. He avoided eye contact with everyone. He needed to get to Longbourn and back without drawing attention to himself. This goal pressed him to resume walking after only a few minutes of regaining his breath and massaging his knee.
The cool forest air helped buoy his spirits. The rich, wild earth abated his anxieties a little. He still preferred the gentle rolling hills of the grassy pastures where his sheep spent their carefree days. Well, carefree except for the threat of wolves. But wolves, Rumple found, tended not to target sheep unless they were desperate. Usually lone, hungry beasts preyed on them. Due to perhaps the long fraught history between wolves and humans, the former preferred avoiding them altogether. The latter continued to assume their enemies waited in every shadowed glen, ready to attack at a moment's notice.
Rumplestiltskin felt it wise to fear wolves even if they feared people just as much. He was sure he didn't have it in him to face down a wolf should the occasion call for it. If he knew how to tame one, it'd be a different matter. His mother, raised by her spinner grandmother, who understood the dangers of keeping sheep, often reminded him that once you controlled something, you no longer had to fear it.
No wolves needed to haunt this road to keep Rumplestiltskin on edge; people were terrifying enough. He felt the urge to flinch away from any who walked too close, and his flesh writhed at first when he, while alone, observed a cloaked man crouching next to the road. Rumplestiltskin started to cross to the other side when a soft voice from under the hood beseeched, "Alms for the poor?"
His fear trickled away. The man was just a beggar. On another day, under more ordinary circumstances, Rumplestiltskin might have passed him without a second look. Today, his hand touched the cloth covering his basket. In it lay the chance to live a good life with his son. Here before him was a man who had nothing. He could spare a little something for him. So Rumple crossed back over and approached the beggar.
"Here you go," he quietly answered the man's call. A few coppers appeared from his purse. For a second he considered bequeathing a string of gold. Fear caught up to him. Though the beggar was surely a nobody, he just couldn't chance word getting around this close to the village of him owning such a treasure.
When he held out the coins for the beggar, a hoary head peeked up. Blue eyes brightened with pained joy. "Oh! Oh, thank you, kind sir! Thank you!"
Rumplestiltskin shrugged and dropped the coins into the beggar's eager hands. He felt about as ease in that moment as he did with just Bae around—until he turned and his walking staff, caught in the soft dirt of the roadside, tangled with his legs and threw off his balance. He stumbled forward. The basket slipped from his arm. The cloth partly slid off the top.
The blunder lasted a few seconds. Rumple regained his footing and grabbed the basket and its covering. When he looked back, the beggar's eyes were on him, wider than before. Terror cast a silencing spell over the spinner's tongue. He could only shiver and limp away in a hasty retreat. A backward look now and then showed the beggar shrinking into the distance. The old man, for one reason or another, held his place beside the road. Never moving. Only watching with a questioning gaze. The image was burned into Rumple's mind's eye even after he gave up watching and continued on. Like a hot brand in the shape of the beggar's eyes had been pressed against his brain.
The town of Longbourn, a busier trading post than Rumplestiltskin's village, came into view when he overcame the last rise in the road and the treeline yielded to a shallow vale. The sun, already beyond its apex, floated over the hamlet like a benevolent guardian. The buildings in the town center rose higher than any others Rumple had seen. Some had as many as four storeys, and the roofs were laid with tiles rather than thatch. As it was a market day, the square was dotted with stalls and tents, and the roads crawled with ant-sized pedestrians and carts. A person could lose themself in that throng and pass unnoticed by most. Some optimism flickered to life in Rumplestiltskin. In a prosperous town like this, brimming with people, selling his gold strands should not strike anyone as particularly odd. Why had he not tried this sooner? His fear—the chronic cowardice that marked him like a leper and whispered doubts to him—must have blinded him.
He'd forgotten how manic market day could be in Longbourn. The town's thriving state had come about within the last few years, after tinkers and engineers from the south, he'd heard, had arrived and improved water distribution and waste removal, and introduced machines to facilitate certain types of labor. Better looms, plows with self-moving parts, even a local printing press. Evidence of these technological developments met Rumplestiltskin's eyes when he entered the town itself. How clean the streets were! Hardly a waft of dung or piss from man or beast could be sniffed in public areas. The town's masters, at the suggestion of the southern migrants, sent out civil servants to collect the detritus from people's homes, much of which would be used as fertilizer. Rumplestiltskin almost jumped out of his clothes when a cart driven by two men pushing rotating pedals, instead of a horse or ox, came close to running him down. He bumped into a young man to get away. Both men exchanged apologies, but Rumple was still fascinated by the contraption passing them by.
"What is that?" he wondered aloud.
"They call that a cycle-cart," the stocky youth explained with an exuberant grin. "Not from around here, are you? The waste collectors started using it last year. I hear there's things like that all over the streets of Dem."
Rumplestiltskin's breath hitched. He'd heard little snippets of gossip about the city-state of Dem. A strange, fantastical place according to most accounts. It sat at the heart of the Seven Realms, residing in none of them. "Have you ever been there?" he asked the youth.
"Oh, no. Too far away. But I hear they have even more amazing machines than this. Some machines can go all on their own! Just hit a pedal or button, and its got these inner moving bits that make it run. And I hear the town clock is powered by the sun. That's why they call Dem the Sun Clock City."
Though intrigued, Rumplestiltskin suddenly remembered how precious his time was, and with a thank-you bid the young man good day. He hurried down the street toward the central square where prospective clients awaited him. He took a moment to tuck the cloth into the basket to prevent any more accidents like what he'd experienced on the road. From there he trained himself to keep a detached air and not let the riling panic simmering inside him come to the surface.
Stalls for smiths, welders, weavers, tailors, jewelers and more met his eye. Rumplestiltskin shuddered, overwhelmed. He'd not thought this far ahead. Who would want to pay for strands of gold? Who would offer the best price? The noises of customers haggling and traders shouting what their wares were sent jolts through him. Rumplestiltskin started to fear that his nerves would abandon him and the magic buzzing in the fibers of his little body would respond to even the most harmless stimulus without restraint.
It was still the afternoon, but he needed a drink to calm down. A short visit to the tavern placed him in the less than comfortable confines of a cramped space overflowing with booze and inebriated patrons, laughing like crows or staring like rabid bulldogs. Rumplestiltskin never set down his basket. He clutched it to him like an infant. Though it was daylight, the pub received a steady inflow of customers. Rumplestiltskin had to wait a while for a free table, but it was worth it to have some privacy and be able to keep a close hand on his merchandise without provoking questions. He nudged and wriggled through the many bodies to reach the open table with his half-pint of ale.
Try as he did to work out a strategy, Rumplestiltskin's mind soon wore itself out. His drink was gone in a blink. He knew better than to order more and risk getting tipsy. He would need his wits about him. The chatter in the place overlapped his thoughts, and he wanted nothing more than to slink into a hole and shut out the world, his fears and his responsibilities. The empty mug in front of him was the closest he got to his wish.
"Hey, there!" someone shouted.
Unaware of whom the voice addressed, Rumple decided to look up. He found a group of men a little younger than him approach his table. A tall fellow with a black stubble threw a grin at him. "Mind moving? My friends and I want to sit here."
Rumple glanced around. Other tables started to open up as people finished their beverages and stood to leave. He took a chance. "Would you mind sitting somewhere else?" he asked, keeping his head low while turning his gaze up to the man.
The grin vanished. "Yeah, actually, I do mind. You're taking up a whole table."
A stunned scoff escaped the spinner. "Hardly!" If they insisted on sharing the table with him, he would tolerate it, but he needed a few more minutes to sort himself out.
The men didn't seem to understand this. They thought he was making a quip at their expense. A muscled hand dug into Rumple's upper arm. He had nothing to grab to stop the unshaven man from hauling him to his feet. "A wise-arse, eh? Know what we do with wise-arses around here?"
"Wait, please!" Rumplestiltskin threw up his hands in front of his face. "Take the table! I wasn't making trouble!"
The man snickered. "That's what I thought."
"Hey!" From somewhere Rumple couldn't see, a deep female voice reached his startled ears. "Take it outside, Garth. No brawling!"
"No brawling here, love." The man's scintillating smile returned. He and all his companions turned and regarded a sturdy, busty barmaid with affable smiles and greetings that made Rumple squirm. "Our friend was just leaving."
Rumple seized the basket. No challenging them again. He might as well go. Garth encouraged him with a gratuitous push that sent him toward the barmaid and elicited some amused chuckles from his comrades. Rumplestiltskin would not let himself look back. The fact no one tried to peek into his basket was all that mattered. He started to make for the door before remembering that he still had no plan of what to do with the gold.
The barmaid touched his elbow, prompting him to turn to her. "Sorry about that lot, sir. They're used to throwing their weight around and getting their way. Would you like something?"
Rumple waved a hand and smiled gratefully. "No, thank you. But I was wondering if . . . if you could tell me . . . where people usually go at this market for gold."
The woman tilted her head. "Gold? Are you buying or selling?"
A good question. "Uh . . . just scouting, but I . . . my master wanted me to see where people usually trade it."
"Hmm. I see." She scratched behind her delicate ear. She was a lusty thing, delicate and full-bodied in the right places. Rumplestiltskin's experiences at romance and intimacy were far and few between, however, and never ended well. It seemed better to give up on the notion altogether and spare himself further pain.
"I'd probably go to the money-changers first. If your master wants to convert from coins to bricks, or the other way round, that'd be the place. Is that any help?"
Of course, the money-changers. Rumplestiltskin wanted to slap himself. "Yes, very much. Thank you."
"No trouble, love," She petted him on the shoulder. "Good luck on your search. And don't let folks like Garth intimidate you. They're mostly hot air, and the rest of them is just as human as anybody else."
Little consolation that gave him. Rumple was sure Garth's fists weren't full of hot air. But he smiled and bowed to her, then dropped a tip in her hand. She sent him away with a flirtatious wink he wished he could've answered with charm and grace. Instead he hid his reddening face and hurried as fast as a cripple could. It should have occurred to him to ask for directions to the money-changers, but Rumplestiltskin would not go back inside. He pressed on.
As the day passed, the crowds thinned out and he could wander the streets without suffocating or twitching like a skittish rodent. By some blessing, he rounded a corner past a puppet theatre and spotted a sign for the money-changers just down the street. Finally! This really was the best alternative. The money-changers would know how much his gold was worth and would return the optimal amount of cold cash for it. A straight-forward exchange. What more could he ask for?
Filled with renewed purpose, Rumple took three steps down the street and bumped into a running child. The blond girl stood only two-and-a-half feet high, which even by Rumplestiltskin's standards was dwarfish. She was only five or so, and her blue eyes rounded in utter astonishment that disarmed him immediately.
"Careful, dearie," he remarked playfully, then gave her back a pat. "It's dangerous not to look where you're going."
"Goldie!" cried a woman to his left. Soon she appeared next to both of them, dark hair pulled back from her ruddy face. "What have I told you about running?"
The child bit her lip and mumbled an apology. Her mother, or so Rumplestiltskin presumed, was not satisfied. "It's this gentleman you should apologize to, not me."
"It's all right," he interjected. "I wasn't watching where I was going, either."
Sighing, the woman wiped her brow and gazed at him like someone who bore a great burden on her shoulders that no one else could see. "That may be, but Goldie runs around like a wild animal all the time." She aimed a scorching stare down at the little girl. "Isn't that right?"
The girl first giggled. Her mother's glare warned her and she schooled her giggle behind a repentant face. "Sorry, sir."
Rumplestiltskin lightly ruffled the sun-bleached locks on her soft head. He looked up again to bid her mother farewell. What he saw behind her stopped him. A sign reading Bernard's Jewelry."Oh. You sell jewelry?"
The woman smirked. "That's what the sign says."
"Like necklaces?"
"Of course."
The gears in his head moved in a new direction, away from the money-changers. This was a terrible idea, yet so impossible to resist. He could still go to the money-changers afterward, but he ought to try and sell a few strands if he could. Just to see if a jewelry-maker would find his merchandise desirable. It couldn't hurt, could it?
"Interested in something?" the woman—Madame Bernard, he presumed—asked.
He gulped. "Actually, I thought you might be interested in something I have."
Her smile dropped. Rumplestiltskin understood that look all too well. "We're not buying right now, I'm afraid."
"B-but—" Rumple took another gulp of air and pressed the woman's arm with extreme care, afraid of frightening her away but wanting to move their conversation out of the middle of the street. "But you can use what I have for your jewelry. Just take a look."
Though her eyebrows pinched the bridge of her nose like two caterpillars angrily head-butting, Madame Bernard complied as far as her stall front. Her child followed closely behind with an open expression of curiosity. Her attention drifted down to the basket hanging from the crook of Rumple's arm. "Can I see?" she piped up.
A nervous, burning shudder scurried down his neck, yet Rumplestiltskin managed to keep a friendly countenance—a genuine one. He did like the little girl's enthusiasm. "If your mother says it's all right, sure."
It must have been a long, frustrating day for the woman. He read it in the lines of her face—lines not suited for someone of her youth. She didn't want her time wasted, nor for wandering traders in ratty cloaks to take her for a ride. But he'd asked her only for a look. So she beckoned him to lift up the basket to let her see. Rumple forced his body to comply without shaking. Up the basket came, and with a surprisingly steady hand he pulled back the cloth. Breathless moments passed. The woman's eyes slowly kindled with glowing wonder. She was so flabbergasted her jaw could only bob up and down, forming no words.
"Lemme see, lemme see!" Tiny hands reached for the mysterious basket. Rumplestiltskin's body loosened with relief and his mind cleared of panic. He more than obligingly lowered it so Goldie could look. She almost buried her head in it, then drew back. Her heart-shaped face embodied all the reverence a child can muster. "They're . . . beautiful," she whispered.
Only the feeble of temperament let a child's words, however deeply meant, bring them to tears. Rumplestiltskin eyes prickled with tears all the same, and his heart was torn between shame and joy. To dam up the salty floods, he latched all his attention onto the mother.
"They're pure gold. You can use these in all kinds of ways. You could melt them down for general use, or braid them into necklaces and bracelets. You could even sell them as hair decorations. What do you say?"
Madame Bernard plucked up a single thread and, much to Rumple's anxiety, brought it out into daylight and held it up. Her fingers ran up and down the length of it to gauge the texture, pliability and strength. "How . . . how did you get it like this? It's gold, all right, but it bends like . . . like actual thread. It's soft like actual thread." Her eyes left the gold for him.
For once, even with his poor nerves, a grin from Rumplestiltskin came of its own accord. "Trade secret."
His answer was granted a heart-warming chuckle. "All right, I'm impressed. How much for each strand?"
Rumple performed some quick, rough calculations in his head and pegged the price high enough to start the haggling. A few exchanges later the price was settled. Madame Bernard bought five long strands she could divide up. "Will you be coming back next market day?" she asked while slipping behind her stall with her purchase.
Hefting his purse, newly laden with more silver coins than he'd ever seen in his life, Rumplestiltskin felt like a new man. "I hope so. This is my first time selling these here, actually."
"Oh? Are we your first customers, then?" Madame Bernard still watched him but busied herself with straightening the rows of gold and silver chains, bracelets and broaches. Goldie hopped up onto an empty part of the counter to alter between staring at the jewelry and gawking at him like he was some sort of fascinating sorcerer.
"Indeed."
"I'd try Neal, the tailor a few booths that way." She pointed in the opposite direction from the money-changers. "He's always looking for new innovations to spice up his garments. Maybe he'd like to use these threads as accents."
Rumple thanked her from the bottom of his heart. He wouldn't go overboard with how many people he'd try to sell to, but it relieved him to know that this woman, and hopefully the tailor, had not thought it peculiar that he was vending something so valuable when he himself looked—well, like a poor spinner.
"Can I have one of those threads, Mama?" he caught Goldie asking as he waved goodbye and moved on. His heart fluttered. How rewarding to not only successfully make a sale and earn a handful of silvers, but to sell to someone who would put the threads to good use. Had he gone to the money-changers, who knows how long they would've sat in a vault, holding no value other than being a precious, shiny substance.
The tailor's response to his initial offer, and then the reveal of what lay in his basket, resembled Madame Bernard's. Rumple left out the fact that he'd been sent here by her to circumvent stirring up competition. At least for now. If he came back and found that his wares were still wanted, then he could start spreading a little rivalry among willing customers. Neal bought two strands and considered out loud that he could use it for a commission he'd been given by a member of the Duke of the Frontland's court. Although Rumple wouldn't be earning the profits from that commission, he felt a swell of pride and excitement. If people that high up took an interest in the real gold trimming some knight's coat or robe, he could be responsible for setting a new fashion trend. Rumplestiltskin walked on air down the street. Courage like none he'd ever known propelled him to casually make more offers to a few artisans of various crafts—clocks, candleholders, toys, tableware. Though some expressed more shock and suspicion, none turned him down, and it was not hard to argue a favorable price.
The excursion, which was turning out much better than he'd hoped, left Rumple delighted with his earnings. He'd already earned more today than he'd earned in half a year spinning wool. He treated himself to a quick meal before stopping by the money-changers to unload the rest of the gold. A good thing he'd sold the rest of it beforehand, for the severe square man behind the counter deflated some of Rumple's confidence as he appraised the strands with searing eye and unkind hands. The spinner lost the surety he'd gained in fetching a good price. The money-changer grunted a few words that gold in this form was not as desirable as bricks, not to mention its size equaled less value.
It mattered little in the end. Rumplestiltskin wanted the gold off his hands. When the money-changer named his estimated value, the spinner acquiesced. If his new trade boomed, swapping gold for coins would become a last resort. He still thanked the blocky, squatting man, then hobbled out with a slightly heavier heart and set for the road home.
With the basket now empty, he could walk more quickly through the darkening woods. His terror of wolves and specious strangers started to come back. Rumplestiltskin turned his thoughts to Bae. How excited his boy would be when he got home, burdened with silver pieces to show him! Of course he'd have to explain how it acquired them. An explanation was long in coming. He was willing to keep some unpleasant secrets from Baelfire, but not this. If he intended to use his magic this way, they would both be in on it. He couldn't send Bae off all the time to a friend's house or keep him out of doors with chores. His greatest fear was that Bae would be frightened of him to learn what he could do. It might take time for the lad to adjust to the idea and to trust his father knowing he possessed something unearthly and potentially dangerous. Well, not the spinning gold bit. More along the lines of turning people into snails or whatever else. But Bae was a brave, loving boy. Everything would be done to assure him that there was nothing to fear. Rumplestiltskin would let only one person be scared of his powers.
His thoughts sailed around the topic like a boat trying to port at an uncharted island. So caught up was he in his meditations that the hoofbeats on the road behind him did not register until they were nearly on top of him. Instinct finally kicked in, and without fully turning back to his pursuers, Rumple sprinted off the road and down a small gully. He tried to make for the denser section of the forest, tossing aside all thoughts of famished predators. His retreat was cut off by a rider on horseback. Others closed in around him. Expecting the worst, Rumplestiltskin lowered his head and watched the horsemen at the same time. Contrary to what he assumed, these were not soldiers patrolling the road. They wore commoners' clothes, most belonging to craftsmen by the more expensive yet still simple tunics.
Rumplestiltskin's blood froze when he rotated and came face to face with Garth atop a bay-colored beast that snorted in his face. Rumple jumped back, trembling.
"I was right," the man pronounced in a slurred snarl. He dropped down with a hard thud from the horse. A brief stumble informed the spinner that Garth, and very likely his entire entourage, had had a little too much to drink. Whatever they had consumed wasn't enough to rob Garth of all his facilities, for he corrected his footing in time and swaggered the rest of the way to Rumple without further incident. His eyes held a black blaze. Rumplestiltskin swallowed for all to hear. Had he really offended them so? Over a table? Thank goodness the tradesmen at the Longbourn market weren't as proud. Though he wanted to ask what they wanted more with him, he again discovered his tongue tied up.
The answer came in a blinding flash when Garth took out a gold strand from the pouch hanging from his hip. "Did you sell this to my wife?"
Words still resisted Rumple's control, but he had to answer if he wanted his head and limbs to stay attached. "I . . . y-your wife?"
"My wife!" hollered Garth. "She sells jewelry! I should know, I make half the damn things! Did you sell this to her today?"
Every nightmare Rumplestiltskin ever had about being found out started leaking into his conscious mind. "Madame Bernard? Y-yes, I did. Is there a problem?"
As though he expected a different answer, Garth gawked at Rumplestiltskin, then guffawed. "You! You sold her some gold? That really is something!"
"Come on, you louse," taunted another of the men surrounding him, "we're not idiots. The only way someone likes you gets his hands on that is if he stole it."
Another fellow snickered humorlessly. "To think he had the nerve to then sell them to everyone in town!"
"It's not nerves!" Garth growled, his mirth gone. "It's stupidity is all. And insulting to think we wouldn't notice." Rumplestiltskin glimpsed the redness in the whites of Garth's eyes, yet his voice kept a steady pace and forcefulness. "I'll give you one last chance. Where did you steal it from?"
It was Milah all over again, only these men might slit his throat after all. And like that other time, Rumplestiltskin had no lie to save him. He really ought to draw up a list as insurance. But he didn't want to lie. To confess to thievery meant a total loss of market in Longbourn, and word would probably spread to other hamlets at lightning speed, since so many people passed through and picked up news there. What he really required was an alibi to explain how he came by the gold honestly, free of any mention of magic. As things stood, he bit back a whimper and said with unbridled frankness, "I swear, I didn't steal anything."
Garth bent down toward him. His beer-laced breath singed Rumple's face. "All right. Where'd you get the gold?"
"I . . . I can't say."
Unforgiving chuckles ran in a ring around him.
"You can't say." The corners of Garth's mouth rose up and carved dimples into his scruff-covered cheeks. "Well, I can believe that."
He waved his hand. The others descended their mounts, a few armed with clubs while others seemed assured their hands would be enough.
"Search him!" Garth roared.
A dozen pairs of hands came at him. Rumplestiltskin didn't think. He simply curled into himself and let some hard feeling in the pit of his gut suddenly expand. A moment's awareness wanted this expanding energy to turn into a shield. The half-thought barely took shape before something burst inside him. He cried and gasped in harmony with a chorus of yelps. Horses whinnied and hooves pounded against the ground.
Realizing that he still hadn't been tackled, he peered through his fingers. Every man, including Garth, had been thrown onto his back a few feet away. The horses, untethered, had bolted. A familiar maelstrom welled up in him. The same emotions he'd experienced that day on the beach with Maxmilian. But unlike that day, his persecutors could still render him harm. They got back to their feet, dashing any hope of escape for Rumplestiltskin unless he could do what he just did again. But the tight ball of power was gone. A one-time phenomenon, it seemed.
"What the hell was that?" Garth stammered.
Rumplestiltskin would have loved some clarification himself. None came. Instead came two arms to pin Rumple's to his body. His capture gave the men time to recover and take action. His cloak was torn off him, as was his basket. Some felt up his legs and arms; others made quick work of his belt to free the purse with his day's earnings.
"No! Please!" Even when Rumplestiltskin worked up the courage to struggle, too many palms and fingers were there to neutralize him. When they finished their search, hands balled into fists and wailed on his face, back and ribs. One man lucked out by connecting his foot with the spinner's bad knee, causing so much pain Rumple couldn't even scream.
"Don't do this, please," he wheezed eventually, once the lot had their fill of pummeling him and left him crumpled on the ground. "I have a son. I didn't steal! My boy needs that money!"
"So do our boys," said Garth. "Whatever you are, don't even think about coming back."
To move or speak would be to invite more blows, if not death. Rumplestiltskin was too afraid to even shed tears. He played possum to the pleasure of his attackers, who slapped each other on the back on a job well done. They split the spoils and marched back to Longbourn, never glancing back.
Maybe it would've been better to die there. Rumplestiltskin couldn't stand thinking about going home empty-handed, bruised and mortified to his boy. As if Baelfire didn't have to suffer enough from their neighbors and the whispers of the man who ran from the frontline in the Ogre Wars, leaving his comrades to die. Rumplestiltskin also didn't want to move from the pain. He was quiet sure his lip had burst open. A tiny river of blood ran into his mouth and over his tongue. He sucked on his lip to stop the flow. Somehow it comforted him enough that he wanted to try moving his fingers. Just to check if they still worked. That would be the worst; let every other bone be broken, but not his fingers. They were all he had left to earn him a living. Bae aside, they were the only thing of true value he possessed.
The digits wiggled obediently. It was enough. Rumple used the strength it fed him to sit up. He got as far up as his elbows when the sounds of a cracking twig and crushed leaves landed on his ears. He hushed and stilled. It didn't stop a hand from catching his sleeve. With no reason to maintain any facade of fortitude, Rumple broke into a whimper and flinched in feral terror.
"No, no! It's all right." The person belonging to the hand came round. In the fading light, he was only a shapeless shadow until he knelt down in front of Rumplestiltskin. His figure was obscured by his ragged cowl and the hood draped over his head. Blue eyes stared out of them, a little wild but harmless. Rumple recognized them.
It was the beggar. "I'm here to help."
"What? Why?" Rumple mumbled through his swelling lip.
"You need it," the beggar cooed. He seized Rumplestiltskin's arm and pulled him up with concealed strength.
"I . . . can't pay you." The spinner's limbs did what they could to move and aid the beggar's efforts. "They took everything."
"Don't worry. All I need is a roof and some food for a few hours."
"But my village is—"
"I know. I saw which way you came. We'll make it."
Rumplestiltskin hadn't thought they wouldn't make it at some point, but he worried about Bae coming home to no one and left to wonder how long he'd be alone. The thought helped him push through his pain and weariness, as did the beggar's unassuming frame. Every step was a trial, and their gradual trek seemed to stretch well into the night. Rumple thought he blacked out a few times, for sooner than he'd dared believe, he could see the lights of his village. "Nearly there," said the beggar.
By the time they arrived at the poor excuse for a door to his home, Rumplestiltskin had numbed himself to the agony of his injuries. He couldn't continue as he did and acknowledge the pulse in his aggravated knee or the trickles of blood painting streaks down his face. But when he thoughtlessly touched his head and pulled away to see red on his fingertips, he gasped and stopped walking.
"I can't let my son see me like this! He'll lose his mind with worry."
The beggar cocked his head to look him over. "Is there a river nearby where you can wash off?"
Rumplestiltskin nodded. The pair turned around for the river in the wood. When they reached it, the murmuring current sang in Rumple's mind. Though a few memories connected with this place still stuck him in the chest, the inviting coolness of the stream overwhelmed his recollections. He collapsed on the bank, sighed with a mix of pain and bliss when the beggar used a small tin cup to collect the water and splash it on his wounds. They couldn't treat every lump and laceration. They didn't need to. Just the blood specks and cuts, and some of the burning. Rumple used the inside of his cloak to scrape away all traces of violence. A few blood drops stained his tunic; he'd have to say he cut his finger on a thorn or something out of carelessness. Indeed he'd been careless, but on a different scale, and with much steeper consequences. He let his head droop as he sat for a while to dry.
The evening was chilly for summer. Then again, summer was coming to a close. Rumplestiltskin tried to work out whether this night marked the end of something for him, too. He'd exposed himself, with the gold and with that defensive blast. Now he could never go back to Longbourn. Would word come here of what happened? He hadn't given anyone his name; would the villagers here connect him with the gold-peddler who may or may not be a magic-user in disguise? Perhaps not. It still meant he'd have to give up on his plan. He'd failed Bae. He'd failed to be the parent he should've been.
"Copper for your thoughts?" asked the beggar. His voice tickled him like a gust in the trees.
Rumple raised his nose and breathed in. Woodsmoke and the first scent of decaying plants tainted the air. "Summer's ending."
The beggar shrugged. "True. Others would say autumn is beginning."
"Is there a difference?"
"Oh, yes! One's an ending, one's a beginning. What you choose to call it says a lot about who you are."
Rumplestiltskin barked a laugh. It hurt his throat. "Trust me, nothing's going to 'begin' after tonight. I've ruined everything."
"Oh?" The beggar went quiet for a few seconds. Somehow the pause stretched on and on to the point that Rumple was desperate for him to say more. He fulfilled his wish. "Does it have to do with the gold in the basket?"
Sandy-brown tresses fell into Rumplestiltskin's eyes as his head drooped more. "Yeah. You saw it, huh?"
The beggar waited again to speak. He watched Rumplestiltskin in a way the spinner couldn't decipher. He seemed concerned for him, but kept his distance. Didn't want to smother him with false words of hope. His silence said more, though what it said remained a mystery. Suddenly, though in a slow, careful motion, the beggar pushed off his hood. The curls adorning his head, except for the bald spot at the top, caught the moonlight with silver fire and faint gold highlights. His blue orbs had the same soothing coolness as the river.
They glanced away from Rumplestiltskin, then returned. "I saw what you did to those men. Before they pinned you. You knocked them back with something . . . from inside you."
Rumple hid behind the curtain of his hair, but he looked the beggar in the face. "I guess so."
"Is that how you made the gold?"
His hands shook. Given that, he should've felt more afraid, but didn't. Not now that the beggar had witnessed it all. ". . . yes. Sort of. I spun it."
"Ah." The beggar knitted his fingers and cradled them in his lap. "How long have you been able to do that?"
"Since I was a child."
For the first time the beggar let his surprise show. Or this was the first thing to surprise him all day. Rumplestiltskin didn't know which worried him more. "Really? But you don't seem to have a handle on . . . that."
"Well, no. I've never put it to use. No one's ever showed me. I was discouraged from using magic, actually. And I'm the only person I know who can do that sort of thing."
"Not even your son?"
Rumple didn't like bringing up Bae in this context. He rolled his stiffening shoulders. "No."
"I see. But the spinning, you can control that."
"Oh, yes." Spinning gold wasn't nearly as terrifying.
"Then you should be living in a manor or a castle, not a little hut." The beggar's voice raised to a shrill pitch. Another first.
Rumplestiltskin spread his hands. "You saw what happened today when I tried to sell it. Were I already better off, I'd have no trouble. But no one will believe that someone like me has an honest means of getting gold. I've no choice."
The beggar leaned in. "Everybody has a choice. You just need a different strategy."
"What's the use? We're always going to be poor. It's our lot in life. It's not the poverty that bothers me."
"No . . . but something does." The beggar's eyes seemed to change from watery blue to mercury.
Many things bothered Rumplestiltskin. He didn't like being poor, but he could live with it. He could live with a great deal because cowards understood the value of adaptation. As long as you can crawl back into your corner and live on, many things can be tolerated. But there were voices in Rumplestiltskin's mind-ghosts living in his memories-that spat their loathing of his cowardice at him. His father, his wife, the soldiers he served with, the villagers. He could rationalize all he wanted: they would still hate him, and he would be compelled to agree.
But there had been a few people who hadn't faulted him for who he was. Those were the people he loathed disappointing. So far, that seemed to be all he was capable of. First his mother, now Baelfire.
"I want what's best for my boy," he whispered to the beggar. To the encroaching darkness. "And I know I've denied him things by being . . . all the things I am. I'd rather hide; he'd rather fight. I've kept him in this life because it's easier. And now, even when I've tried taking a risk, it's fallen apart in my hands." His throat closed up on him. Tears gathered like an army preparing to charge. He was powerless to hold them back, as he'd been powerless in the end to stop Garth and his brutish companions. But the words found a power of their own, and crawled out between his tense lips and clenching teeth.
"The worst thing I can imagine is losing him. I want him to be safe. But . . . I still feel that I could do more, as much as it terrifies me. But what can I do? My powers are useless! I don't even know what I am capable of. It's . . . just too much." The sob that followed stuck for a second.
He tried not to listen to his weeping as it rebounded in stuttered echoes through the trees. The water and the rustling leaves became a welcomed roar. He might have succeeded in losing himself in the cacophony had the beggar not taken a hold of his hand.
"Take it easy, son." A quick pat, and he retreated. "What if . . . what if there were a way for you to control your powers, and to live somewhere where you would be accepted-admired, even? Would you leave this village for your son's sake?"
Rumplestiltskin looked up and scowled. "What are you talking about?"
His skin crawled like never before when the beggar smiled. "Have you ever heard of Hamelin?"
"No?"
"It's a city near the southern border of the kingdom of Loramaine. Just fifty miles north of Dem. I've heard there's a school—a university, actually—attended by people from all over the realms. People of all stations, regardless of fortune. And they have someone who specifically teaches people with a propensity for sorcery."
Thanks to his nerves, Rumple erupted into harsh, breathless laughter. "Sorcery? I'm no sorcerer. Who would want to teach me anything?"
"How else will you know what you can really do?"
"But who would I go to? How would I get in? I wouldn't even know how to act around those kinds of people. I haven't been in a schoolroom in years, and it was for such a short time. I'm not a scholar."
The moon must've slipped out behind some clouds, for the beggar's eyes lit up with reflected light as well as intensifying enthusiasm. "The mission of Hamelin University is to not let those sorts of things be obstacles. No one will be denied an education if it's truly what they desire. The next semester starts in a month; you still have time to apply to the school. But think about it: if you go and learn not only about sorcery, but other things on top of it, you won't be restricted to just spinning for a living. You could do whatever you want. A world of possibilities at your fingertips. Not just for you, either. For your son, too." He was so close now his leg was touching Rumplestiltskin's. How had he not noticed before? But the beggar spoke with nothing but concern. His eyebrows rose and his brow furrowed to accent his words, lending them the air of an impassioned plea. "And you would never again have to feel that you're not being a good father."
Rumplestiltskin couldn't fix his gaze on the beggar; his words were hard and soft at the same time and made Rumple's eyes sting. He refreshed his composure with glances at the river that washed away filth. Could it wash away his shame and doubts so easily? It was too good to be true.
He sucked in a breath and looked back at the beggar. "Why are you telling me this? Why do you care? How do you know so much?"
The beggar pulled back again, but only enough to encourage Rumplestiltskin to take in his face. "I'm an old man: I've seen and heard much. And . . . well, I've never been a parent myself, and I carry that sad fact everywhere I go. I feel . . . called to help those who have taken on the burden of raising a child and want to be the best they can be, but feel that something stands in their way."
Rumple's laugh came out much quieter. It threatened to change into a sob. He couldn't speak anymore. There was so much to think about, and his memories loved to come back swinging and raring when he had to work through something like this. But he must not spin tonight. His head had to be clear and allow cruel reminders punish him for just one night.
He'd do it for Bae. If not himself (hisself would've liked to pretend he'd never met the beggar), then for the person who would be most affected. Who had his whole life before him. Who still had a chance for all the things he still dreamed of.
"It's getting late!" The beggar rolled onto his feet and stood. He stretched down a hand to Rumplestiltskin. "We shouldn't keep your boy waiting."
Rumplestiltskin took the hand and pushed himself up, ignoring his aches. "Right! And I still owe you that meal."
"All in good time, my friend." The beggar continued to offer his arm and shoulder to the hurting spinner from the river all the way back to the cottage. "All in good time."