10 Years Earlier
The weaver casts a furtive glance about, then, determining they are alone in the small shop off the castle kitchen, he draws the spinner by the sleeve (cloth faded and stained, the weaver notes, no doubt old, but remarkably sturdy and unfrayed, for all the use no doubt gone through) deeper inside and closes the door. "Here," the weaver holds up a copper between his callused thumb and forefinger.
The spinner looks him in the feet, not the eyes, never the eyes, as he takes the coin and passes over a burlap bag full of spools of colorful yarn and thread. The pay is nowhere near enough, not for the number of spools and certainly not for the quality of the thread, deceptively strong for all its delicacy. But the spinner makes no comment, just turns away, hand pushing against the door. "Wait."
The spinner waits but doesn't turn around. He's expecting instructions concerning the next purchase—hoping for instructions, because that means there will be a next purchase, and though this copper isn't a fair price, it's the best he can expect. No one will pay what his work is worth, because of who he is. So many weavers won't buy from him at all; those who do, like King Maurice's man, deal with him only in private and underpay him because they can or because if they get caught buying from him, they can claim the underpaying as a form of insult. The Runner must be kept in his proper place, an example for other cowards, cripples and sick ones: forever punished, permitted to live but just barely.
But the quality of his work—the weaver has a fine eye for the cloth that Rumplestiltskin's thread produces, and he's well paid and well praised for it. Maurice and his family are admired in every land they visit for their beautiful clothes, and the royal weaver and the royal tailor receive due credit. Only the weaver and the tailor know the truth of where the thread comes from: the weaver's wife keeps a wheel and drop spindles in their shop, where she can be seen through the open doorway working diligently while the sun shines—but at night, her husband carries sacks bearing the products of her labors into a tavern, where he sells them to a lesser weaver. The royal weaver then uses Rumplestiltskin's thread for the royal family's finery, while the thread made by the weaver's wife eventually clothes the peasantry.
For all his deceptions, the royal weaver is not a dishonest man. He dare not pay Rumplestiltskin a fair price—should he get caught buying from The Runner, he will call it an act of charity—but he feels guilty nonetheless, and so along with a copper, he often gives The Runner "gifts," bits of irregular cloth and a loaf of bread made by his wife (an untalented spinster she may be, but she's a skilled baker, and she often bakes extra for The Runner, because she too feels guilty). Sometimes there's a wheel of cheese or a sack of fruit that the royal cooks have bestowed upon the weaver in return for the cloth he makes for them.
So as Rumplestiltskin waits, back turned, eyes fixed on the wooden floor, he dares to hope for a "gift" or two to take home to Bae. The weaver does not disappoint. He empties the sack Rumplestiltskin brought the thread in and slips a bundle of cloth inside. It was improperly dyed, so it's not fit for anyone in the castle to wear, but it will make two new tunics for Bae. Rumplestiltskin ducks his head in a grateful nod and once again starts to leave when a ball of black fur pounces upon his boot. The Runner stands stock still until he figures out what's attacked him, then he raises his foot carefully to dislodge the kitten. When he sets his foot down again, the cat is shaking her head in frustration at the escape of her prey, but she quickly recovers and sharpens her claws on Rumplestiltskin's walking stick.
Rumplestiltskin bends to move the cat aside. "Apologies," he mumbles to the weaver, for cats are a commodity, even in castles. He attempts to return the cat to her presumed owner, but the weaver doesn't reach out for her. "She likes you," the weaver observes. "She's a good mouser, but a nuisance, always underfoot, getting into the meat. We have too many cats here. Not enough mice to keep them fed."
Rumplestiltskin can feel the truth of that as the cat purrs in his hand: she weighs no more than a spool of thread.
Then the weaver admits, "Besides, people have funny ideas about black cats. Some folks believe they're evil spirits or witches' familiars."
The hair at his nape prickles as Rumple mutters, stroking the sleek fur, "How could anyone think such horrible things of such a tiny creature?" He sets her down gently.
"Why don't you keep her?" the weaver invites abruptly. "She's worth next to nothing here, but perhaps she'd be a help to you. Or you could sell her to a farmer or a tavern keeper."
Rumplestiltskin keeps his head bent so the weaver can't see that his eyes have lit up. A good mouser would indeed be a help, and not just in protecting food supplies; the only child of the town coward has too few companions. Rumplestiltskin pushes the door open and hobbles out, and the cat follows, clearly having claimed him as her property. He nods once again to the weaver. "My thanks."
It's something he's never experienced before, Rumplestiltskin realizes as he makes the two-day journey home, along stripped-down fields and rutted farm-to-market roads, and, finally, a goat path that cuts through hills buttressing the village in which he and Bae live. The cat rides his shoulder for some of the trip; other times, she sleeps in a blanket that Rumple brought along to sleep in. He has fashioned a sling of it so she can sleep against his chest, like Bae used to, before he learned to crawl. His growing relationship with the animal is unlike any other he's ever known, because the cat is completely independent of him. When they stop to rest, she dashes off on her own, reappearing at his heels when he resumes his journey and hopping aboard when he crouches to offer his shoulder or the sling. She licks her paws and washes her whiskers before purring herself to sleep, and from this he knows she found food and water on her little foray and needs nothing he has to offer except his companionship. She seems to enjoy the sound of his voice, so he tells her stories and sings her songs, and makes promises of a cushion at the hearth, plenty of mice for the plucking in the fields behind the village, and plenty of attention from a lonely seven-year-old whose mother ran out on him a year ago. But he knows these things are not necessities for her, merely luxuries, and she will come and go as she pleases. She may have decided for convenience's sake to live among humans, but her spirit remains wild, and if she chooses to make her home in his hovel, it doesn't mean she is surrendering her freedom.
It will be an interesting relationship.
He hears Bae's call well before he crests the hill that leads into the nameless village. Although Bae enjoys sleeping over at the neighbors' whenever Rumple goes to market, the boy, unlike other seven-year-olds, frets from the moment his father leaves; they both know Rumple might not make it back again. He's been robbed more times than Bae can count, and beaten just a few times less, but today he strides into town in triumph. Their mouths stained with berry juice, Bae and his friend Morraine abandon their picking pails, leaving them for Morraine's mother to rescue, and charge up the hill to form a victory parade. "What's that?" Bae demands, pointing at the ball of fur perched on Rumple's shoulder.
"This is a cat," Rumple explains, for Bae has never seen a cat before, only dogs, and only working dogs, at that: sheep herders and noblemen's hunting hounds. "Here." Rumple plucks the cat from his shoulder and places it on Bae's. "You can stroke her fur. She likes that."
"She's soft," says Morraine, joining in on the petting. "What does she do?" For in this poor village, all domesticated animals serve a purpose.
"She catches mice," Rumple says. "And someday, when she's grown, she'll have babies. When they're grown, she'll teach them to catch mice too."
"She'll be a blessing then," observes Morraine's mother, coming up the hill. "Welcome home, Rumplestiltskin."
"Thank you, Gretchen. I hope Bae was no trouble?"
"On the contrary." Gretchen smiles as she ruffles Bae's hair (newly trimmed, Rumple notices). "He worked in the fields with Lucas and helped me sheer the goats."
"And me and Morraine washed the dog with lye soap. That kills the fleas," Bae announces, proud that he knows something his father doesn't.
At the bottom of the hill, the little troop pauses before Gretchen and Lucas' wattle and daub hut, just a few yards north of Rumplestiltskin's. Mouth-watering odors float from the entranceway of the first house, but that is not out of the ordinary: Gretchen is a skilled cook and gardener and Lucas, a good provider. They could move into a better house, but Lucas had built this one with his own hands and the help of his neighbors, including a much younger Rumplestiltskin, in the days before the Ogre War. Besides, like most of his neighbors, Lucas invests any extra income into his business, in his case, goats. Like most of his neighbors, Lucas has promised that his wife will someday have finer things, once they've reached financial security.
Rumplestiltskin had made such promises to his wife, too. When he had one.
"The children and I have a pot of stew warming on your hearth," Gretchen says. "I thought you might be too tired to cook, after such a long walk."
"Thank you." Rumple ducks his head to hide behind his hair. Such kindnesses come to him rarely these days, and he is embarrassed that he has so little to offer in return. As subtly as he can manage, he slides a hand into his pouch and it latches onto a small sack of walnuts that he picked on his way home. He'd meant to crush them and sprinkle them on greens for tonight's meal, but he presents the sack, along with a shy smile, to Gretchen. "For you."
"Thank you." She calls Morraine away from the kitten and into the house. "Time to set the table, daughter. Congratulations, Rumple, on a successful trip." She nods at the kitten before taking Morraine under her arm and going inside.
"Time for our supper, too." Rumple urges Bae to precede him into their home. Two bowls, two knives and two spoons have already been set out on the little table, along with a half-loaf of rye bread, already sliced, and a little ceramic pot of honey, the last of a treat Rumple had managed to buy on his last trip to the city. There are less than two spoonsful left, but it will make a nice finish to a hearty bowl of Gretchen's pottage.
He smiles down at his son, squeezing the boy's shoulder, and Bae smiles up at him. Bae knows it's impolite to brag, but his face shines with the expectation of praise, knowing it will come; his father is never negligent in that regard. "Thank you, son, for setting the table and helping Gretchen cook."
Bae nods then, satisfied, and slides onto the bench at the table with the kitten on his lap. When his father's mouth purses, he hastily explains, "I washed my hands before you came." He frowns momentarily. "And Gretchen made me take a bath last night."
"That's the bathing-est woman I ever met," Rumple chuckles, leaning his walking stick against the table and hobbling over to the hearth.
"Morraine says she makes her take a bath every Saturday."
Rumple lifts the lid from the iron pot and stirs the contents with a long-handled wooden spoon. He's surprised by the scent that rises from the pot, and resting a hand against the stones for balance, he leans forward to sniff at the sample he's scooped up. "Rabbit!" He exclaims, then takes a taste to affirm his guess. It's been seven months since he and Bae last feasted on meat.
"Lucas went hunting," Bae reports. "He had good luck."
"I'd say we had good luck too, to have friends like them." Rumple wiggles his fingers, a signal to Bae that the stew is ready, and Bae carries over the two bowls. Rumple fills them halfway, careful not to spill, then he watches as Bae carries them back to the table. His brow creases as his eyes fall upon the black kitten, who's leapt onto the table and has poked her paw into the honey.
"Bae. . . ."
"Sorry, Papa." Bae sets the bowls down with a rattle and in one swoop transports the cat to the floor.
"She's a baby and babies have to learn, but not at the expense of our meal," Rumple grumbles. "She must learn she's not allowed on the table."
"I'll teach her," Bae vows, but his attention is fixed on the stew; his hand is already filled with a spoon.
Rumple returns to the table and sits down, then nods, signaling Bae it's time to eat. As Bae shovels in a mouthful, then drizzles honey onto a slice of bread, Rumple says, "I mean it, son. This cat may be entertaining, but she also has a job to do, as we all do, and she must learn it."
"Wwmmph?" asks Bae, but his words are indecipherable over the mouthful of potato.
"Don't speak with your mouth full. Her job—not just her job, her destiny—is to catch mice. You know how much damage mice cause to our food supply and the fleece; they also spread sickness. So you see, her work will be very important to us and we must not interfere with it. For her to be a good hunter, she must be hungry. That means we must not feed her. We will provide her with clean water and a warm place by the hearth to sleep, and we will protect her from dogs and sheep and goats; we will tend her injuries and praise her for good hunts, but we will not distract her from her work by feeding her. Do you understand, Bae?"
"Yes, Papa." The boy turns eyes of new respect upon the tiny ball of fur sitting stiffly on the rug, staring longingly at the filled spoon in his hand. "Maybe we should keep her outside while we eat." Bae's voice reveals his reluctance, but he sets his spoon down. "If I put her out, will she run away?"
"I don't know much about cats. I know dogs can find their way home easily." Rumple peers at the kitten as if a close look will inform him of her level of intelligence and loyalty, but he can't read her. Years later, he thinks back on this moment and chuckles, because he never does learn to read her. "Maybe we should leave her inside at night until she's big enough to protect herself from predators."
Bae beams, then squelches his grin when his father says grimly, "But she must be punished every time she jumps onto the table."
"She's so small. How do we punish her?"
Again Rumple isn't sure of the correct answer; he's seen sheepdogs corrected in a variety of ways, some of them ineffective, some of them, in his opinion, inhumane. "Not with hitting," he decides. "Never with hitting." And Bae looks relieved. "A sharp 'No!' should do. And of course, just as soon as she jumps onto the table, we must put her down."
Bae scrapes his bowl clean, licks the spoon and carries his dishes over to the pan of wash water. Dish washing, his peers have informed him, is a woman's job, but since there's no mother or daughter in the household, by default, it's his. He also helps with cleaning and cooking. He's made sure not to mention that to his friends. It's rough enough that his father is a spinner, also woman's work—but since he's very good at it, and others have come to him for instruction, the village doesn't tease Bae about that so much. Besides, they have other complaints against Rumplestiltskin that supersede the feminine nature of his occupation.
Bae isn't sure just what Rumple did that counted as cowardice—he doesn't really want to know, for fear that the facts would leave him unable to defend his father. Whatever it is, the accusation must be a lie, because Bae figures it takes considerable bravery to put up with the way most of the village treats Rumple, not to mention raising a kid alone. He knows of a couple of so-called brave men who've done much less: Borin's father, unable to feed his family, disappeared one night and no one bothered to try to find him. Dain's father prefers to spend his evenings in a noisy tavern instead of a house filled with noisy kids. And when Isolde's mother died, her father dumped her and her three sisters onto his parents and went off to join the duke's army. That was four years ago; he hasn't been seen since. Most fathers stay, but some of the children of the village sport an awful lot of bruises.
All in all, Bae wouldn't trade his soft-spoken, patient papa for any hero in this village. Besides, they have a special skill, he and papa; they keep it a secret because it sets them apart and would make the scorn worse if the villagers knew. Thanks to the spinsters who raised him, Rumplestiltskin can read and write, and thanks to the long winter nights that keep Bae indoors, so can Bae. Hidden in the cupboard where they keep their clothes, they have three books, one of them whole, and a slate and some pieces of chalk.
This secret and their aloneness bind them together. Bae knows his father would do anything to keep him warm and fed and loved, and he figures he'd do the same for papa. That's why he yearns to punch Dain in the face whenever the brat calls Rumple "Spindleshanks" or "Turntail." But of course papa won't allow that. "Violence is pointless," he mutters. "You won't stop the name calling and you'll only get hurt." Name calling and black eyes hurt plenty, Bae's learned, but what hurts more is when papa shakes his head slowly and says, "I'm disappointed in you, son." So Bae doesn't throw the first punch any more, but sometimes he runs off into the woods and kicks the trees and cries.
When the dishes are done, Bae sits down on the rug (Rumple wove it himself, one winter) and takes the cat onto his lap and teases it with piece of string. Papa says it's good to play like this; it trains the kitten in her hunting and catching. While they play on the floor, Rumple spins, and when the kitten flops onto her side right there in the middle of the floor and falls asleep, Bae fetches one of the books and reads aloud. Papa says listening to a good story helps him to spin; Bae hasn't admitted it, but reading aloud lets him show off a skill he's not permitted to take public.
He reads a story called "The Fox and the Cat." He knows it ends with the cat victorious; that's why he chose it. Then he closes the book and lies back on the rug, imagining the clever things his cat will do. The cat can't herd sheep or goats, can't drive grouse from bushes, and can't defend him against bullies, so maybe she isn't as useful as a dog, but she's playful and affectionate and she's his.