Thirty-Two

 

While the princess slept, he spun. When she awoke, sometimes he would sleep, and at others, he would ask her again. Her answer never changed – she would not give him her child.

Until finally, after several days of being unable to leave her bed as the sickness laid her lower than usual, she said the words he was waiting for: "Yes. If you can spin every bit of flax in this place into gold before the king executes me, then the child is yours."

He wanted to cheer and dance, but Abraham knew he could not stop working. For while there was work to be done, he could not stop. Because the pain in his chest was increasing, and his days were numbered. If he did not finish his task before the curse claimed him, then this would all be for naught.

Abraham spun until his fingers ached, and then he spun some more. Twisting flax into gold, watching the spool fill, then swapping it for another.

Until he reached for a fresh basket...and found they were all empty. A warehouse full of flax, spun into enough gold to last a kingdom for a century.

He set the last spindle on the pile and searched through the baskets again, but found nothing left to spin.

His work was done.

Abraham rose from his stool, his legs stiff from sitting so long, and staggered over to the wall. He opened a hole in the wall, and made his way back to the cottage where he'd taken up lodgings when he first arrived.

The bed was narrow and hard, little better than the pallet in the warehouse, but he fell facedown on the cool linen, pulled a blanket over himself, and slept the sleep of the dead.