So he did not hear the relief of the miller when he came home, nor the astonishment of the King in the morning, nor Petal saying, smiling but modest, “It weren’t that much straw.”
“No,” said the King, looking at her thoughtfully. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Petal,” said Petal, bobbing a curtsy.
“You wouldn’t deceive me, Petal?”
“Not me,” said Petal, with her fingers crossed firmly behind her back.
“I should like you to spin a wagonload.”
“A wagonload?” repeated Petal.
“Why not?”
“ ’Tisn’t easy,” murmured Petal. “There’s not many girls could do it.”
“There’s not many girls I’d marry,” said the King. “I’ll send the wagonload of straw and I’ll be back in the morning to see my gold, unless . . .” He paused, and looked at Petal.
“Unless what?” asked Petal.
“Unless you’ve deceived me,” he said coldly.
That night, the hob spun again. He spun until his hands twisted with pain. What else could he do? There were Petal’s tears. There was Petal’s frightened pleading. There was Petal’s blue ring.
“I don’t want your ring,” he’d said, looking at his twisted hands.
“You could thread it on the beads,” said Petal. And even as she spoke, she’d done it, and hung them back around his neck, and then there he was spinning, the hardest work he had ever done . . . but the straw was gold by morning. Bright golden thread.
“A barnful,” said the King.
“Oh no,” said Petal.
“A barnful, if you haven’t deceived me.”
“A barnful, then what?” asked Petal fearfully. “Ten barns?”
“A barnful, and then we marry,” said the King.
“No more spinning?”
“No more spinning.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can if you haven’t deceived me. If you have . . . well . . .”
Petal had lowered her eyes, but not before she saw the tiny gesture the King made with his hand.
“A barnful,” said the King, gentle as sunlight, “and then no more spinning and happily ever after.”
The hob had made up his mind. He wouldn’t come. He wouldn’t spin again. He would leave the mill and go far away, and never, ever return.
Petal was sobbing. Out in the barn with her spinning wheel, straw piled all around her.
“Spin it for me, hob,” she said.
“Too much.”
“I’m frightened.”
“Then run,” said the hob.
“Then I won’t marry the King.”
“You don’t want to.”
“I do,” said Petal. “I do. I do. Spin it for me, hob. I gave you my ring. I gave you my beads. Spin it, and I’ll give you my first child.”
“No!” said the hob, drawing back.
“I promise.”
“Don’t promise.”
“Too late. I’ve done it. The child is yours! I’ll send word to the mill when it’s born. Do you want a child, hob?”
“Yes,” said the hob longingly. “I do.”
“Spin, then, because I don’t.”
The thread that the hob spun that night in the barn was red gold, and when it was finished the hob knew he could never spin again. His hands were broken and bleeding, and for a long time he could hardly hold the broom to sweep the floors. Nevertheless, he kept them swept, and the stable clean, and meadowsweet tea brewed for the miller’s stiff back. Petal and the King were married. Petal never visited the mill anymore, but the miller would go to the palace. The hob heard him telling a farmer who came to the mill with a load of grain, “Our Petal’s the Queen at the palace!”
“Doing well?” asked the farmer.
“Doing grand,” said the miller. “In silks and satins and diamonds.”
“And who takes care of the palace?”
“Housemaids,” said the miller.
“And cooks the food?”
“Kitchen maids,” said the miller.
“And will mind the child when it comes along?”
“Nursemaids, of course,” said the miller. “Our Petal worked that one out long ago, and the child will be here next month. She sent a message.”
Now the hob’s days were filled with hope, and he began to prepare. His hands could no longer spin, but they were still clever. On the edge of the salt marsh he built himself a house, with walls of silver driftwood, a thatch of golden reeds, and purple sea lavender as far as the shining sea.
And although there was very little magic about the hob, when his house was finished he spun spells around it.
Then the day came when a message arrived at the mill with news of a child at the palace, a boy.
My boy, thought the hob with joy.
Petal said, when the hob arrived at the palace, “Did I say that?”
The hob nodded.
“I can’t think why!”
“Straw spun into gold,” said the hob, holding out his hands. “That was why.”
“But what has that to do with you?” asked Petal.
The hob looked at her.
“Everybody knows it was me who spun the straw into gold!” said Petal. “Everybody! Even the King! A bundle. A cartload. A barnful.” Her voice was bright with laughter, but her eyes were frightened. “It’s a good thing the King isn’t here,” she continued. “What would he do to us both, if he heard your claim?”
“What would he do?” asked the hob, and flinched as she made a tiny movement with her hand.
“Anyway, what would a creature like you do with a child?” asked Petal.
“What do you do?” asked the hob.
“Me? Nothing,” said Petal. “It’s a poor thing. A poor sort of child. I think it looks like him.”
“And what does he do?”
“The King? Nothing,” said Petal. “He thinks it looks like me.”
There was a long silence, broken by Petal.
“There are peacocks on the terrace,” she said, “and deer in the park. I have silks and satins and velvets and furs. Diamonds by the dozen! There are dances and plays and masques and balls. It’s a much better life than the mill.”
Petal fell silent again.
“And the King?” asked the hob.
“He’s hardly here. He hunts far away.”
“Who cares for the child?”
“Nursemaids, I suppose,” said Petal. “Not me. I don’t care for it.”
“The King?” asked the hob.
Petal laughed. “The King, care for a child?”
“It was a bargain,” said the hob. “I should have the child, you said. For spinning the straw . . .”
“Hush!” said Petal.
“. . . to gold.”
“Listen, old hob, we’ll make a new bargain. How about that?”
“The old one was good enough,” said the hob.
“Not for me,” said Petal, tossing her bright hair. “So now then, whatsyourname . . . What is your name, hob?”
“My own,” said the hob.
“I won’t!”
“You don’t speak to me as you should to a queen. You should say ‘Ma’am’ and bow low!”
“Ma’am,” said the hob, bowing very low, “I’ve come for the child.”
“Spin me more gold!”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me your name!”
“I won’t.”
“Well then, be off!”
“A bargain’s a bargain,” said the hob stubbornly.
“I want a new one!”
“I got nothing to bargain,” said the hob, “with a fine lady like you.”
“You have your name,” said Petal. “Listen! I guess your name, I keep the child.”
“Guess then,” said the hob.
“Balthazar!”
“No it’s not. Give me the poor child! I’ll care for him.”
“I need more guesses than that!” snapped Petal.
“How many?” asked the hob.
“Three.”
“Go on then. Guess two more.”
“Jackanapes!” said Petal.
“No it’s not. Give me the poor child. I’ll work for him.”
“No it’s not,” said the hob. “Give me the poor child. I’ll love him.”
“I need more guesses!” said Petal. “I need three guesses for three days!”
“Mistress Petal, ma’am, Queen Petal?”
“What, then?”
“Do you love the child?”
“Love it?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Petal sulkily.
“The child,” said the hob. “I’ll care for him. I’ll work for him. I’ll love him.”
“Three guesses for three days,” said Petal.
“Then you’ll give me the child?” asked the hob.
“If I haven’t guessed your name.”
“Do you promise?” asked the hob.
“Yes, I promise,” said Petal.
The hob returned to the mill, swept the floors, cleaned the stable, bound the donkey’s bad knee with a bundle of comfrey leaves to take out the swelling, ate his porridge, and went out to his house on the marsh. Round and round the house he spun songs into spells.
At the palace the next day, Petal was waiting.
“I asked the maids,” she said. “The maids say your name is Charlie, and so do I.”
“The maids are wrong, and so are you,” said the hob.
“I asked at the stables. The lads say Robin, and so do I.”
“The lads are wrong, and so are you,” said the hob.
“The cook said William, and so did the butler, and so do I say William too.”
“Then you’re all three wrong,” said the hob.
“There’s still tomorrow,” said Petal.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” said the hob. “Is the child well?”
“It wails in the night,” said Petal.
“Sing to it,” said the hob.
And Petal was suddenly furious, and she shouted after the hob, “You are a hob! I’m the Queen! Don’t tell ME what to do!”
But the hob was already gone, back to the mill, and then out to the marsh, and Petal was left alone.
“I AM the Queen,” she said, sobbing with temper. “And I WON’T be beaten by a hob!”
That night the hob spun his spell, round and around the house on the marsh:
Let the thatch be thick and warm,
Let the walls withstand the storm,
Let the woven cradle hold
Fairer dreams than straw to gold.
Painted skies at morning light,
Stars like blossom through the night,
Salt-marsh music, sweet and wild,
All for Rumpelstiltskin’s child!
Over and over, the hob spun his spell, alone on the salt marsh, and the wind caught his words and blew them out into the darkness, over the reeds, under the stars, and far, far away.
“Ah!” said Petal.
Then came the third day.
“Blackshanks!” said Petal, smiling under her long eyelashes at the hob.
“Not Blackshanks,” said the hob thankfully.
“Then,” said Petal, two guesses short of losing her child, her face dimpling with mischief, “Hopeless! I would call you Hopeless!”
“Not Hopeless,” said the hob, and it was true. He was not hopeless. His eyes were shining with love and hope. But Petal’s eyes were shining too. Petal’s eyes were dancing with pleasure. Petal pointed a pink finger at the hob and said: “Your name . . .”
Laughter overcame her for a moment:
“Your name is . . .”
She doubled up with mirth:
“Your name is RUMPELSTILTSKIN!” cried Petal. “RUMPELSTILTSKIN! RUMPELSTILTSKIN! YOUR NAME IS RUMPELSTILTSKIN!”
Right there, before her eyes, the hob tumbled, sank to the floor as his strength ran away, hunched into his arms, rocked with misery, puddled into grief.
Petal looked at him uncertainly, and then, after a moment or two, stepped carefully round him and left him alone.
Round and round spun the world. Winter came and frost crackled in the reedbeds. Summer brought the lazy seals. Wild geese came in autumn. The sea lavender was purple in the spring. The sails of the windmill turned. Moons waxed and waned, and the tides moved with them.
Years passed.
The boy arrived one autumn afternoon. He was not like his dead father, nor his mother. He was his own self, as brave as the sunlight on the reeds, as honest as the salt wind that blew across the marsh. When he came to the old house, he sat quietly by the open door and waited until at last he heard a movement from inside.
He said, “I heard the story. Straw into gold. And your name. She told me.”
“Petal?” whispered the hob.
“My mother,” said the boy, and rubbed away a tear.
“She’s gone?” asked the hob.
The boy nodded. “She used to sing to me,” he said.
“She had a voice sweet as a bird, did Petal,” said the hob.
“The straw into gold. And your name. She was sorry. She told me where to find you. I promised her I would. She wanted you to know she was sorry that she tricked you.”
“No matter,” said the hob, his heart thumping with gladness. “No matter. She sang to you. That’s what you must remember.”
The boy lifted his head and looked around him.
“I used to dream dreams of a place like this. There was music there too.”
“That’d be the wind in the reedbeds,” said the hob.
So the afternoon passed. The hob and his boy sat together contentedly until the air grew cold. Then they built a fire of driftwood and it burned with small blue flames while above them, one by one, the stars opened like blossoms in the painted evening sky.
