Rumpelstiltskin

Once upon a time, in a kingdom where the mountains touched the clouds, there lived a poor miller who had a daughter of remarkable beauty and wit. One day, the miller was summoned before the king, and in his nervousness, he boasted foolishly: "Your Majesty, my daughter can spin straw into gold."

The king's eyes lit up with greed, for he loved gold above all things. "If what you say is true," he said slowly, "then bring her to the palace tomorrow. We shall put her skills to the test."

The very next morning, the poor miller brought his daughter to the palace. The king led her to a great stone room piled high from floor to ceiling with straw. In the corner stood a spinning wheel. "You have until dawn," said the king. "If this straw is not turned to gold by morning, you shall be put to death." And with that, he closed the heavy door and left her alone.

The miller's daughter sat down among the mountains of straw and wept bitterly. She had no idea how to spin straw into gold — no one did. It was an impossible task, and her father's foolish boast had sentenced her to death.

Then, just as despair had settled fully upon her, the door creaked open. In walked a strange little man, no taller than a child, with a wrinkled face and bright, cunning eyes. His pointed hat bobbed as he walked, and he moved with surprising lightness.

"Good evening, young miller's daughter," he said cheerfully. "Why do you weep so?"

"I must spin all this straw into gold before dawn," she sobbed, "and I don't know how."

The little man tilted his head. "What will you give me if I do it for you?"

She looked down at her hands and noticed the necklace at her throat — a simple thing her mother had given her. "My necklace," she offered.

The little man took the necklace, sat down at the spinning wheel, and began. Whirr, whirr, whirr — three turns of the wheel, and a bobbin of gold appeared. Whirr, whirr, whirr — and another. He spun through the night without pause, and by the time the first grey light crept through the window, every last strand of straw had been transformed into gleaming gold thread.

When the king entered in the morning, his mouth fell open in astonishment. The room blazed with gold. His heart swelled with greed, and instead of releasing the girl, he led her to an even larger room, filled with even more straw. "Spin this too," he commanded, "and perhaps I shall reward you greatly."

Again the miller's daughter was left alone, and again she wept. And again, when her tears fell hardest, the little man appeared. "What will you give me this time?" he asked.

She twisted the ring from her finger — a small golden ring her grandmother had left her. The little man accepted it, sat down, and spun through the night once more. By morning, the room was filled with gold from wall to wall.

But the king was not satisfied. He led her to a third room, the largest of all, so full of straw that she could scarcely see the ceiling. "Spin this before dawn," he said, and this time his voice was softer, "and I will make you my queen."

For the third time, the little man appeared. But this time the miller's daughter had nothing left to give. She had no jewels, no rings, nothing of value at all.

"Then promise me this," said the little man, his bright eyes gleaming. "When you are queen, give me your first-born child."

What could she do? The straw was impossibly high, the dawn impossibly close, and the threat of death impossibly real. Believing she would never truly be queen — and if she were, that such a day might never come — she promised.

The little man spun all night. By morning, the third room shone like the sun.

The king kept his word. He married the miller's daughter, and she became queen. In time, a beautiful child was born, and the queen forgot entirely about the strange little man and her promise — until the day he appeared at her chamber door, as suddenly as before.

"I have come to collect what you promised me," he said quietly.

The queen was devastated. She offered him all the treasure in the kingdom, all the gold in the royal vaults, all the jewels in every crown. But the little man shook his head. "A living soul is worth more than all the gold in the world."

The queen wept so bitterly and begged so sincerely that the little man relented slightly. "Very well," he said. "You shall have three days. If in those three days you can discover my name, you may keep your child."

The queen sent messengers across every road and path in the kingdom, gathering every name they could find — common names, noble names, ancient names, names from foreign lands. On the first night, the little man came and she recited a long list: Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar, and on through hundreds of names. But the little man shook his head to each one, dancing with delight.

On the second night she tried unusual names: Sheepshanks, Lacelegs, Spindleshanks. The little man laughed. "That is not my name!"

On the third day, the last messenger returned with a strange report. Deep in the forest, on a high hill where foxes say goodnight to each other, he had seen a tiny little house with a fire burning before it. And around the fire danced a comical little man, singing at the top of his voice:

"Today I brew, tomorrow I bake, Next day the queen's child I'll take. How glad I am that no one knows That Rumpelstiltskin is my name!"

When the little man came that evening, the queen pretended to guess first: "Is your name Conrad?" "No." "Is your name Harry?" "No." Then she paused, and said slowly, watching his face: "Can your name, by any chance, be — Rumpelstiltskin?"

The little man froze. His face went crimson, then purple. "A witch told you! A witch told you!" he shrieked, and in his rage he stamped his right foot so hard it went straight into the floor up to his waist. Then, with both hands, he seized his left leg and tore himself in two.

And the queen held her child close, and the kingdom rejoiced, and the miller's foolish boast was never spoken of again.