The Confessions of Rumpelstiltskin

My name is Rumpelstiltskin.

You've probably heard of me. Although I suspect what you've heard isn't particularly flattering.

They say I'm a monster. A trickster. A thief of children.

I've never stolen a child in my life. Every arrangement I've made has been perfectly legal.

You don't believe me?

Of course you don't. Humans never do.

But you've been coming to this well every afternoon for three weeks, and you've hardly spoken a word. That makes you as good a listener as any.

Sit down, old woman. I'll tell you my story.

You don’t say much, do you? That’s all right. I do enough talking for the both of us.

First, understand that I'm considerably older than I look. I watched Alexander conquer Persia. I knew the Egyptian pharaohs. After three thousand years, one loses track.

You see that cabin? Doesn't look like much, does it?

Underneath are seventeen levels of catacombs. Rooms filled with Roman gold, Persian jewels, and weapons from every great war. I've got a Macedonian king's sword and a remarkable collection of enchanted mirrors.

One shows your future. Another shows your past. The third shows what your life might have been if you'd made different choices.

I don't recommend that one.

What's that? You'd like to see them?

Perhaps another time.

Kings have sought my counsel. Emperors have begged for my assistance. I've turned lead into silver and entire armies into stone.

Spinning straw into gold?

Child's play.

Yet there's one thing I've never managed.

I've never had a child of my own.

Oh, I've tried. There are few of my kind left, scattered across continents. I've traveled thousands of miles searching for companionship.

Beyond Constantinople, I met a woman named Elspeth. Beautiful, clever, with extraordinary green eyes. We lived together for eighty-seven years.

She became pregnant.

For the first time, I believed I would become a father.

The child was stillborn.

Elspeth never recovered. Neither did I, although I had considerably longer to think about it.

I've consulted physicians, alchemists, sorcerers. I've studied changeling bloodlines and spent fortunes attempting to overcome whatever prevents us from reproducing.

Nothing has worked.

A creature who can turn straw into gold cannot accomplish something ordinary humans manage every day.

Amusing, isn't it?

Sometimes I think so myself.

***

Good afternoon, old woman. Back again, I see.

I've been thinking about yesterday. I may have given you the wrong impression.

I'm not entirely without family. Over the centuries, I've raised hundreds of children. Some were orphans. Others were abandoned. A few came through arrangements with their parents.

I provided food, clothing, the finest tutors. I taught them languages, astronomy, and occasionally a little magic.

I loved every one.

And everyone died.

That's the difficulty with humans. You're terribly temporary.

One moment you're teaching a boy to ride a horse, and the next you're beside his grave, wondering where the years have gone.

My first adopted son was Marcus. He lived to seventy-three.

I remember holding him, no bigger than a loaf of bread. His first words. His wedding. His grandchildren lowering him into the earth.

I buried his wife, too. And three of his children.

Eventually, I stopped attending funerals.

But I never stopped wanting children.

That’s the peculiar thing about love. No matter how much suffering it causes, you always seem to want more.

You understand, don't you?

I can see it in your eyes.

Now, about the miller's daughter.

Her name was Adelaide. Golden hair and a rather unfortunate father. He'd boasted to King Albrecht of Rosenwald that she could spin straw into gold.

Albrecht demanded proof.

A girl who could produce unlimited quantities of gold was a useful thing to have around a castle. Particularly when the king had spent everything on wars, hunting parties, and mistresses. Especially mistresses.

An unpleasant monarch. Taxed his peasants mercilessly and executed people over minor disagreements. I'd once transformed a cellar of rotten apples into rubies for him.

He never paid me.

When he locked Adelaide in a chamber of straw and threatened to execute her unless she produced gold by morning, I was hardly surprised.

I appeared before midnight.

“Why are you crying, my dear?”

She screamed. People often do. My ears are too large, my nose crooked, and I'm considerably shorter than most humans.

I offered to help in exchange for her necklace.

A reasonable bargain.

By morning, the room was filled with golden thread. Naturally, the king locked her in a larger room the following night.

This time, I accepted her ring.

On the third night, she had nothing left.

“Promise me your firstborn child,” I said, “and I'll spin every strand into gold.”

She agreed immediately. I wonder whether she thought I was joking. Or simply valued her life more than a child who hadn't been born.

Humans can be remarkably selfish.

The next morning, Albrecht married her.

And I waited.

***

You're late today. I thought you weren't coming.

Where did we leave off?

The child.

Nearly two years passed before Adelaide gave birth. A boy. Bells rang throughout Rosenwald. There were feasts and tournaments. I watched from the forest.

Afterward, I appeared in her chamber.

“No,” she whispered.

I reminded her of our agreement. She began to cry.

The boy stirred, and she put a hand against his cheek. He quieted immediately.

I knew I ought to leave.

There. Are you satisfied? I knew.

I took a step toward the door. Told myself I could go home, put away the cradle, find something else to occupy my time. I'd managed before.

Then I thought of those empty rooms.

For centuries, humans had come to me whenever they needed something. Save a daughter. Fill a treasury. Rescue a kingdom. And afterward, they went home to their families.

Why should I always be the one left alone?

I'd saved this woman three times. Without me, neither she nor her child would be alive. Surely I was entitled to something.

She could have another baby.

Yes, I heard myself think it. I stood there looking at her hand on his cheek and thought it anyway.

I turned back toward the cradle.

She offered me gold.

Imagine that. Gold. As though I needed another ounce.

She offered jewels, castles, half the kingdom. I refused.

“What do you want with my baby?”

I could have explained about Marcus, Elspeth, and the children I'd buried. I could have shown her the nursery beneath my cabin. The cradle, the blankets, the toys I'd collected.

I could have told her how desperately I wanted to hear laughter in those halls again.

Instead, I laughed.

“Something living is dearer to me than all the treasures in the world.”

It was the truth.

She begged for mercy. And I made my second mistake.

I gave her three days to discover my name.

If she succeeded, she could keep the child. If she failed, he would be mine.

I'd concealed my true name for centuries. Not even the greatest sorcerers knew it. What chance did a frightened young queen have?

***

You're quiet today. More than usual. Something troubling you?

No?

Well, I should finish.

Adelaide sent messengers throughout the kingdom, collecting unusual names. She tried Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar. Names of saints and demons.

I laughed at every one.

On the final evening, I returned to my cabin. I'd been drinking wine from the reign of Charlemagne and was feeling unusually cheerful.

I built a fire and danced around it, singing about the child I would bring home.

For the first time in nearly a hundred years, I was going to be a father again.

And I'd made one other mistake.

I'd told someone my name.

Someone who listened patiently, smiled at my jokes, and seemed interested in my miserable existence.

Someone very much like you.

The following morning, Adelaide was waiting beside the cradle.

“Is your name Conrad?”

“No.”

“Heinrich?”

“No.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “your name is Rumpelstiltskin?”

Impossible.

I demanded to know who had told her. She wouldn't say.

But I knew.

That wretched old woman who'd been visiting my well. I'd told her everything. My treasures. My loneliness. My children. Even my name.

And she'd betrayed me.

I stamped so hard the marble cracked. Then I vanished.

The queen kept her child. I returned to my empty cabin.

So there you have it. A monster defeated by a clever queen. A villain who received what he deserved.

That's how it's told, isn't it?

Never mind that I saved Adelaide three times. Never mind that I honored our bargain. That I would have loved that child more than anything.

Humans are an ungrateful lot. I've known emperors who murdered their sons and parents who sold children for a handful of coins.

Yet I'm the monster.

You’ve heard the tales. The wicked little creature who tricks innocent young women. Nobody ever asks what became of him afterward.

I should have learned by now. Never trust a human. Especially an adult.

Children are different. They haven't learned to lie and betray. Not yet.

That's why I keep trying.

Perhaps someday I'll hear laughter in those empty halls again.

But enough about me. You've listened to an old fool for weeks, and you've never told me your name.

What's that? You have something to show me?

A portrait?

Where did you get—

Oh.

I know that little boy. I painted that portrait myself.

His name was Marcus. He was my first son.

But how could you possibly—

Wait. Those eyes.

Elspeth?

Is that you?

For the first time in three thousand years, Rumpelstiltskin had nothing to say.

The old woman smiled.

“I thought you'd never ask.”