While Aurora Slept- The Complete Trilogy Read online

  Chapter Seven

  Rumpelstiltskin

  Rumpelstiltskin sat with his back pressed against the stone wall, sweat pouring from his brow. Trance-like he stared into the spiderweb of intricate strands.

  Gold and silver

  Make it shimmer

  Weave the magic into thread

  Watch it change from blue to red

  He hummed the tune, some melodious chant from long ago, as he worked the shuttlecock through the loom.

  If there were anything that Rumpelstiltskin was known for, aside from his unruly name, it was his spinning. The entire kingdom spoke, in reverent hushed tones, of the beautiful work of Rumpelstiltskin. Weaving was his secret alone though, a sacred time to sit and contemplate the world, to watch it run its course as it danced through the machine and under his hand.

  Hands. That was how all of this had started. Some called it a blessing. Some deemed it a curse. Most things in life were like that. Rumpelstiltskin had learned that much. Of that he was certain, even when he did not know which it was.

  Blessing or curse

  Silver and gold

  This is the way

  The story is told

  He sang the words, feeling them sift through his hands as the threads did. Silver and gold, yes. Gold. Gold and hands, that was how it had all begun.

  Golden threads pass through his fingers. His father was not so lucky. His fingers turned solid, unable to run his hands through his wife's beautiful long silken hair. No longer could he reach for young Rumpelstiltskin and take his hand or throw a ball to his tiny son. No. That is all gone now. Since first he came upon the beautiful fountain, he knew that his life would change. This was not an elixir of life, but of luxury. Solid gold flowed whenever drops of this water were poured out of the finely engraved vase. But, Rumpelstiltskin’s father had made a mistake. Once, in haste, he poured the water too quickly and the gold had run over his hand. Encasing his skin, it wound him in this golden gauntlet.

  “Father, what's happened to your hand?” young Rumpelstiltskin had asked in earnest.

  “A touch of gold, my boy, that's all.” He'd said the words as though brushing away crumbs under the rug and not the troubles of his young son's heart.

  No longer did his father run and play with him. He kept his distance, weary of this touch and its power to unleash an outpouring of gold.

  “You want to see something amazing?” Rumpelstiltskin said months later, to his sister. Night after night he'd climbed high up the ladder to spy on their father. She'd shook her head.

  “No more spiders. No more toads. They aren't amazing. They're just commonplace.” She said the word with a little question, as though uncertain of its validity. Then, she nodded to herself and smiled.

  “Yes, commonplace.”

  Rumpelstiltskin shook his head at her.

  “It's no toad or frog or spider and it's not commonplace. It's wonderful.” And then he worked his magic. He said those words that he knew were irresistible to his sister.

  “Unless you don't like gold, that is.”

  “Gold?” Now, she turned to him. Now, she smiled. Now he had her.

  “Come on,” he said, in reply, already racing up the ladder. She scampered up behind him.

  There, they saw their father running his hands over a stack of straw. As he did, it turned to finely spun gold and it filled the room around them. He wound up the golden threads on the finest of spinning wheels and the children looked on in awe.

  “That's amazing,” Rumpelstiltskin's sister said, a happy sigh escaping her lips.

  “I told you as much,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Our lives, they're forever changed from now on.”

  At that she nodded again, solemnly, a little vow sealed between the two of them.

  Word spread quickly through the country. All came in search of the priceless treasures and of the king who could turn simple straw into gold, a king who was father to Rumpelstiltskin and who went by the name of Midas.

  Chapter Eight

  Aurora

  From the blurs of color, a figure emerges. Shadowy at the edges, as though I'm looking through a pane, I see it. Only, I don't know what it is.

  Breathe Aurora. It's fine. You're asleep.

  Still.

  I'm still asleep.

  I realize it now.

  But, shouldn't I be awake? How long has it been? It feels like days. But, of course, that is crazy. No one can fall asleep for days, especially not me. I have never done anything remarkable. Love my sister. Climb trees for the juiciest apples. Count to ten in a dozen languages. Is any of that remarkable? Maybe. If so, then yes, I've done something worth noting. The point, though, is that I'm asleep. Still. And now, now I know I shouldn't be.

  Flying at me, with the force of a swarm of eagles, an arrow torpedoes toward my heart. For a moment, I freeze like ice suspended from the eaves of the castle. And then, I reach out, I pluck the arrow from the air, as easily as flowers from the meadow in spring, and I stop it in its tracks. An archer stares at me in shock that I have done such a thing. His surprise is short-lived, though, as he melts under my gaze. His shape, which had always been shadowy, now disappears entirely and only a silent swirl of color, like petals falling from the trees in May, remains.

  Something is wrong. I know this now. I'm trapped. And yet, I'm also utterly free. I have never been as free as I am now. I feel as though I could spread my wings and take to flight, soaring over this land of colors and discarded care, floating over the kingdom, absorbing the concerns of all who cannot sleep tonight. I feel a mountain under me now. Strange. There hadn't been one before. I begin to climb, one steady step at a time. Around me the lands splay out in all directions and I have climbed a much greater height than time ought to have allowed. But, this is the land of dreams, a realm where anything is possible. I know that, somehow, even if I do not know why I am still here. As I climb higher, I see both sunrise and sunset, as though they are perpetually in motion and I am far above the earth, in the highest stratosphere, in a place where there is always rising, always setting, always turning of the earth. There is constant rotation and I realize that I too have begun to spin, as if I am a ballerina, with my toes pirouetting over the ends of the earth and the silk of my slippers soaked through with the colors of this netherworld. There is a constancy in the unobtainable of this dreamlike state.

  I try to hum now, to calm my fears, a habit that Mother taught me when I was young. I try to hum, but of course, I cannot. I say of course, because I never can when dreaming. I asked Mother why once and she said that my song was not asleep. My spirit was still awake, even as my body slept. My song would not ever sleep, for it was like a flame. It was beautiful, the way she told me that.

  And yet, now, I find myself longing for my song, longing for the music to fill my soul. It is lonely without it. Even more than that, though, I miss Midnight. I have never been this long without my sister. And it does feel interminably long now. I long to call to her, to ask her to come into my room, to sing to me, the way that I did when Mother and Father were away when we were young. I needed her then, her state of grace, her constancy of character, the black swish of her hair as she danced with me, twirling me in circles in front of the fireplace. I need her all the more now. For I am lost without my sister. And in this dream world, that takes on monumental proportions. Another archer rises in the distance and draws back his bow. It's a crossbow, the kind that I am an expert at firing. Midnight is the pro with the long bow. She always pointed that out to me, how her bow was quicker. She said it in jest, but still her point was there. I understood her pride. For the only person more proud of Midnight than herself was me.

  I wait, watching the archer, prepared to see him unleash his arrows toward me as the earlier archer did. I clench my fists and unclench them, waiting for the archer to fire. My fingers twist, my senses heighten. I strain my eyes not to blink, to miss his firing and be unable to catch the arrow. Perhaps, the last time was a fluk
e. “Little Rabbit,” That's what Mother called me. She said that though I looked like Father, I was still her daughter, a child of the earth who walked with the wind. It meant that I knew the old ways, the ways of her people. It filled me with more than a little pride. Pride was not what I needed now though. I needed only to watch. I held my breath. Wisps of concentration move through my nose, exchanging air with the momentum of thought. All is still. All stretches interminably long. There is no gravity, no rules of motion or of time. Not here. Not in this land of dreams. My hands fall to my sides now, though, as I realize that there is no reason to remain in this flinched position. The archer has turned away. This time, he hasn't fired. Instead, he is staring into the distance, draws a bow and fires. It catapults through the clouds, which I had not noticed were there previously. Perhaps, they weren't.

  I wonder if it might rain and then I know that it will not. It never rains in dreams, at least not in mine. The sun shines, illuminating the gray, peeking through the clouds. That's the way of it. Always. I have no idea why I am asleep or for how long I have been. But, at least there seems to be some sort of rules that I can depend on. Well, perhaps, there are. Maybe. Maybe not. Anything can happen in a dream.

  Chapter Nine

  Midnight

  I am going to Rumpelstiltskin. For years, I have heard the stories of his magical ways. Like a figure of epic proportions from myth, his shadow reigns over the land. Some say that he is to be feared, but he's a recluse. I've always felt sorry for him. No friends. No family. Hidden away. It wasn't always like that. Once, long ago, he too had lived in a palace. His father was King Midas, a mightier ruler than even our parents. But when Midas's touch turned to gold, he was banished from the land. A king had never been divorced from his kingdom. But, that was before. This was different. Everything had changed. A king needed to command with dignity, not with fear. Everyone thought that all traces of Midas's gold had disappeared when he was banished, leaving behind a motherless Rumpelstiltskin. His mother had turned to gold, immortalized under her husband's unfortunate touch. It had so broken Midas that rumors swirled that he would have banished himself, hidden in the hills, even if his kingdom had not forced him to leave. The governors had seen to that, a board of them, in a parliament of sorts. It was a pity really, for Midas had been beloved.

  “Let that be a lesson to you,” Father would say when we were young.

  “Not to turn to gold?” Aurora would ask, her tiny face afraid, as she looked left to right and saw her blond hair spilling like spun gold over her shoulders.

  “No, my little angel drops,” he'd say, planting a kiss on her temple, “to remember that we are royalty, but the kingdom comes first.”

  “The kingdom comes first. The kingdom comes first.” I'd awaken in terror at those words for years after. He had meant them kindly, but they tore away at me. It was easy enough to put Aurora first, but an entire kingdom? Its weight bore heavily on me.

  Stones littered the path. Rumpelstiltskin loved riddles and it was no surprise that he guarded his home in a meandering maze as well. His tactic unfolded under my feet, in trying to trick those who decided to prey upon him. And how would he greet me? Would he scorn the princess whose father had taken the throne that ought to have belonged to him? Or, as many suspected, had Rumpelstiltskin gone mad, delirious from the fever of gold that had set into his father's hands and burned in his life. Oh well. None of that mattered. Aurora needed golden thread and silver, spun by the only man who could, spun by Rumpelstiltskin. It was the only chance that I had in getting back my sister. That was enough to make me climb the fiercest mountain and face the most brazen man.

  Drawing up my strength, I knock on his door now. His home is smaller than I would have imagined. A scent hangs heavy in the air, like spices mixed with exotic perfume. I cannot decide whether it's a concoction that's meant as adornment or to be drunk. Perhaps, the children that whisper that Rumpelstiltskin is a sorcerer are right. It may very well be a spell bubbling away in the fire, some potion that will turn all who enter into a toad. I shake my head and push away such thoughts. It's useless to have an overactive imagination, especially now.

  There is silence from his home. I raise my hand to knock again, this time calling to him as I do,

  “Rumpelstiltskin!”

  Still, nothing.

  I try again, knocking louder.

  “Rumpelstiltskin! It is Princess Asteria. I am in need of your assistance.”

  No man will knowingly turn away a princess, not if he wishes to keep his head.

  I hear a gasp, as though the person inside is frightened, alarmed by my declaration and wanting only to hide.

  Now, I gentle my voice,

  “Please, Rumpelstiltskin, I do not wish to hurt you. My sister needs your help. She is ill.”

  Now, he opens the door. Sadness looks at me. That is the only way to describe him. His cavernous eyes echo with abandon. How terrible it must have been for him to be alone all these years!

  “Your mother is Peaceful Dove,” he says with confidence, as though he is seeing her now and not me. How many have told me that I look identical to her? It does not surprise me that he should think so, but I am taken aback by him knowing her name, her birth name that is.

  “Yes, Peaceful Dove was her name at birth. The kingdom knows her as Marilla.”

  He nods, pensive at the word.

  “The kingdom shapes us all as they will.”

  I search my mind for something to say, anything to say. I could agree with him, but it feels treasonous to do so. At the very least, it feels as though I am agreeing that I am merely a puppet. Yes, I am here for golden and silver thread, but they are not strings; I am no marionette. A nagging grips me at the thought of that though. But if I disagree with him, I know that I will alienate him. Even more, I know now that it is the truth. Yes, it does shape us. I realize that now. I have no reason to answer, though, for he says to me,

  “Your sister is ill?”

  I nod, my heart nearly stopping as I do,

  “Yes, she has been asleep for many days now.”

  “A potion? Some curse? Who has done such a thing?”

  His sadness is wiped clean now, like a slate at the end of lessons. In its place stands an army of inquiry.

  “Nothing of the sort.”

  I know what caused it. At least, I have my suspicion. I have voiced this aloud to no one though. How could I? How could I admit that it is all my fault? That Aurora may never wake up, never wake up, because....

  He knows that I am holding something back. I can see it on his face. But, how can I possibly say that it's all my fault? Aurora is in danger because of me.

  Chapter Ten

  Phillip

  I have been trailing her for the past hour. My mother would scold me for following a princess, but my father would congratulate me. Or, maybe, if she knew my heart, that'd be the other way around. When I see Midnight, I want only to help her. Either way, I can hardly be blamed for wanting to help a princess.

  Philip watched as Midnight scrambled over the rocks. She was sure of her footing, but her mind was wandering. It was hard for others to notice, but then others had not watched her as he had. Always. It was not that he stalked her, not that anything was untoward. He'd just taken it upon himself to be her chief guard, among the many that she had. He supposed it had begun years ago, the night of the accident.

  Wind ripped through the castle, sending screeching torrents through the halls. He was young then. Mother still fussed over him and he remembered her face being near ebony in complexion, as though she were the dark side of the chess board. He looked nothing like her, but then Midnight and Aurora looked so unlike each other. There were many shades in this land, many pigments in the earth. Isn't that what Mother had told him, when he'd inquired? On that night, her face had merged with the darkness of the night. He'd wedged his little hand into hers as she walked through the halls. A seamstress for the queen, she knew the old ways like her majesty did. They'd sing together and
she'd even call her by her name, Peaceful Dove instead of Marila. On that night, they were chanting, a poem of their people, recalling the old triumphs, the old sorrows, the way that the world was created in a dream by the old turtle with a shell upon his back that turned to earth. It was a lovely story, one that always convinced Philip he was rooted deeply in this place. He would search for turtles, lift them, peek under their shells and fall into a giddy fit of laughter as he imagined the entire world flowing out, like a peddler releasing a sackful of delights to children in the town.

  Now, as he had followed Midnight to this tiny hovel, this home of the impish Rumpelstiltskin, he had remembered all about that night. He had felt the luxurious plush carpets sink beneath his young feet, as he scampered over the boulders. He'd heard the wind whistling through the eaves as the waterfalls tumbled over the stones nearby. There was giggling from the girls' rooms. His mother had smiled at that, but her eyes did not smile. Some said that she could see the future. It was not that she was a seer, but she caught glimpses of intuition at times. Perhaps, on that night, she had. Philip hadn't asked her. Maybe he should have. But, he suspected that he already knew the answer and he would not burden her with the knowledge that she might have stopped all that happened.

  Maybe, his mind had made more of it than was merited. But, everything seemed to point to that night. Somehow. Maybe he had part of his mother's intuition as well.

  Aurora screamed. He remembered that. He stopped now in his tracks, as her scream thrilled through him. How strange it was to think of her lying there now, perfectly still. She'd always been spirited, always run down the halls, giggling, singing, or when she was older, reciting poetry in Latin, doing equations in her head, long calculations. She planned to sail away with Midnight. She was determining how wide their boat should be, how many supplies would be needed and in what way the stars would move above them. Or, something like that. He had only heard snippets. He was Philip, the son of servants, not a prince.