Rump: The True Story of Rumpelstiltskin

by Liesl Shurtliff

  Slop poked me awake with his deer horns. “I sniffed my way right to you,” he said. “You must be more trouble than our whole hoard combined.”

  Slop dragged me back to camp, where the rest of the trolls were waking. They grunted and rubbed their eyes and scratched under their hairy arms.

  Mard was stirring a bubbling pot of sludge with one hand, the other hand full of wriggling worms. “You never told us your name. We should know it.”

  I almost told her my name was Robert, but then I thought if trolls had names like Bork and Slop, Rump couldn’t be so bad.

  “Rump,” I said.

  Mard grunted her approval. “Finest human name I’ve ever heard. They always get so romantic and sentimental,” she said, as if she were talking about some other creatures and not my own kind, “giving names as if their children were something fancy to eat: Bartholomew Archibald Reginald Fish Head, or whatever—it’s all nonsense. All you need is a sound to distinguish one from the other.” She yelled out to two trolls who were just about my size, “Gorp! Grot! Out of the stream and into the mud!”

  “But what about destiny?” I asked.

  Mard snorted. “Less is always more.” She threw the worms into the pot and then scooped up a cup and handed it to me. I stared at my moving drink.

  “Do you ever eat anything else?” I asked.

  “Sludge is good for you. Simple to cook and it makes you strong and wise. Humans, they make everything complicated. Even food.”

  “Doesn’t life ever get complicated for trolls?”

  Mard shook her head. “When trolls were enslaved by humans, maybe. But we don’t worry about a lot of the things humans fuss over. Simple needs make a simple life.”

  Simple. They couldn’t possibly understand how complicated things already were for me, both inside and out. It’s hard to make simple out of complicated, like trying to make a straight line out of a tangled knot. You don’t even know where to start.

  I drank sludge with the trolls (it wasn’t so bad the second time), and then Slop threw a mud ball and it splattered all over Bork’s face. Bork threw mud back, and then the rest joined in and mud was flying everywhere. I thought that might be a good time for me to get on my way, but I got pelted with a mud ball and I couldn’t just stand there, so I hurled one back, and then Gorp and Grot threw me into a mud puddle. I laughed as they rolled me in the mud, and I saw now why they bathed in it. The mud smelled better than they did.

  Now that I was certain the trolls wouldn’t eat him, I brought Nothing into the camp (he was still on the road eating grass). The trolls snorted with delight, especially Bork, who took to him right away. Amazingly, Nothing did what Bork wanted! He walked without being pulled. Bork rode on him and Nothing moved!

  “He likes my sounds,” said Bork. “It makes him feel that we are equals.”

  I guessed I would have to start snorting and grunting if I wanted to get anywhere with Nothing, but then I had a better idea.

  “You can keep him,” I said. “I know he’s not a goat, but he’ll be happy here, and I can travel faster without him.”

  Bork rubbed Nothing on the neck and smiled, showing yellow pointy teeth. “It is a big trade for a cup of sludge.”

  “Well … and saving me from eating poison apples.”

  Bork grunted and I took that as a yes. I untied my satchel from Nothing, then patted his rump and told him goodbye. He hee-hawed and I guessed he was saying, “Good riddance!”

  I made my goodbyes. Some of the trolls tried to convince me to stay one more night, but I didn’t think I could eat any more sludge, and I was so tired I couldn’t put up with their snores and smells for another night.

  “Take some sludge for your journey,” said Mard, handing me a small jug. “Maybe it will help make things a little simpler for you.”

  “Oh … thank you.” I swallowed a gag. “Thank you for not eating me.” They all grunted and snorted, and even though I knew they were laughing, it still sounded horrible.

  With my satchel slung over one arm and the sludge in my other hand, I headed down the road toward Yonder. I felt a little envious of the trolls and their simple life. My destiny didn’t allow for simple. What was behind me and what was ahead of me felt like nothing but snarled knots of complicated.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Yonder

  Dear Rump,

  The miller has been lorded now. I refuse to call him Lord Oswald. He will always be the fat, greedy miller, and his sons are still ugly trolls.

  Your friend,

  Red

  I had to laugh. If Red could meet real trolls, she’d see that they were much nicer than Frederick and Bruno—and less ugly besides.

  The gnome found me after dark when I stopped by the side of the road to rest. I sent a return message explaining where I was going. I told Red if she contacted me again (which of course she didn’t have to as it might not get to me, anyway), not to tell me anything about Opal and babies. Ever.

  After a hard day’s travel and nothing to eat but sludge, I thought I definitely deserved to eat Martha’s meat pie. It was only slightly stale, and I slept better than I had in ages.

  The next day I found a stream not far from the road, but nothing to eat, so I drank some of Mard’s sludge. It wriggled all the way down, but it was food.

  For three days I traveled and didn’t meet a soul, but on the fourth morning the road split in two directions. One sign pointed to “Yonder” and another pointed to “Beyond.” My heart skipped a few beats. Yonder! It seemed as good as finding a mother or a stiltskin—and maybe Yonder had them both!

  By afternoon I started to hear the bleating of goats and the mooing of cows. But before long the baaing of sheep drowned them all out. Sheep were everywhere, grazing in green fields, lazing beneath trees, or drinking at the stream.

  My stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten since I finished off the trolls’ sludge yesterday morning. I wondered if I could slip into the pasture and milk one of the cows. Probably not without getting kicked.

  I walked through a small village where chickens and gnomes were scattered among little houses with thatched roofs and smoking chimneys. Women were hanging laundry out to dry while children danced around, chasing pixies.

  I approached an older woman shaking out a rug. I told her I was looking for someone who might know my mother. “She’s dead, but she lived in Yonder and I want to find her family.”

  The woman took stock of my tattered clothes and overall filthiness. She recoiled slightly. I must have smelled like trolls. “What was her name?” the woman asked.

  “Anna,” I said.

  “I don’t know her,” she said. “But there’s another village about five miles yonder that has a fair amount of merchants and peddlers. When you come to a fork in the road, take the left.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and started to leave, but then my stomach reminded me to ask, “Do you have any food you could spare? I’ve been traveling a long time.”

  The woman hesitated but then nodded. “Wait a moment.” When she came back, she handed me a slice of bread and a slab of goat’s cheese.

  I wished there was something I could offer in return. But all I had was Opal’s jewels, which might raise the woman’s suspicion and would definitely require far too much explanation—or a load of lies. So I simply gave her my thanks, and went on my way.

  As soon as I was out of the woman’s sight, I walked down by the stream and shoved the bread and cheese in my mouth. The way I looked, I doubted anyone would be very helpful, so I washed as much dirt and grime and troll smell off me as I could. But the downside of being clean was that the pixies instantly flew to me, and I had to walk with them fluttering all over my head and around my body. Their shrill voices rang in my ears.

  I reached the other village in late afternoon. It reminded me of my village on The Mountain. Little lopsided houses were scattered willy-nilly, and the only big building was the mill, which stood on the edge of a forest. People were outside milking cows and s
hearing sheep, and planting seeds in their gardens. They were lucky they could grow their own food.

  I stopped a man on the street and asked him if he knew of a woman who lived there years ago named Anna. He said no. I asked more people and they all said no. Finally in frustration I slumped against a rickety fence. All my hope was slowly seeping out of me. I brushed some pixies from my face and arms. But they just came back, giggling.

  “You must be full of luck,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned and stared through the fence. There was an old man sitting in front of a wooden shack, spinning. Seeing someone spinning renewed my hope. Maybe I shouldn’t ask just about my mother, but about the kind of work she did.

  “Luck?” I asked the man, brushing a pixie from my nose.

  “The pixies, they bring luck,” said the man.

  I snorted. “I’m the most unlucky person I know.”

  “Luck can change.”

  I watched him spin, rhythmically twisting the wool. “Are there many here who spin?”

  “A fair few. We have a lot of wool.”

  Yes, of course. All those sheep. I opened the gate and stepped closer to the man and his spinning wheel. Just ordinary wool.

  “And do they all spin the same way as you?”

  “Well, I suppose a few have lost a finger or two in the business, but mostly we all get on the same. Not much to it.”

  “But I’ve heard tales … stories of those who can spin wonderful things. Not regular yarn, but more … uh … valuable things.”

  The man stopped his spinning and looked up at me with pale, penetrating eyes.

  I stepped back.

  “You’re speakin’ of the Wool Witches?”

  “The Wool Witches? Is there such a thing?”

  “Oh yes,” he said with a laugh. “And they’re witches, all right, can turn wool into silk and grass into silver! Their work is quite fine, though I’ve never seen it. They travel to trade it. Won’t trade with anyone they know. They live there, in those woods.” He pointed in the direction of the mill.

  Witches must like to live hidden in trees.

  “Thank you,” I said, and turned to leave.

  “Watch your step,” said the old man.

  I froze. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re stepping in my wool,” he said, pointing to my feet.

  “Oh … right. Sorry.… Thank you.”

  I walked through the little village and kept my eyes on the ground. I could feel the stares on the back of my head. I guessed they didn’t get many visitors. Well, we never did on The Mountain, either. I glanced up as I passed the mill. A girl sat outside combing through wool. She reminded me of Opal. Opal and bargains and babies. My stomach twisted. I looked back down at the ground and stepped into the trees.

  There was a dusty little road leading into the woods, but soon it became a narrow, rocky trail, which twisted and wound until I thought I might be going in circles. Then the trail faded altogether, and I wondered if it was one of those tricky paths Red used to find her granny. These were witches, after all.

  Pixies flitted about my nose and buzzed in my ears. Maybe I should roll in the mud again. Maybe I should find the path and go back, but then I saw smoke rising in the distance. As I drew closer, the pixies seemed to multiply, and they danced and squealed all around me. Finally, I came to a little cottage with flowers blossoming along the hedge and a stone path that led to a door painted bright red.

  A red door was a bad sign. I felt all hot and twitchy. I shouldn’t be here. These witches might not know anything about my mother. They might not know anything about my kind of spinning. And they might not be nice.

  Before I could change my mind, the door flew open and a girl stepped outside. She squealed in delight. “A visitor! Oh, do come in! We have cake!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Wool Witches

  The girl grabbed me by the arm and yanked me inside. The first thing I noticed was a delicious smell, sweet and spicy. My stomach growled. Food. Real food.

  The room was large, but it was many rooms in one, just like my cottage: the kitchen, the bedroom, and the sitting room all occupied their own corners of one big open room, which was bursting with colors and patterns. Sunlight poured in from three tall windows, their curtains intricately embroidered with vines, birds, and blossoms. Four chairs circled a big oak table. They were painted in bright blue, violet, yellow, and green, and each was built in its own unique style and shape, as if they had been designed for very different people. A large bed took up an entire wall and was covered with a blanket woven in rich rainbow colors. The room seemed to hum as if it were alive.

  “Now, what is your name?” the girl asked. “No, let me guess! I love guessing names.” She put her fingers to her mouth and studied me. She was maybe just a few years older than me, and pretty, with black curls all around her face and eyes as green as new spring grass. “Your name is … Herbert. No, no, you don’t look like a Herbert. Bertram? No, you don’t have the right aura for that. Ooh, tricky, tricky! Something unusual—one of a kind, I think. Zelgemeier? Woldenecht? Rolfando?”

  “Ida, who is it?” said a voice coming through a small doorway to the right. Another woman entered who looked very much like the girl, but older. She had gray streaked in her black hair and lines around her mouth and eyes. When she saw me, she froze. “Oh my.”

  The woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath and then opened them again.

  “What is it, Sister?” said Ida.

  “Hadel! Come here!” the older woman shouted.

  Another woman came hobbling in. This one looked more like a witch to me. She wasn’t so old, but she was hunched and she had a cane and one foot was turned in. Her face was lopsided: one eye squinting while the other was wide. Her mouth was pinched and cross, but when her big eye was level with mine, her expression softened and her mouth hung open.

  “Do you see it?” said the second woman.

  “See what?” said Ida.

  “Anna,” said the lopsided witch.

  “Anna was my mother,” I explained.

  Ida gasped. It was as if they had all been frozen by some spell. Shocked into silence. I felt like an idiot.

  Finally, Ida broke into a laugh. “Nephew!” She rushed to me and crushed me against her, which might have felt comforting if I could breathe. When she released me, she squeezed my cheeks between her hands and said, “Isn’t he beautiful? Our nephew, Sisters! Anna’s son! Who could ever have known?”

  The second sister blinked and came to me. She reached out a finger and lifted my chin.

  “He looks very much like Anna, doesn’t he, Hadel?”

  Hadel finally broke from her stupor as well, but she didn’t come to me. She paused, looking me over with her big eye, and then grumbled, “I don’t see it as something to rejoice over.” She hobbled out of the room. Ida’s cheerful face fell, and her older sister looked at me with a suspicious frown. This was a mistake. They didn’t want me here. I shouldn’t have come. I took a step back, but Ida caught me by the shoulder.

  “Oh, don’t mind Hadel, dear nephew,” said Ida. “She has always been crabby. This is Balthilda. We are so glad you came to us! You may call me Aunty Ida. Come and have ca—”

  “Ida, we know nothing of the boy,” Balthilda cut in, “where he came from, how he found us, or even what his name is.”

  “His name.” Ida’s face darkened. “I’ve been unable to guess it. So curious. I’m usually spot-on.”

  I looked between them. I was so tired, the idea of trying to explain my name and everything else overwhelmed me. I didn’t really want to see the look on their faces. “My name is Robert.”

  Balthilda furrowed her brow, confused.

  “Well,” said Ida, looking disappointed, “I never would have guessed that.”

  “How is it that you found us, Robert?” asked Balthilda.

  “I asked in the village about my mother. Nobody remembered her, but when I asked about spinning …”
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br />   Balthilda stiffened, but nodded. They must know about my mother’s spinning.

  “Oh, but come eat cake and see what we are making!” Ida dragged me through a small corridor leading to another room, but Hadel barred the doorway with her walking stick. “You’re filthy!” she growled.

  “Hadel, Robert is our nephew and our guest!”

  Hadel’s big eyes looked me up and down, and I felt that she could see every secret I held. “Hmph. Robert, you’ll take a bath before you set foot in here. You look like you grew from dirt!”

  The bathtub was in a corner of the kitchen. Balthilda poured hot water in the tub and held out soap and a brush to scrub myself. Then she and Ida left the room through the doorway where Hadel had gone.

  After I washed, my clothes were hanging to dry by the fire, so I wrapped myself in a quilt sewn with a hundred different colors.

  “I made that,” said Ida when she returned. “Do you like it?”

  “How do you get so many colors?” I asked, brushing my hands over the intricate patterns.

  “It’s all in the fingertips. Wait until you see what I’m working on now.”

  While my clothes dried, Ida fed me as much food as I could shove into my mouth, which was a lot. Not only had I forgotten what it was like to be clean, I had forgotten what it was like to eat real food instead of wormy sludge. And this food was even better than the food I remembered eating—better than Martha’s meat pies, or Red’s granny’s stew. It was certainly better than sludge. There were beets and potatoes sprinkled with herbs and cheese, fresh bread, and milk. I’d never had cake before, but it turned out to be a sort of bread that was sweet and crumbly and moist. I had three helpings.