Goldmayne: A Fairy Tale

by Kate Stradling

  His boredom was long forgotten. Duncan could make neither heads nor tails of the little door beneath the stairs, but try as he might to redirect his thoughts, they kept turning to that dark hole and the ladder that extended into its depths. If someone—or something—was trapped down there, why had it not answered him when he called out? And what had scratched upon the door before he opened it?

  Briefly he considered that he may have let loose some kind of spirit, a creature unseen that had escaped the moment he cracked open the door. If so, there was nothing he could do about it now. He’d seen Dame Groach come in and out of the door several times with no seeming concern for anything else escaping with her, but then, she could wield magic, so maybe the mysterious creature hadn’t dared to escape.

  He tossed and turned all that night, his mind plagued with too many possible scenarios. In the end, he decided that his only option was to make a closer inspection of the spot. If something had already escaped, the damage was done. If not… well, he’d already opened the door, so he’d already broken the rule. Seeing it through to the end would at least give him a sense of closure over the mystery.

  Thus, when dawn broke above the horizon, Duncan got dressed, lit his candle once again, and made his way down to the little door.

  There were no sounds behind it this morning. He turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and peered down into the darkness.

  It was no different than the night before. The current of air made a low whistle as it flowed through the shaft. Duncan carefully clenched the candle holder between his teeth and climbed onto the ladder. He descended rung after rung. Twice he paused to loop one arm through the ladder and extend the candle with the other. The second time, he spotted the bottom about ten feet below him. He gingerly completed the descent.

  The long shaft opened up into a cavern of some size. Duncan could hear running water quite clearly now, but there was no sign of life within the vast darkness. Ahead, something shimmered and danced in the feeble candlelight. He approached it warily and discovered the source: a golden fountain that bubbled up from the ground. The water was limpid and sparkling against its shining backdrop. It beckoned to him invitingly, as though to say, “Drink me! Drink me!”

  He suddenly felt very thirsty and wondered just how long he had been climbing down that ladder.

  Self-consciously he glanced around, but there was nothing but the bubbling fountain in the ring of light around him. He set his candle on the stony ground and knelt to have a closer look. The water glittered merrily. Duncan’s throat had gone completely dry.

  “I’ve come all the way down here,” he thought vaguely. “I might as well have a drink.”

  Hands squarely on the ground, he leaned forward to touch his lips to the water. Closer, closer he drew, almost as though in a trance. Only inches away, his long hair shifted over his shoulder and dipped into the stream.

  A sudden weight pulled him downward, as though seeking to drag him into the fountain’s depths. Duncan instinctively jerked away from the water’s edge and the peril that lay within. His head felt heavy, but for the moment his only thought was to calm his racing heart. He should have known better than to try to drink from a mysterious pool kept hidden by a witch like Dame Groach, he told himself severely. It was almost as though he had acted without thinking, as though some odd compulsion had drawn him forward.

  His skin crawled. He looked around himself again, only to be met with that heaviness upon his head. New, scattered reflections danced across the ground. In a daze, Duncan finally raised one hand to touch his hair.

  It was cold and wiry. He pulled a lock before his eyes and discovered it to be pure gold.

  “Just like the old lady’s statues,” he murmured with growing horror. If his lips had touched the enchanted water instead of his hair, he suddenly realized, he would be a dead man.

  His head was not wet at all. The gold extended all the way to his scalp and seemed to have caught all of his hair, as though the water itself had reached upward as it soaked in. Part of Duncan, the part that didn’t believe in such fantastical happenings, whispered that this was a dream, that it was still night and he had finally fallen asleep only to dream about the mysterious closet beneath the stairs.

  He thought he might as well test the waters again, just in case. Gingerly he fished one of his silver coins from his pocket and, ever so carefully, he dipped the edge of it into the bubbling fount. A golden sheen swept over the metal in an instant. Duncan held it close to the candle to inspect the effect. He’d never seen anything like it before.

  Impulsively he pulled out another coin, and then another, until he had converted all eight in his pocket. He supposed that the magical effect would probably wash off or fade away, but it was so very interesting to watch. If he had had anything else other than clothing on his person, he would have dipped that as well, but he had no use for gold clothes.

  “Right,” he remarked resolutely. “So this was what she was hiding down here. I can well understand it. If word got out that she had a fountain of goldwater, people would tramp across the estate in droves to try to get to it. Well, now I know. I really ought to be on my way.”

  He pocketed his coins, snatched up the candlestick, and made his way back up the ladder. Once safely outside the closet, he locked the little door again and blew out his candle. Then, he went straightway to the bathroom to see if anything could be done about his hair.

  Down in the cavern it hadn’t seemed so very alarming to have a mass of gold atop his head. The cavern had been otherworldly, though, and this was normal life. One look in the mirror showed him just how abnormal he was. He was accustomed to seeing dark locks, and now they were fair. His hair shined and shimmered as though someone had carefully burnished it, and his black eyebrows only made the reflection seem that much more ridiculous.

  He scrubbed it with soap and water for a full ten minutes. It had no effect, much to his dismay.

  “She’s going to know exactly where I’ve been,” Duncan realized with growing panic. What sort of punishment would Dame Groach lay upon him? If his hair was enchanted, though, it would need someone to un-enchant it, and she was the only one he knew who could use magic!

  But she wasn’t the only one he knew, he suddenly remembered.

  No sooner had that thought occurred to him than he tore from the bathroom and down the stairs, through the hall and out the back door to the stables. Why had he not thought to consult Wildfire sooner? His pace slowed as he approached.

  Wildfire had warned him not to get into trouble, that was why.

  From the position of the sun, it was not yet noon, but he should have tended to the two horses hours ago. Surely Wildfire would have assumed the worst of him by now.

  Duncan slid open the stable door with growing dread. “Wildfire, I’ve done something foolish,” he called sorrowfully into the dimness.

  The white horse hung his head over the stall door in an instant and immediately perceived Duncan’s resplendent hair. “You—!” He caught himself from saying whatever words had been perched on the edge of his tongue. Instead, he rolled his eyes and bucked his head back into the stall.

  “I know! You warned me not to!” Duncan cried, and he stumbled forward to plead his case. “But there was this voice that was calling for help, so I opened the door, and then there was nothing there but a hole, and—”

  “I know exactly where you’ve been,” Wildfire interrupted. “You’ve been down the ladder to the goldwater fountain that lies beneath this estate. Oh yes, I know it well!”

  “How could you know that?” Duncan asked. “You’re a horse! You can’t go down a ladder!”

  “I wasn’t always a horse!” Wildfire snapped irritably.

  Duncan stopped short and stared. This idea had never occurred to him. “You mean—” he started hesitantly.

  “I was a man, just like you. Well, not just like you. Better looking, and certainly better educated, but I will admit that I didn’t have anywhere near your work ethic.
I certainly wasn’t so foolish as to turn my hair to gold, though!”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose!” Duncan cried.

  “No, I imagine you were going to drink the water. That’s how she got half the statues out there, you know. The others she doused with water after they’d crossed her in one way or another. She collects them that way. Oh, I’ve tried to tell you that a dozen times, but the charms she has over this place are too strong!”

  “Can’t there be anything done?” Duncan asked. “You know some magic—can’t you turn my hair black again?”

  The white horse shook his head sadly. “It’s an enchantment. It’s permanent.”

  “Can I shave it off?”

  “If you want a very dull razor, I suppose so. It’ll probably grow back gold again, though.”

  “But… then what am I to do?”

  The horse stared at him for a long, tense moment. “I’ll help you on one condition,” he said at last.

  Duncan would have agreed to just about anything at that moment. “What is it?”

  “Swear you’ll do everything in your power to help me break this curse, to return me to being a man.”

  “Done,” he said, and he felt like he had received the better end of the bargain. “Of course I’ll help you.”

  “You swear it?” Wildfire asked intently.

  “Yes, I swear,” said Duncan. “You have my word. I’ll do everything in my power to help you, as long as I live to get the chance.”

  The horse gave a solemn nod. “Right. Then first thing’s first: give Goliath a good whack with the magic cane. The old brute used to be my manservant, a jealous, conniving little backstabber. He’s the one who told Dame Groach I’d been down to the cavern, and I assure you he’ll tell on you if he’s given half a chance. Go on. Hit him nice and hard.”

  Duncan didn’t have time for any qualms. He snatched up the cane and chased after the fast-retreating Goliath, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping on everything they said. The black horse bared his teeth threateningly, but Duncan slapped his side with the cane nonetheless. Three strokes rendered him into the customary stupor.

  “You’ll have to do a more thorough job of it later,” said Wildfire. “For now, we’ll make other preparations. See those sheepskins on the shelf over there? Take one and cut it up to make yourself a wig. You should be able to find some sewing supplies in the manor house, in the red room.”

  “I’ve seen them there,” said Duncan. “I know where they are. But Wildfire, a wig isn’t going to fool Dame Groach for a minute. She’s going to know the instant she sees me that I’ve done something wrong!”

  “Do you want my help or not? Make the wig anyway. Someone with a head full of gold needs to hide it or else expect to be forever chased for his scalp. Now, go accomplish that task and let me think things through. What time is the old witch supposed to get back?”

  “At dusk.”

  “And what time is it now?”

  “It’s not yet noon.”

  “So we have a few hours yet. Make the wig quickly, Duncan, and come back as soon as you’re done. Be sure to pack up your belongings from the house, too.”

  Duncan started to obey, but a sudden thought occurred to him, of the last time he had let the talking horse out of his stall. “Wildfire, that statue of the goat in the garden, was that…?”

  “The old caretaker? Yes. I didn’t realize she’d had him drink the water. She only told me that he was old and had died. I didn’t take care of her gardens for her, so I never saw his statue there. That’s how we’re all going to end up eventually, if she has her way—golden decorations scattered across the estate.”

  Nothing more needed to be said. Duncan briefly surveyed the sheepskins to choose the better candidate, but they were both equally supple, no doubt restored to prime condition by Dame Groach’s magic. He snatched up one and trotted out the door, back to the manor.

  Instead of going straight to the red room and its sewing supplies, he made a quick stop in Dame Groach’s pink bedchamber. He threw open the rose-colored window and carried the canary cage to its ledge.

  “I don’t know if you’ll be turned to gold eventually, but you don’t deserve it,” he told the little birds. “So, I’m letting you go. Good luck.” He flipped open the little gold door on the cage. The canary with gray-banded wings reacted first. He chirped and then flitted from the cage, with his cellmate close behind him. Duncan watched them fly away together, off toward the trees and beyond to the horizon. He was sad to see them go, in a way, but if Dame Groach really was a witch, he could not leave them within her clutches.

  After replacing the empty cage on its pedestal, he retired to the red room. He’d sewn before—torn seams and patches on clothes, mostly. His mother had supervised him when he was younger, so that he’d had at least a little instruction in the process. He wasn’t sure how well he could make a wig, but there was no time to waste hesitating over the job.

  He was able to find some thick, sturdy thread and a heavy needle among the sewing supplies. A few cuts with the scissors and some punches with an awl helped him shape and stitch the creation. After a couple of hours’ experimentation, he fixed the end result atop his head and ventured a look in a mirror.

  He looked like a judge. The sheepskin fell down around his shoulders to cover up his golden hair quite effectively.

  “No time for vanity,” Duncan told his ridiculous reflection. He was about to head back down to the stable but he recalled that Wildfire had told him to pack his belongings from the house. Duncan had brought nothing with him, but he thought he should probably take something useful away.

  He found a small bottle in one of the kitchen cupboards and figured that Dame Groach would not miss it. It was ceramic, with a little ring on the side for a finger hold and a cork in the top. He tucked it into one pocket and, hands shaking, drew out his keys.

  The closet beneath the stairs should have remained closed. He was probably tempting fate by going back down into its depths of darkness. At this point, though, he really had nothing to lose. Again he descended the ladder, back to the bubbling fountain, where he uncorked the small bottle and carefully dipped it in.

  The ceramic turned to gold in an instant, cold against his finger. Ever so cautiously he submerged the lip of the bottle to capture some of the enchanted water. He removed it again and wedged the cork tightly into place. Then, to guard against that coming undone should it too turn to gold, he tipped his candle above it and allowed the wax to drip down and seal the opening.

  It was a terrible thing to do, to steal enchanted water from a forbidden closet-cavern, but if he and Wildfire did manage to escape, they might find the stuff to come in handy. Perhaps they could find someone who knew how to reverse the enchantment, he thought, or make it so that it could reverse enchanted objects back to normal instead. Perhaps it would never come in handy at all, but he thought it better to take the water now than to wish for it later, when it was beyond his reach.

  He stowed the little golden bottle in his pocket again and climbed the ladder back up to the closet door. He locked this tight and made his way out to the stable.

  “Finally!” Wildfire cried when he appeared.

  “Sorry,” said Duncan, and he fingered his new wig self-consciously. “How does it look?”

  “Ridiculous,” the horse replied, “but if you have any sense at all, you already knew that.”

  “What are we to do now?” Duncan asked, resigned to receiving such blunt criticism.

  “Get me a saddle, and a bridle—with no bit, thank you very much. Over on that shelf, you should see a couple of glass bottles and a comb. Put one of the bottles in the saddle bag, along with the comb and Goliath’s bridle. And don’t ask questions,” he added before the confused expression on Duncan’s face could manifest in words. “We’re going to make our escape.”

  “She’ll come after us,” Duncan argued.

  Wildfire snorted. “Of course she’ll come after us! That’s exactly what we’re
preparing for!”

  Duncan didn’t understand how a glass bottle and a comb helped prepare for the pursuit of an angry witch, and he certainly didn’t understand the point of taking Goliath’s bridle. Dame Groach wouldn’t need the great black horse at all. She could just chase them in a crack of thunder. He did as he was told, though. Into one of the saddlebags went the bottle and the comb, along with Goliath’s bridle. In the other one he carefully placed the golden bottle he had collected; the cork had already turned gold as well, but the white candle wax held strong, blocked from direct contact with the treacherous water within.

  “Where are your things?” Wildfire asked abruptly.

  “I haven’t got anything but the clothes on my back,” Duncan replied over his shoulder.

  “Well, it’s that much less I have to carry. Don’t saddle me up just yet. After you’ve got everything gathered there, get me a nice big serving of oats and some fresh water.”

  Duncan belatedly recalled that he had not fed either horse yet today. “I’m sorry!” he cried, and he ran for the oat bucket. “I’m sorry! I totally forgot!”

  He scooped a generous portion into the waiting bin, but when he went to pitch some straw for Goliath, Wildfire called out. “Don’t feed him, you fool! We want him in as poor a shape as possible!”

  “She’s not going to use him to chase us,” Duncan argued. “She can follow us in a clap of thunder! What’s she need with a horse?”

  “I’m getting to that,” said Wildfire. “There’s a charm we can work to keep her from following us with magic. I’ve wracked my brains to remember it, and it’s so simple I could kill myself for forgetting in the first place. But you have to be standing in front of her to work it, so it’s the very last thing we’re going to do.”

  “I’m supposed to work a charm?” he asked with renewed panic rising in his throat.

  “You only say the words. The magic will work itself. Now are you going to get my water or not?”