Straw Into Gold

by Gary D. Schmidt

  It jerked me up and back, farther into the woods, and in a moment I could no longer even see the barn, could no longer smell the pine and the straw—only the iron. Then my arm was whipped around my back and the voice of the King's Grip slithered into my ear.

  "If you cry out, Lord Beryn's Guard will be upon us—and upon them—in less than a moment. And it will not be a queen and a prince they set their swords to, but a miller's daughter and her blind son. Do you understand, boy? Yell and you give the game away."

  I nodded, still looking through the trees, straining to see the barn.

  "They will go on without you, and who knows but that they might even reach Wolverham with their riddling. But they have no need of you now. And it's the last day, so they have no time to come back and search." He turned me around and shoved me forward, into the darker pines, where his black horse waited. There was no cantering away this time. The horse waited patiently while the Grip hefted me into the saddle like a bale of straw, then mounted behind me. He turned the horse's head and dug in his heels, and the horse spurted into the deeper shadows, back the way we had come. It had all taken only a moment. I wondered if they had yet even missed me in the barn.

  "Your trail was plain as could be, even if Lord Beryn's Guard did not think to follow it. Boy, I could almost believe that you wanted to be followed. But perhaps you thought I had been killed?"

  I said nothing. I ducked as branches swiped at us and tried not to think of the ache that was numbing the arm he still held.

  "But I won't be killed. Not while I still have this search to finish. And I have waited for its finish for a long time, boy, a long time."

  "I've searched for a riddle's answer to save a hanging," I said finally. "And what have you searched for?"

  "He does speak! Boy, I thought you might have lost your tongue in all this. You should be thanking me now. If I had let you go on to Wolverham, it would be more than your tongue you'd be losing."

  "If you ever truly served the king—"

  "The king," the Grip snarled scornfully. "The king. As if he were a man I should serve. He fuddles about in his own fear, afraid to sneeze before the Great Lords give him the cloth to sneeze into. He armors himself like a god, then looks to Lord Beryn to see if he may piss that day. Do you think bringing the answer to a riddle will save a single life? Let the answer be what it may, Lord Beryn will shake his head and the hangings go on."

  I knew it was true. Horribly, I knew it was true.

  Farther and farther into the woods the horse took us, spurting forward with each dig of the Grip's heels. "You see there," he said, "those branches snapped at the trunk. Even without the snow, they would have given you away. And that spot there where one of you stumbled."

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "I thought that surely you of all people would know that."

  And then I did know. He was taking me to Da's cottage.

  "I burned the first one. At first I thought the logs were too weathered to catch, and then I thought there was some magic at work. But I piled up branches against the sides and set them alight, and the rest followed soon enough. It generally does. But now, to come upon this second one. Well, boy, that's evidence of design, wouldn't you say?" He laughed shortly, then spurred the horse again.

  He never relaxed his hold on my arm, which was now numb and bloodless. But that was not what brought the tears to my eyes. I wished more than anything—more than anything—that Innes and the queen, and the miller and his wife, would come yelling down upon us. Sometimes I even turned my head to see if they were following. I knew that they had to reach Wolverham. I knew that they had to bring the answer to the king's riddle, even if they did not know it was meaningless. I knew that they could not come. But I wanted them to come anyway.

  The trees grew thicker, and the horse slowed. The Grip had to lean down to follow our tracks in the thinner snow. But he was sure of the path, and soon I smelled the familiar smoke, and the trees gave way, and we were in the clearing beside the tiny cottage.

  "He will come here, won't he, boy? Sooner or later the little man will come. And then I will trade you for the secret of spinning straw into gold." He released me and lowered me from the horse. Slowly I let the arm fall to my side, feeling the pain as the blood pushed back into the closed and stiffened vessels. I rubbed my hand up and down its searing muscles.

  "It will come back soon enough." The Grip chuckled. "Now into the cottage. After this day I will never serve another man."

  I pushed open the door and walked in. The bread and the cider were still by the hearth, warm and brown. I poured the cider into a mug and gulped at it, feeling its warmth come down into me. Only then did I realize that the Grip had said nothing since we entered. I looked at him. He was staring at the loft, staring like one who has found his heart's desire.

  The loft was heaped high with straw, piles and piles of it, fresh and golden, almost glowing, though the loft was in shadow. It spilled down in wisps to a spinning wheel, where a long strand had collected and twisted around the spindle. Beside the wheel, skeins of golden thread lay piled up, their round richness tumbling hugger-mugger all over the floor. It seemed that the wheel must have just stopped spinning.

  None of this had been here when we had left. Da must have brought it. Da must have just been sitting at the wheel. If only he could come now and somehow carry me away.

  Slowly the Grip crossed the room. He picked up a skein and stared at it, turning it around and around in his hand. He set it down, and pushed at the wheel, pulling his fingers back with the tingle of it. But the wheel spun around three times—whirr, whirr, whirr—and in that time it filled the spindle with half a skein of golden thread, drawing the straw from above. He pushed at it again, and the wheel spun— whirr, whirr, whirr—until the spindle was full. It dropped off the wheel, and another empty one leapt up from a basket to take its place.

  The King's Grip lifted the skein, the light from it shining on his face. Then he set it on the mound of golden thread, tossed his mail gloves to the cottage floor, and clambered behind the wheel. He looked around and found the place for his foot, then pumped at the pedal. The wheel blurred to a whirl, and the empty spindles began to leap to the wheel, then fall off and pile up full around him. He stared at the whirling, his eyes glazing, his mouth pulled back to a grin. He kept pumping, and the wheel spun, and the straw twisted down from the loft, and the spindles fell with their full skeins.

  Higher and higher the piles grew about him, now so high that he had to shove them aside with his knees. They spilled out over the floor, and the King's Grip laughed with the pleasure of it.

  "Do you see, boy? I have the trick of it. I can spin straw into gold. Into gold!"

  The straw kept coming and the wheel kept spinning, and no matter how much straw pulled down from the loft, the piles of it never grew smaller but seemed to plump up higher and higher.

  I stood back from the whirling wheel. The skeins flew off in an arching blur, and the King's Grip had to push out with his arms to keep his wealth from overwhelming him. His eyes never left the spinning, and his feet never gave up their pumping.

  And still the straw came down. And still the skeins piled up.

  Suddenly the fire drew back into itself and with a sputter was gone. Yet the coiled gold glowed with a cold light all its own. I could only just see the Grip's face now, the piles had grown so high. He showed yellow in the glow of the gold, as if he himself had been turned into a spindle and the skein of golden thread was twirling around him. I stood against the door as the skeins tumbled down around my feet and covered the floor. I could no longer see the hearth, or the bread and cider that were perhaps still warm under all that cold metal.

  "Stop," I called, "stop the wheel!" But he would not. He could not. If all the world had turned to fire and ice, he could not have left the wheel. His eyes followed the terrible whirling, and then the coils grew so high that I could no longer see the King's Grip at all.

  I pushed the door open and b
acked out. The gleam of the gold spread and splashed against the trees. It turned even the black horse a cold yellow, and after a single whinny he stood absolutely still, his eyes fixed on the skeins that were now tumbling out of the house and into the clearing.

  Slowly, slowly I walked to the horse, my hand up. I made no sound with my tongue this time as I unwrapped the reins from the branch that held them. Then I slowly came around, tested my weight against the stirrup, and mounted. "Now," I whispered, "that wasn't so very bad." I pressed my heels against his side and pushed forward.

  But the horse did not move. I pressed again, harder this time, but he stood as still as if he were made of pine himself.

  Then I knew. The horse would stand here, watching the tumbling skeins of gold. And the Grip's feet would pump at the wheel, turning an ever-growing pile of straw into an ever-growing pile of golden thread. Seasons would come and seasons would go, and they would still be there, forever spinning.

  I leapt down and ran from that place as if it were cursed.

  It was late afternoon, already the sun starting its slow fall. Innes and the queen would have wondered where I had gone, but the Grip was right: They had no time to search, and would be well on their way to Wolverham. But I kept to the path, now so well traveled that even I could find it easily. But I did not know what I would return to. The answer to the riddle would be gone, and no one waiting for me there. Perhaps the farmer would be willing to take in one more exile. And if he did not...

  Then there was the jangling of harnesses, and a loud and annoyed whinny. I stood still. It would be Lord Beryn's Guard. But I was nothing even to them now. The answer to the riddle was already on its way—and I was not the queen's son.

  A parting of the sun set the light against the green boughs of pines, and the air softened around me. And I saw the horses—not the chargers of Lord Beryn's Guard, but two thick, broad farm horses, their great feet clopping and battering against the hard ground.

  On one was the miller, his bow strung behind his back. On the other rode Innes. Innes, for all love!

  "There!" cried the miller. "He's just there, boy. And he's escaped." He waved with all the fresh gladness of the world, while Innes jumped down.

  I ran to them, clapping both hands on Innes's shoulders as he reached out to mine."You haven't knocked him down with turnips, have you?" he asked, grinning, and his grin filled my eyes.

  "Was that you, Innes, on a horse?"

  He nodded. "They really are very gentle creatures, Tousle. You just need to be sure that you don't annoy them with clucking."

  Now the miller too was down and beside me. "Are you alone out here, then?"

  I looked up at him. This was Innes's grandfather—his grandfather. I had never known before what a grandfather could be."All alone," I said.

  He took a step forward, hesitated, then leaned down and picked me up easily. The sweet smell of straw still hung about him, and it mixed with the resin of the pines about us. He crushed me to his chest, then hefted me up and onto Innes's horse. "Not alone now," he said. He lifted Innes up and set him behind me.

  And so we headed back out of the dark woods.

  Chapter Ten

  It was the farmer's idea that brought us to Wolverham.

  "The way that clumpy miller stacked the cart, we would have to do it again anyway," he said.

  "Those bales would make it to Wolverham and beyond," replied the miller.

  The farmer said nothing. He walked to the cart, and as we watched from the barn door, he leaned against the bales. They came down all a-tumble, scattering about him. "To Wolverham and beyond," he mocked.

  It was late dusk by the time he and the miller had stacked them again. "No, turn the bale the other way," the farmer insisted. "That one bale turned the other way. Yes."

  The miller looked toward us with exasperated eyes.

  While the miller finished, the farmer went to his cellar and came back with a small barrel on his shoulder."Ale," he said, "for any thirsty guards at the gates of Wolverham." He carried it to the front of his cart, then beckoned. In the shadows we ran across the farmyard and crept into the square space between the bales he had left for us."I'll set the ones above you myself," he said, winking, and soon he had closed off the darkening sky with them. The queen, Innes, and I sat quiet and dark, warm and cozy, surrounded by straw. We heard the jangling of the horses as they were harnessed, felt the tilt of the cart as the miller and farmer climbed on, then the first jerk, then another, and finally the rough rolling of the wheels that brought us onto the road.

  I fell into sleep.

  Almost instantly I was again in the stifling house. A glare of terrible light, and the choking air seemed to grow solid around me. It all came with a rush.

  But this time I was not afraid. And even in the middle of the dream I was puzzled. There had been such terror before, and now there was none—none at all.

  Then I knew why. This time I was not alone. Someone stood just behind me, someone with sure and close arms. With her breath she gave me breath, and her back shielded me from the heat and light. So we stood together in that room, until cool breezes lofted through and the light paled and paled until it was the light of the morning sun. And the cool breezes blew the walls down—they fell into a clattering of sparks—and we were alone together on a field whose green grass rose cool and sweet around us. If I had stayed asleep, I would be there yet—as sweet a dream as I could ever hope for.

  But I woke to the jangling of harnesses and the hushed tenseness of fear. The queen reached out and put a hand to my shoulder.

  The cart moved off to the side and jerked to a halt, and then the jangling horses passed us, the rumbling of their hooves coming up into the cart. We shook even with the straw packed around us, listening to rank after rank pass by, with never a break in the rhythm of the horses.

  "There must be more than a hundred," I whispered.

  "Many more," said Innes."If only we had some wicked turnips."

  I swatted him. "Perhaps," said the queen, her voice low, "you might prefer to stand up and wave your arms at them?"

  We were quiet until we heard the last rider pass, and only when the cart scraped back up to the road did we relax again into the straw.

  The road began to run smoother, then smoother still. Swaying back and forth with the rhythm of the pulling, we did not speak. There was an ease and pleasure in riding along so, knowing that there was nothing else to be done but the riding. I could almost forget that we carried the answer to the riddle.

  Once more we pulled to the side of the road to let a troop of horses pass. Once more we held our breaths in the quiet of fear. And once more they moved by without troubling us, and the cart sidled back onto the road.

  Then, just when it seemed that we had traveled much too long, the horses paused, hefted us up and over a bridge, and came down upon cobblestones. The straw muffled the loud rattle of the wheels, but we jolted back and forth now, and the straw fell in upon us, so we all three reached up to preserve the bales over our heads.

  "The miller will be pleased to hear that even the farmer's baling did not survive the journey to Wolverham," I said.

  "So he will," replied the queen, and she laughed low.

  The stones yielded to rough planking, and a hollow echo marked our passing. Then the wagon stopped and one of the horses whinnied shrilly. A murmuring at the front, then laughter, more laughter, followed by a cheer. Then the cart jerked forward again, and so we came into Wolverham.

  It was a coming different from a week ago. Da had said that what was spinning out then had taken its place on the wheel a long time ago, and I knew now that he was right. But was my beginning only a losing? I would bring the answer to the riddle, and Innes had found a mother. But what had I found? A larger world? A larger world only?

  Or was it really larger at all?

  As the cart crossed the market square, empty and quiet now, I felt the rolling wheel of the last seven days spinning around to the place where it had started.
But for me, all its spinning had merely shed off scabs that I had not even known about, and I was all the bloodier for it. I swallowed hard against the lump that blossomed in my throat, and gasped at the pain of it.

  The queen placed her hand against my cheek. "No need to fear, Tousle. No need." But she did not know what it was that I feared. I would have faced all of Lord Beryn's Guard with a turnip in each hand against all of their arrows, if only I could know with a fierce and unquenchable knowing that the day would not dissolve into wisps of chance, and that in the end I would not be alone.

  The cart stopped, started again, stopped, started again, and finally stopped a last time. The voice of the miller came through the straw. "That ox of a farmer has finally found an alley dark enough to suit him." He climbed up and began to pull back the bales of straw. Almost I wished that they would stay a little longer.

  But the queen stood, and I looked at her height, seeing her head dark against the now starlit sky, and I was comforted. It was thrilling to look at the queen and to know that at least for now, the patterns of the queen's life and my own—and that of Innes—had come together like chain mail. They were woven together, and one link could not be moved without the other. If only it would be the same after this day. Then Innes stood as well, and I, and the cold night air surrounded us and chilled us after the warmth of the straw. "Your Majesty," called the farmer, holding up his hand. And so we climbed down onto the streets of the city.

  The farmer pulled out a folded cloak. "It may be that Lord Beryn will be looking for you," he said.

  The queen took it and slipped the cloak over her shoulders. "Do I look like a miller's daughter heading to market?" she asked, smiling.

  The farmer and miller laughed, but I stood silent. She did not look like a miller's daughter. She was a queen, and when she turned to me, she looked as a queen might look. She held out her arm and drew me in."And now we shall see what provisions the good farmwife has sent. And afterward we will think about the dawn."