Spin: A Fairy Tale Retelling (Spindlewind Trilogy Book One)

by Genevieve Raas

  A gangly, spidery man accompanied him, wearing tight black and yellow striped pants and a thick layer of white powder cracking in the creases on his forehead. He sported red paint on his cheeks, and a ridiculously thin black mustache.

  He placed a finger against his lips, demanding silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! What you are about to witness is not for the faint of heart. I implore those of weak disposition turn away now, lest your memories be haunted forevermore,” he warned in a melodramatically ominous tone.

  With such a tempting warning, the man guaranteed no one would refuse to open the Pandora’s box he presented. Impatient grumbles rose from the audience, demanding to be shown what they came to see.

  “You have made your choice! Prepare yourselves for the greatest mystery ever known, that of The Living Corpse!”

  He grinned wickedly as he stepped back from the hooded figure, presenting him with an outstretched arm.

  The figure threw off the cloak. Loud gasps rose up from the crowd. Several fainted while the rest looked visibly ill.

  Upon the stage stood what was supposed to be a man, but he was only a monstrosity. He was not a dead thing as he should have been, but a living skeleton wrapped in cracking leathery skin. Yellow flesh hung from bony shoulders and hugged every ridge of his ribcage. There was no muscle or fat. There was only horror.

  But all this paled to compare to his face. I beheld a skull covered in withered flesh, and where a nose should have been, was nothing but a black hole. His lips receded from his mouth in a ghastly grin, leaving behind a set of rotting teeth that grinned eternally.

  What disturbed me the most were his eyes. They were perfectly shaped and a vibrant blue, all the life missing from his body shining through those two flawless orbs.

  He seemed to enjoy the fear he inspired as he sauntered across the stage, sickly skin slinking over protruding bone with each step. His eyes searched the crowd, growing brighter anytime he heard a scream or cry.

  He stopped. Extending a skeletal arm, he pointed down at a young woman. She trembled.

  “Would you mind if I borrow your shawl?” he asked with impeccable politeness. “As you can imagine, I get rather chilly being just skin and bone.” He made his teeth chatter, their mechanical toy-like movement causing nervous laughter to bubble and froth. Unable to refuse, she unwrapped her red shawl and placed it in his bony hand.

  He took a few steps back, twisting the shawl between his fingers. He released the fabric, but instead of falling to the ground, it stayed suspended in the air.

  “Well, that’s not all that amazing, is it?” he drawled as the audience clapped and hooted, demanding further astonishment.

  He snapped his fingers and the floating shawl turned into a violin, a bow resting on top and waiting for its master’s command.

  “That is far more interesting!” he exclaimed. He paused briefly, then slowly moved his hands in long back and forth strokes, mimicking playing the violin.

  The enchanted violin mirrored his movements, the most hauntingly beautiful sound emerging from its strings. The melody wrapped my soul in warmth, and my body swayed with every lilt and crescendo. For a moment, I believed I was floating just as the violin, weightless and pure.

  But when he waved his hand and the music stopped, I felt my soul had been ripped from me. He snapped his fingers and the violin splintered until thousands of flakes of wood fell like snow onto the stage.

  He rifled through the wood and retrieved a wad of red fabric. It was the woman’s shawl, completely restored. Handing it back to her, he bowed, accepting the thunderous applause, the audience hailing him as some sort of horrific god. Enshrouding his body in the hooded robe, he descended from the stage, the crowd continuing their terrified praise, throwing gold coins onto the platform.

  I was chilled.

  Shaken.

  I had never witnessed any magician perform such awesome feats. There were no strings, no detectable illusions or tricks. Many a charlatan had crossed my path, but never one so exquisitely skilled. So entranced, I barely noticed the spiderlike fingers creeping along my shoulder until the cold flesh brushed my neck. I spun around, facing the man with the mustache standing behind me. Up close, he looked as if he was the corpse, decaying with the powder melting from his oily skin.

  “If you would follow me, sir,” he said. “My master would like a word.”

  “Your master?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “The Living Corpse! I assure you, it is a great honor. He rarely speaks to outsiders.” He laid his sweaty palm against my cheek and turned my head to the side as if inspecting me. “But something about you has garnered his particular… interest.” He dramatically pronounced each syllable, ending with a snake-like hiss.

  I shook him off, disgust driving the bile up from my stomach. “I’m not one of your freaks,” I snarled. “What’s all this nonsense about?”

  “Apologies!” he exclaimed. “You must forgive me. It’s just I’ve never seen such a divinely pale complexion.”

  I glared at him and an awkward silence swelled between us, until he cleared his throat, continuing. “My master thought you might need some coaxing, and wanted me to give you a message, if that be the case.”

  “And what message would that be?” I ground out the words against my will.

  He lowered his chin and his eyes darkened. That pencil thin mustache curled with his menacing simper.

  “That he can give you what you most desire.”

  Lanterns flickered as he led me with a quick step through the maze of tents. Shadows moving and shifting within the array of colored fabrics. Beside me, the figure of a woman undressed. Two men puffed rolls of smoke from cigars sitting at a table. Every life was on display to the world, any hope of secrets betrayed by light and shadow.

  The odd man quickened his pace as we approached a tent on the far end of the camp. It glowed a deep red like a gem burning from within. He pulled back the thick fabric, waving me inside. The stiflingly heavy scent of incense burned and choked me.

  Rubies and gold. Those were my first thoughts once I could breathe and see through the haze. I was in a bloody world bathed in golden light. Red Turkey carpets and mustard velvet cushions lay lazily about. In the center of the room was the Living Corpse himself, still shrouded in complete black.

  “Here he is, master. Just as you requested.” The man bowed with an obsequious flourish.

  The Living Corpse exposed his skeletal hands and pulled down the hood uncovering his face. Ice and sweat broke out over my body at seeing his nightmarish disfigurement so close.

  “Very good. You may go.” His breath whistled through his crooked teeth as he waved the man away.

  His vivid, blue eyes stared at me. Stared through me. I wanted to look away from his burning gaze, but I found I couldn’t. Fear and morbid fascination made me immobile.

  Desire seemed to emanate from him as he slunk slowly towards me. My body screamed to step back, to run.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for you,” he finally said. “Ages, in fact!”

  “For me?” I mastered the shaking in my voice and continued. After all, I reminded myself, we were but speaking charlatan-to-charlatan. “You must have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I do think I’d remember you.”

  He laughed, an awful sound rising from his lungs in some hellish catarrh. He pressed his hand flat against my chest. I refused to acknowledge as real the deathly chill seeping into my torso. It was but another trick. It had to be.

  “Yes, my features are not the most discreet,” he replied, a terrifying grin stretching the dead skin across his skull. “But, there is more to me than meets the eye, Rumpelstiltskin.”

  I froze. Impossible.

  “How…how do you know who I am?” I finally stammered. Now that I was a man, people no longer recognized the boy they wished to forget existed.

  He laughed, and the hairs on my skin rose with gooseflesh.

  “I know
everything about you. Your past, your future,” he cooed. “Most importantly, I know the revenge growing in your heart, and how only the king’s life will satisfy its hunger.”

  He pressed a bony finger into my chest, right where my heart pounded frantically against my ribs. There could be no denying the tug I felt from the icy thread that now seemed to stitch itself between his finger and my flesh.

  My mind reeled in panic at his statement. I had never breathed a word of my ultimate desire or of the anger boiling in my veins. How could he know? What kind of diablerie was this?

  “I don’t think you are quite getting it,” he chuckled with a rattling of the bones in his neck. “I suppose the mortal mind can only comprehend so much. Perhaps a different form will be helpful? Yes, I think that’s best.”

  He wrapped himself in his robe, looking like a bat waiting to be summoned back to hell. Then a hand, a perfectly formed human hand, emerged from the cloak, followed by an arm until the fabric fell to the floor, revealing a flawless body that overtook me with its magnificence.

  He looked like a brave young god sculpted in the finest marble. Every muscle was beautifully formed, face radiant in glowing bronze. Demon turned angel, the only recognizable feature being his striking blue eyes.

  He admired his new shape in the mirror, turning and flexing before putting on a pair of tight leather pants and covering his bare chest with a loose fitting shirt.

  “I’m always astonished how humanity would rather pay for ugliness over beauty,” he remarked, running his fingers through a mass of blonde hair.

  My mouth fell open. I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

  “What are you?” I breathed.

  He released a musical snicker. “I do apologize for forgetting my manners. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fate, and you have my complete and utter attention.”

  His teeth shone like bright pearls, and his skin glowed in the lamplight. Once more, he ran his now-warm fingers over my chest, finding my heart and pulling that icy thread yet again. I shivered, but whether with fear or pleasure, I couldn’t tell.

  “You see, Rumpelstiltskin,” he said. “You are quite different from your fellow man. Just moments ago they all cowered like dogs seeing me as a corpse, but not you. No, your soul is quite unique, driven by the most exquisite pain I’ve ever witnessed.”

  He gripped my chin in his strong hands almost to the point of discomfort. He examined me closely, and hunger lit up in his eyes. His grin widened as he finally released my jaw. I resisted rubbing it to try and remove the residual sensation of his fingers from my skin.

  “I am only disappointed you are not using this gift to its full potential,” he continued. “Pain is power, after all.”

  “I would hardly say pain is a gift,” I replied. “Every day the king lives I am mocked, reminded I am incapable of fulfilling what I want most. After what he did…”

  “I know what he did. Terribly tragic,” he said, cutting me off. “I am Fate, remember? I know what happens to every living creature.”

  He took a seat on a pile of cushions and motioned for me to do the same. “You want vengeance?” he asked casually.

  “More than anything,” I replied.

  “Well, you are in luck. Vengeance is a specialty of mine. The question is, how are you going to make him pay? I’m assuming with all the years you’ve had to think about your misery, you’ve been able to come up with something.”

  I sat dumbfounded for a moment, my mind racing with the thousands of scenarios I dreamt for the king’s grisly end. There was stabbing, strangling, burning, drowning, throat slitting, and neck breaking. Each was more delicious than the next, and I couldn’t choose which would be more satisfying.

  “Kill him,” I replied, gore swirling in my brain. “A quick twist of the neck or knife in the gut should get the job done. That's the only way I can see.”

  Fate tsked, his face a mask of disappointment.

  “’Kill him?’” he questioned mockingly. “That is the type of answer I’d expect from a clod, but not from someone like you. Killing is far too quick an end. There’s no fun, no rush of pleasure in your triumph. You need to make him suffer. Make him feel your pain. Make him understand what it means to lose what one loves most. I think that a far more satisfying plan, don’t you?”

  I hadn't thought of it like that. I’d only ever imagined a knife in his chest, his reign of terror finished. Quick and simple. But, suffering…suffering opened a whole new world of opportunities I had not thought of before.

  “Perhaps that does sound more rewarding,” I said with a grin. “I only see one problem.”

  “Whatever would that be?”

  “That man is incapable of loving anything.”

  Frustration pulled on his face again.

  “All men love,” he said firmly. “Men of his ilk love the strongest. They murder, battle, and destroy for love of power, wealth, and legacy. That is what causes his heart to pound and makes his soul soar. Strip him of his power, and he will suffer.”

  I laughed. "That’s all fine and good, but how exactly would I ‘strip him’ of something so intangible?"

  “I have a way,” he said confidently, dismissing my concerns with a wave of his hand. “I told you vengeance is my specialty. I would not seek you out if I didn’t have anything to offer. What an annoying waste of time that would be, and I hope by now you realize…I don’t waste my own time.” He leaned in, locks of blonde hair falling around his inhumanly beautiful face. “If power is to be his downfall, then power you will have. I will give you a small amount of the power I wield, and that will be enough to achieve the revenge you seek.”

  His words sounded like honey. Deep within me, a hunger for the sweetness of power I hadn’t known I possessed started to grow. It pounded in my chest, thirsting for what he offered. To be honest, it terrified me.

  "Why would you do that?” I asked, trying to choke down the antipathy and anticipation. “There has to be something in it for you.”

  "Why must there always be a reason?” he sighed. “It’s simple. I can recognize a desperate soul, and yours is reeking. Like you, I have grown tired of Providence always ruling in the favor of kings and emperors. It’s time they understand the suffering they cause.”

  "Fate chooses favorites, then?” I asked.

  "Playing favorites isn’t exactly in the rules, but there are some people you just want to watch burn. The king has been allowed to cause torment far too long. I prefer to think of it as choosing judgment rather than favorites.”

  Without warning he pressed his hand to my chest, his fingers stiff. He gazed impatiently at his hand, then smiled as if he saw what he had been searching for.

  Pulling back, he stood up.

  “You are thinking too hard about all this,” he said. “This is your only opportunity, Rumpelstiltskin. I am offering you the path, granting your deepest wish. Don’t you want your family avenged? I know their anguished cries still haunt your dreams. Together, we can make him pay. Make him pay for all the tragedies he has caused. Wouldn’t you like your name to be cleared of the stench it’s carried for so many years? To be praised a hero instead of reviled as the villain?”

  Ghostly cheers of praise echoed in my head, those who hated me now loving me. Thanking me for my good deed. My name restored. My life reclaimed. And, those three hags who doubted me…now taught crystal balls are nothing but worthless glass. I craved to make his words reality.

  “What are you proposing I do?” I asked.

  He looked thrilled, grinning widely.

  “It’s quite simple really. I transfer some of my power, just a little, and you follow it to its inevitable conclusion. Give the king the wealth he desires, the power he seeks, and a legacy to grow. Then take it all away.”

  He held out his hand, waiting for me to take it. The spite in his words was exhilarating, and my skin prickled. I liked the sensation and wanted to feel it again. Without another thought, I stood and grasped his hand.

  Satisfa
ction rippled over him, and his beauty turned devilish.

  “Excellent,” he commented, his grip on my hand turning from flesh to steel. “Then it is agreed. Now, just to impart to you what you need.”

  Forcing my hand open, he inspected my palm. He trailed his thumb in tickling circles, leaving no mound or crevice untouched. A shiver went down my spine, almost like one of pleasure. Finally, he centered his thumb, rubbing up and down the long crease that went from base to top.

  “Stunning,” he commented, fascinated by the line and bringing it close to his face. He pressed deeper and my heart jumped. “Your fate line shows such depth, such strength.” His breath was warm against my open hand. “However, it needs to be much deeper if we want this to work.”

  The flash of a pair of scissors gleamed in my vision. They were exquisite with long silver blades and intricate designs that ran from handle to tip. I thought I was delirious, but I swore I heard a hum resonating from them as he opened them wide, placing the sharp blade against the crease.

  “Brace yourself,” he said.

  The cool edge rested against the line. Then, there was nothing but hot agony. It was violent. Savage. Searing pain cut through my flesh as he etched the blade down my palm. The tip sliced skin effortlessly, scratching across bones and sinew. My vision blurred. The anguish was so intense that my vision grew dark, and the world swung back and forth.

  “I know, I know. It’s never very pleasant.” I heard his voice pulse through my pain. “But, what’s next will be the real torture.”

  He redoubled his grip on my hand, the torment blazing even stronger than before. Like molten iron, it spread up my arm, infecting my every muscle. But he didn’t relent. He only grasped firmer. Blistering coldness came next, liquid ice surging its way into my hand and limb, following the veins until it flowed through my entire body. My lungs burned as they howled for oxygen. My heartbeats became sluggish and hopeless.

  Only once the glacial mix filled me entirely did he release me.

  I fell to the ground, completely drained of any warmth, unable to move even a finger. I don’t know how, but I knew I was dying.