Stil’s Heart
A Rumpelstiltskin Tale
By Rosetta Bloom
Copyright Rosetta Bloom 2017. All Rights Reserved
Version No. SH170506
Table of Contents
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Introduction
Chapter 1 - Escape
Chapter 2 - Gothel
Chapter 3 - Trouble
Chapter 4 - Wolves
Chapter 5 - Settling In
Chapter 6 - So this is Love
Chapter 7 - Recidivism
Chapter 8 - Warning
Chapter 9 - The Past Returns
Chapter 10 - Flight
Chapter 11 - Reckoning
Epilogue
Also By Rosetta Bloom
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Introduction
The name Rumpelstiltskin lives in infamy for the tale of how he coerced a girl he was supposed to be helping into promising him her first-born child. He came to collect, but offered her an out — if she could guess his name, he’d relent. And while he is clearly the villain of that tale, he has his own story. Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t always an imp, and even his actions in the tale he’s known for aren’t quite what they seem. Want to know the truth of Rumpelstiltskin? You have to start when he was tall and handsome and known simply as Stil. That’s when he met a girl, a girl that changed everything.
Chapter 1 - Escape
Stil crouched behind the large bush just outside the little inn he’d been boarding at, quiet as death. Frankly, if he was seen, he’d wish he were dead. He’d crossed the wrong man; it meant near death, or at least a good beating. Stil was no fool, so he stayed low, hidden by the plant, barely daring to breathe, refusing to move.
Several yards away, Herschel Gray stood, scowling. He was just within viewing distance. Gray was a tall man, thick around the middle, with rough, unruly black hair, an equally untamed beard, black beady eyes, and an ugly scar etched deep in his left cheek. “He owes me money, Barney,” Herschel said to the little innkeeper who stood, shaking, in the doorway.
“I did’na know,” said the little old man, stooped with age and bent over a cane. A tremor of fear shook the old man’s voice. Herschel Gray was known as a man whose heart was cold as stone and had no trouble getting even with anyone who’d done him wrong. He wasn’t known for killing, necessarily. No he was known for wicked, hit-‘em-where it hurts abuse. And he wasn’t afraid to sully those he thought had helped the wrongdoer.
Old Barney spoke again, his shoulders slumped in deference to Herschel Gray. “If I had known, I would have sent my boy to get you. Stil said he’d settled his debts and was heading east to the sea port.”
Herschel stroked his beard and honed his evil eyes in on the old man. “Did he pay you your due?”
The man took in a short breath, his face tightening as he deliberated whether to admit the truth or lie. Finally, Barney nodded. “Yes, sir, he did.” Almost unwillingly, but clearly fearing retribution if he didn’t, Barney added, “Would you like me to turn over to you what he paid me, since I missed an opportunity to advise you last night?”
Herschel Gray smiled, a look of pleasure at the fear he induced in men. It was obvious, even at this great distance, that Gray enjoyed terrorizing anyone he could. After a couple of moments of watching the old man’s discomfort, Gray shook his head. “Ya been honest wit’ me, and I appreciate that. No use in us both bein’ swindled.”
The innkeeper breathed out in relief and nodded.
“That li’l scoundrel,” Gray said, as he spit into the dirt nearby. “I knew in my gut he was bad. Should’na listent to his sweet talk.” Herschel looked around as if he was hoping to spot the scallywag he spoke of.
Stil tucked his head further behind the bush. He was crouched into as much of a ball as his muscular, six-foot frame could take. He was a large man, which tended to make people think he was an authority. It made it easier for him to ingratiate himself in a community. But now, it felt like a liability.
Part of him wished he hadn’t stayed. But he wanted to know whether or not his ruse worked. It had seemed a good idea to hide in the bushes and watch the wrath in person. Especially since Herschel Gray was known sometimes as simply The Terror. That man wasn’t likely to forget being stiffed. He was the kind that would spend a little effort tracking you down.
“You say he went east?” Herschel asked.
Barney nodded. “Headed out last night with the group that was leaving. Saw him hop onto the back of the cart with their supplies.”
It had been a stroke of luck that the other travelers were leaving. Stil had gone about two miles with them, then told them he changed his mind and was going to head south. He’d doubled back, slept in an empty barn, and, at the crack of dawn, come back and planted himself in the cover of the nearby bushes. Close enough for him to see, but far enough he wouldn’t be seen.
“I’ve got business at the port. I’m gonna go find him and get me money.”
Barney nodded. “I’m sorry he did you wrong, Mr. Gray.”
Gray grimaced. “Yer a good man, Barney,” he said. “I don’ blame you. You did all I could ask, and now it’s me turn to fix things. I plan to get what’s owed me.”
With that, The Terror turned and walked away.
Stil knew he’d bought the ruse, and decided to wait for the coast to clear and then leave.
* * *
Stil looked over his shoulder as he walked quickly away, heading west, toward the smaller villages. He’d not meant to go afoul of The Terror. It had been a misunderstanding. Of course, it had to do with a lass. Stil had always been effective with the opposite sex. He was a good-looking man, and he knew it. Six feet even, chestnut-brown hair, muscled, olive skinned and a dimple in his left cheek. The right look combined with a few sweet words, and the ladies melted for him.
The girl named Moira seemed nice enough when he met her. A few hours after he’d bedded her, he’d learned she was one of Gray’s girls. Those in town knew that Gray’s girls came at a cost
Stil hadn’t. He’d tried to explain, but Gray wanted no excuses. Gray knew Stil had won big at cards, had seen him do it. Gray himself had a certain knack for cards. He’d even liked Stil, been kind enough when he’d lost. But Gray had said he could offer no kindnesses when it came to his girls. “You won big, anyway, boy,” Gray had said. “So pay me what you owe me.”
And Stil might have done it … if Gray hadn’t been trying to cheat him. Herschel Gray had demanded triple the normal price of Moira. Gray was a sore loser, and Stil would have none of that. He told Gray he’d pay him in the morning, with the plan to leave town in the middle of the night. But he’d lucked upon the other travelers leaving, and his plan had fallen into place.
Stil traveled for nearly two weeks, going through small towns and villages in the countryside. This kingdom was pretty. Not as barren as the one he’d come from. One where there was no hope and everyone seemed stuck in a life of misery. Or maybe that had just been his mother. She had a melancholy about her that she couldn’t shake, one that drove Stil away. There were times when his mother was happy — a person couldn’t be miserable every second — but his Ma had managed to come pretty
close to achieving forever bitterness.
He sighed and shook his head, leaving thoughts of his mother behind. He wanted adventure, not the oppression that came with women like her, with towns like that.
As he strolled into the little village of Sern, he realized something was different. Even though it was ostensibly the same as half a dozen other villages he’d passed through, something about it felt unlike any other place he’d been. It felt a bit like the kind of place where people set down roots. As he walked the cobbled streets, he noticed all the usual haunts — a blacksmith, an apothecary, a baker — but there was something else about it. Something that called for him to stay. Something in his gut whispered for him to open his eyes and really get to know the place.
That should have been his first clue to leave. It was listening to his gut that had convinced him to cut out on The Terror. Given that he’d now traipsed through too many towns to name in order to avoid Herschel Gray, he wasn’t sure he should trust his gut.
The little thatch-roofed stone buildings increased in frequency the closer he got to the center of town. Stil expected to find a pub and inn somewhere nearby. His plan was to be friendly, have a drink, look for some temporary work, maybe win a few hands of cards. When he found the pub, he would order a tankard of ale and quietly watch the locals. It would give him a sense of who to try to ingratiate himself with first.
The pub was a good-sized building made of stone and mortar with a painted wooden sign outside that said “McGinty’s Inn & Pub.” He’d secure board there for the night.
He walked inside to find a cozy room with dozens of tables, only about a quarter of them filled. It was between midday and dinner service, so many a folk would be working. Stil nestled himself at a table in the rear and waited for the bar maiden to come around.
It was easy to get a feel for things based on the two lively spirits standing behind the bar that was in the center of the room. A large, solid man with salt and pepper hair, a healthy beard, and a rotund belly was pouring a drink. Beside him stood a petite woman with fiery red locks, blue eyes, and an easy smile. They were a jolly couple who seemed to be making easy conversation with their patrons.
“So, stranger,” said the owner, coming over to Stil. “What brings you to the village of Sern? I don’t think I’ve seen ya in these parts before.”
Stil nodded, keeping his expression friendly. “I’m just a lowly man passing through, hoping to find work when they harvest down south in a month. ‘Til then, I’m hoping to find some work around here and a place to lay my head for awhile.”
The owner grinned wider. “Sounds good, lad,” he said. “My name is Geoffrey McGinty, and this is my inn and pub.”
Stil smiled big, and reached out a hand. “They call me Stil,” he said. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Geoffrey stared at him a moment. “Stil,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a name like that.”
“My Ma named me so because I was such a still and quiet, babe. Said I was always thinking from the day I was born. Never one to act too rash,” he lied naturally. It tended to be a story people believed, even though it was the furthest thing from the truth.
“A man who thinks ‘fore he acts is always good,” McGinty said, belting out a hearty chuckle. “Since you be need’n a place to stay, I ought to let ye know we got a vacancy if ye wan’ it. And since ye lookin’ fer work, I can point you over to Fred Jones, the baker. His son died last month and he’s in need of a hired hand, if that’ll do.”
“Indeed,” Stil said, forcing enthusiasm he didn’t feel into his voice. He didn’t actually want honest labor, but the best way to get paid without doing much was to show up on day one and work bestially well. A few days of hard work put it in their minds that that’s who you were. That way, when Stil began to falter, they’d continue to give him the benefit of the doubt. They’d assume his work had faltered for whatever excuse he chose to provide.
This was how Stil operated whenever he came to a new town and decided to stay for any length of time. He’d discovered that if he put in the work early, it took people much longer to change their opinion of him than if they’d pegged him as a lazy bum to begin with. Not to say that Stil was lazy. The art of the con took much more work up front than a lazy person would be willing to commit to. But Stil had learned early on in life that only the saps stayed and worked hard on a regular basis. There was no long-term benefit to sticking around.
Stil nodded to Geoffrey McGinty, trying to make sure he looked attentive, honest. The introduction was everything. He’d found that these were the moments that cemented people’s impressions, and Geoffrey’s impression was the only thing he’d have as an advantage in the coming days. Geoffrey pointed to the petite redhead who’d wandered away to serve a customer. “That’s my wife there, Mary. She’s quite the cook. The room comes wit’ a meal at suppah each night, and a mug of ale.”
Stil looked over at the wife, the fire-tressed lass he’d seen earlier at Geoffrey’s side. She was plump and petite with a pretty face. He nodded to her, and then said to Geoffrey, “Sounds good to me.” He set down his half-full tankard, reached into his pocket for payment, and turned to glance at the door, as if planning to head out. “I’d like the room, and I’ll head off to see the baker about the work.”
Geoffrey patted Stil’s shoulder and said, “There’s no rush. Finish your drink, first.”
Stil nodded like that was the best advice he’d ever gotten and turned back to his chair as he took a sip of the ale.
Geoffrey offered him a toothy grin and said, “Just let me know when you want to go. I’ll have my daughter walk you over.” He inclined his head toward the corner, where a young lass was talking to a patron. Her figure was voluptuous, even though the dress she wore wasn’t particularly revealing. Her hair was auburn, a darker version of the mother’s. She was pretty in the face and seemed she might be easy to talk to. He figured she was probably around his age, 22, give or take a year. Stil could feel himself getting worked up in the right places. A pretty little thing like her would be warm company at night.
He told himself to stop that. It was a bad idea to get tangled up with a woman who could get him kicked out of where he lived.
Just as he was resolving not to take up with her, she turned and spotted Stil with her father. Not wanting to be impolite, he offered a friendly nod. She scowled in reply. It was as if, in that one look, she’d sized him up and somehow knew his plan. Knew that he was up to no good. Knew that she shouldn’t trust him.
Stil swallowed down another bitter sip, stuffing down the rebuke so no one would notice how it had shaken him.
He wasn’t used to such a look. Especially not from the ladies. They always found Stil charming, especially if they were only looking at him. He smiled up at Geoffrey, who was talking about the merits of the town. There was a mayor who wanted more travelers and hoped Geoffrey would expand the inn. The baker was a good man, he noted, saying he’d endured a long string of misfortunes, including his wife’s death, his daughter running off, and finally his son’s demise.
“I’m sure ole’ Fred will app’eciate yor help,” Geoffrey told him. Then the barman launched into a few funny stories, ones that painted a picture of the typical village. Something about the way Geoffrey described it made it seem slightly more appealing to Stil, who hated small villages like this one. He’d been born in a place like this, and for as long as he could remember, he’d sworn he’d never die in a place like it.
He gritted his teeth and paid his tab. He knew it was important to settle the first tab fair and square. The rest could be negotiated later. The key was to start off looking upstanding, no matter what the final outcome would be.
“Looks like yer ready,” Geoffrey said. “Let me get my daughter to take you.” He turned and looked around the inn. It was getting close to supper time, and the crowd had thickened. Stil scanned the area, but didn’t see the beauty from before. Perhaps it was for the best. She hadn’t liked him.
/> “I can find my way,” Stil said, his tone appreciative. “You’ve been too kind already, Mr. McGinty.”
He shook his head. “First off, call me Geoffrey,” he said, a warm smile on his face. “Second, Fred — the baker, that is — he’s been a little, um, anxious in his grief. You’ll do better getting an introduction. Plus, I need me girl to deliver a message to him.” He turned and scanned the room again. “Ah,” he said, directing his gaze to the corner. “There she is.”
Stil followed his line of sight and saw the lass Geoffrey was staring at. It wasn’t the same girl as earlier. This one wore a red scarf tied around her head and was petite like the mother, but not plump. She was also plain and hardly memorable. The other girl was beautiful. It wasn’t flashy, but it was clear and obvious. This one was, at best, not ugly.
“Gothel,” Geoffrey called and waved his meaty hand for the girl to come over.
She looked startled, her eyes wide like a doe’s. Despite the unexpected call, she trudged over, a moment later standing there, looking directly at her father and nothing else. In fact, it was as if she was doing her damnedest to ignore Stil. That was odd. Lasses loved to look at him. Though maybe not Geoffrey’s daughters. Perhaps he’d taught his daughters to despise men.
“Yes, father?” the girl said.
“This is Stil,” he said. She crinkled her nose at hearing the name, and her father gave her a stern look in response. “Stil needs to go over to the bakery. Introduce him to Mr. Jones and tell him Stil is looking for some work and I sent him.” Then, the older man reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of folded paper. “And give him this, too. It’s the order I need for next week.”
She nodded at her father and walked away. Stil stared after her, unsure if he was supposed to follow or wait where he was for her to return.
Geoffrey chuckled. “Gothel is sweet,” he said. “But she’s not the best with people. She went to get her cloak. Likes to wear it when she goes out. It’s bright red. You can’t miss it. She’ll be waiting for you out front. Tell her to wait with you while you talk to Fred, and then she can walk back with you. I’ll show you the room when you return.”
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