“What are you after, Stiltskin? What is your blasted game?”
Rumpelstiltskin, dressed in a regal white suit and head
topped by his tall white wig, leaned back in his seat at the twenty-foot
diameter round table and smiled benevolently at the finely dressed albeit
somewhat portly nobleman who had sprung up from his own seat toward Rumpel’s
left and was staring at him in contempt.
Rumpel sensed both Sir Hoariman and Baba, who
stood to either side and a few feet behind him,
tense. He casually waved them down, then
steepled his fingers and addressed the nobleman, one
of three who sat about the table. “Excuse
me, Baron Quaybarge.
But that would be King Stiltskin, if you don’t mind. Although I will settle for
‘Your Majesty’, if you prefer.
I’m not all that demanding.”
“Not demanding, indeed!” Quaybarge
puffed through his thick gray moustache, and then ran a hand in exasperation over
his balding scalp. “You’ve entirely
changed the economic dynamic of this kingdom!”
“Yes, a most radical change,
indeed,” another of the barons said with a calmer but more haughty tone. This man – about the same age as Quaybarge but taller, thinner, and apparently less
temperamental – leaned back in his chair, set directly across the table from
Rumpel. “And radicalism is not conducive
to a stable economic model. There must
be control.”
“Control, Baron Stonefellow?”
Rumpel asked. “But the people are doing
so well!”
“Yes, all too
well!” the third baron – a man of more medium height and middle age, sporting salt-and-pepper
hair and stylishly short-cut beard – added from his seat toward Rumpel’s right. “Where did
all of this sudden wealth come from? You
can’t just snap your fingers and make somebody as wealthy as – as —”
“As a baron, Baron Steelman?” Rumpel said, and his smile
deepened as he saw Steelman wince and his face
blush. “I assure you, it’s not as simple
as snapping my fingers, but I am adept
at my own particular brand of magic, and I don’t see any problems with offering
my services to those who choose to partake voluntarily. Those who like what they’ve got can keep it. To the others I provide a little hope and
change. As king, it’s the least I can do
for my people.”
“Your people!” Quaybarge scoffed. “What do you
know about the people of this kingdom?”
“I would wager more than yourself, Baron,” Rumpel countered. “When I was a struggling entrepreneur,
wandering through the streets and markets of Far Far
Away – streets and markets and dwellings much more numerous but far less
prestigious than the homes and shops along the famed Romeo Drive – I don’t
recall running into you or your colleagues very often.”
Quaybarge was about to offer a retort but Stonefellow raised a restraining hand. “As members of the elite, it is not our
position to fraternize pointlessly with the common citizenry, feigning commiseration
like hypocritical politicians” he said.
“But it is in our interest to
ensure their general welfare by providing a stable social structure free from
undue interference from monarchial authority and ensuring a fair economic
playing field.”
Rumpel stared at him for a moment, and then said, “Wow. Do you really talk like that, or did you memorize
it beforehand?”
Stonefellow sniffed and shrugged.
“And by the way,” Rumpel continued, “did you notice that
‘fair’ playing field is tipped to your
advantage?”
Stonefellow shrugged again. “God has deigned to bless us with fruits
commensurate with our position and responsibilities, and the fact that He has
so blessed us indicates his approval of the system as it exists” he said. “Who are we
to question God’s plan?”
“Whereas, as members of the Council of Barons, it’s our job to question yours,” Steelman injected.
“Indeed!” Quaybarge agreed. “Which brings me back to my
question. Why are you doing this?
What’s in it for you?”
Rumpel sighed and looked around at the three men – and their
armed guards, two of which stood behind each of their masters to provide for
their protection, as Hoariman and Baba were doing for
him. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please” Rumpel
said. “I have the utmost respect for
you—”
“Oh, really?” Steelman
challenged. “Then why did you hold this
meeting in the sub-basement of the palace?
And what’s behind that oversized curtain?” Here he indicated a large burgundy colored
curtain, some thirty feet high and fifty across, that made up one of the room’s
walls.
“My apologies for the location,” Rumpel said. “We’re doing renovations above.”
“Yes, we saw,” Quaybarge
said. “It looks like you’re building a
giant egg on top of this palace. A
symbol of what your reign is likely to lay?”
Rumpel pretended to ignore him. “My dear sirs,” he pleaded, “my program is
very popular. The people have given me a
mandate. Can you not accept that I am looking
out for the economic well being of this kingdom?”
Quaybarge openly guffawed. Steelman smiled
sardonically. Stonefellow
shook his head, and then rose to speak. “Stiltskin,” he began.
“Ah ah ah!” Rumpel said, wagging a finger.
“I’m sorry, Baron Stonefellow, but I must insist.”
Stonefellow stared irritably at the imp for a
few moments, then composed his dignity, stiffened his stance, and
continued. “Very well. Your Majesty. I use the title out of respect of the crown,
not the ma— the person wearing it.”
“Aha!” Rumpel said.
“I see now. Your problem is that
I’m not human like you three are.”
“Oh, please don’t play the species card, that has nothing
to do with it,” Stonefellow retorted. “It just saddens me that that the crown has
fallen to such an unbridled, unmitigated opportunist. You, ‘Sire’, could not care less for these
people. Your program is popular because
you are promising these people gifts, buying their loyalty, and the poor
ignorant masses know no better. But you
cannot make real prosperity suddenly
appear and disappear, despite whatever so-called ‘magic’, whatever sleight of
hand you apply. For such wealth to be
stable and lasting and not burst the economy it must be backed with something
substantial. Something like gold, or silver.”
“Or diamonds? Or
emeralds?” Rumpel asked.
Stonefellow blinked. “I…beg your pardon?”
“Or sapphires? Or
rubies?”
“I don’t understand what you’re—”
Rumpel turned to Baba.
With a brief, evil grin that the other men could not see, he said
simply, “Now.”
Baba nodded, looked toward the ceiling over the drape, put
a hand to one side of her mouth, and called, “Curtain, ladies!”
A moment later the curtain drew aside to reveal a
glistening pile of treasure. Heaps of
gold coins of various denominations and nationalities, golden statues and
chalices and trinkets of all kinds, sprinkled throughout with riches of silver
and precious stones.
Stonefellow turned, beheld the splendor, and
nearly swooned. “Oh, my Word!” he said,
and then fell silent.
“Good Heavens!” Steelman gasped
as he rose on shaky legs to join Sonefellow and Quaybarge. All three
men gaped in awe at the gleaming, ostentatious display.
“A king’s ransom!” Quaybarge
almost croaked.
“A kingdom’s
ransom, actually,” Rumpel corrected. “Recovered from the dragon’s castle. And it can all be yours!”
All three men turned and looked back at Rumpel, who was
now standing as well, a contract suddenly on the table before him and a quill
pen in his hand. The imp smiled. “Sign this and it’s all yours, to be divided
evenly among the signatories. All for the good of the people and economic stability, of course. But there are no strings attached as to how
any of you wish to proceed with the…stewardship of your portion.”
Three sets of eyes narrowed suspiciously as one. “What’s the catch?” Steelman
said, barely beating his two fellow councilmen with the question.
“Ah, a wise guy—er, man!” Rumpel
said. “Well, there is one stipulation. So that
I can continue to oversee the continued growth of the kingdom without fetters
as I work toward the…betterment of my people, and since you learned gentlemen
will be so busy with…determining the best course of, um, re-investing your
windfall, that silly piece of paper, the Manga Carpal,
would seem to be an inconvenient impediment to us all. So what’s say we streamline economic growth
for all and suspend it? Do that…” here
Rumpel slid the contract forward a bit “…and you will each be entitled to an
equal share of everything recovered from the dragon’s castle.”
“You mean…” Quaybarge said, as
all three men turned back to the treasure, its opulence reflecting in their
pupils, “all that treasure?”
“An equal share of everything recovered from the castle,”
Rumpel repeated. “Everything
that’s in front of you.”
The men looked at the treasure for a while longer, and
then looked around at each other, and then all turned together as one and
headed toward Rumpel.
“Let me see that,” Quaybarge said,
snatching the contract. As he held it
before him and read, Stonefellow and Steelman, standing to either side of him, each grabbed an
edge as well, and also read. Almost as
one they looked from the contract over to Rumpel.
Rumpel smiled. “As
I said, suspend the Manga Carpal, and you will
receive your reward. It’s really one of
the simpler contracts I’ve ever drawn up, not much fine print at all. And you see?
This pen doesn’t even have any magic ink in it – it’s all natural.” Here he held the quill out to the three men.
The men paused for a moment, looked again at each other
again, and then with a flurry of activity Quaybarge laid
the paper down and grabbed the quill. He
quickly scribbled his name and then hurried over to the treasure as Stonefellow took up the pen. “I’m sure it is for the good of the people,”
he said as he added his signature.
“Absolutely!
What could be better for the people than to concentrate wealth into
hands of the few at the top who properly know how to manage it, and can trickle
prosperity down upon them?” Rumpel said as Stonefellow
handed the quill to Steelman and left to join Quaybarge. As Steelman finished his signature and hurried over to stand with
the other two to marvel over their unexpected fortune, Rumpel calmly rolled up
the contract, picked up the quill, and wandered toward the room’s only exit, a
thick reinforced door, which stood on the opposite wall from where the treasure
was piled. Baba and Sir Hoariman followed attentively. As they neared the door, Hoariman
stepped past Rumpel and opened it as Rumpel turned back toward the barons, who
still had their backs to him as they continued staring, almost hypnotically, at
their treasure.
“Oh, by the way,” Rumpel called. “There’s one more surprise, something else
that we recovered from the dragon’s castle, which is also right in front of you,
and is part of what you deserve.” He
turned to the witch. “Now,” he said.
Baba looked up and again put a hand to the side of her
mouth. “Divider, ladies!” she yelled.
With that, the far wall of the room behind the treasure
began to rise as the clanking of large shifting iron chains could be heard. Something else could now be heard as well;
the sound of breathing. The sound of something big
breathing. After a few seconds
the ‘wall’ had completely lifted and the three men found themselves peering
over the mounds of treasure at a large, red, angry dragon.
The dragon roared.
The barons screamed.
“Ah!” Rumpel said, amused.
“I believe they’re trickling now!”
As the barons’ guards took up defensive positions which
were brave but doomed, the three barons turned from the beast and began running
toward Rumpel and the lone means of escape.
But Rumpel threw them a mock salute and a moment later he, Baba and Hoariman had stepped through the door, which Hoariman slammed shut and quickly locked behind them. Rumpel and his attendants stared back at the
door. There was some progressively
desperate pounding from the other side, then more screams, and then
silence. A few tendrils of smoke seeped
out from under the door and drifted upward.
Rumpel sighed contentedly.
“Getting rid of an annoying board of busy-body-barons
and their irksome piece of paper: temporary forfeiture of a dragon’s treasure. Doing it without having to
resort to using magic: priceless!”
Rumpel then kissed the newly signed contract, tucked it
away in an inside breast pocked of his coat, and pulled out another piece of
paper. “The Manga
Carpal,” he sneered, unfurling and holding it up. “Well, so much for that! It’s time to put the ‘absolute’ into absolute
monarch, absolute power, and absolute corruption!” With that, he tore the document in half.
At the moment the paper ripped, a resounding clap of
thunder sounded from outside and overhead.
Simultaneously, Hoariman stumbled on his feet,
nearly collapsing, as if he’d taken a great jolt. He staggered backward until the back of his
armored suit clattered against the still-warm wall, keeping him from
falling. He closed his eyes and shook
his head, as if attempting to clear cobwebs.
When he opened his eyes they quickly focused on Rumpel, who was standing
a few feet away beside Baba, both staring back at him, a little smirk on the imp’s
face.
“Oh, my!” Rumpel said. “It appears that the spell that bound you to
the constitutional monarch has been broken, since…well, there is no constitution any longer, is there? No more
silly little bounds on me!”
“Nor on I, you maniacal little punk” Hoariman
said, drawing his sword. Still a bit
groggy but rapidly recovering, he began striding toward the imp.
Just before he reached him, Baba stepped in his way, her
broom held before her.
Hoariman glared at her for a moment, and
then said, “Get out of the way, witch, or else, female or not, I’ll…” with that
he lifted his sword.
Suddenly, and deftly, Baba used her broomstick to swat the
sword aside, then whiling around she swung the broom in an arc and landed the
thick, hard wood against his head, knocking his helmet off and sending it
flying down the hallway. Hoariman stumbled backward again, this time
collapsing. He shook his head and rubbed
it where Baba had struck, feeling the start of swelling. He looked up at her in surprise, only to find
her still standing between him and a smirking Rumpel; she was now holding her
broom in the ready position of a kendo warrior.
“My witches might not be as superficially impressive as
those lazy wand wavers,” Rumpel said. “Especially
when they’re saving their magic for one big, important event, like mine
are. But even without employing magic
they do bring their own particular set of skills. Surprised, much?”
One of Hoariman’s eyes twitched,
a corner of one of his lips curled, and then he stood and launched himself
forward. He and Baba fought for several
seconds, Hoariman’s sword sending some chips flying
off the thick, hardened broomstick but no cuts so deep as to endanger its
integrity, it apparently having a core of something unearthly in addition to
its tough shell, until with a turning, sweeping motion Baba swept her stick
across the back of Hoariman’s ankles, knocking him
off of his feet and bringing him crashing down onto his back with a clattering
of armor. Striking the back of his head
on the stone floor, he was knocked out cold.
Rumpel, hands folded behind him, strolled over and looked
down at his unconscious adversary. “Poor
Sir Hoariman,” Rumpel said in mock sorrow. “You were so good in your time. But this time it’s my time. And I’m afraid your
position of royal protector has been filled.”
Rumpel looked back up to see that Baba had been joined by
five other witches who had wandered in from where they had fulfilled their
roles in handling the Council of Barons through working the levers that moved
the curtain and divider. “Take him to
the dungeon,” he addressed two of them.
As they began dragging Hoariman to his feet
Rumpel turned to another witch and ordered, “Bring me that coronation present
from my special friend.” As she nodded
and departed, Rumpel said, “Now’s the time to strike, ladies, while soldiers
and guards about town are, like our departed knight, just awakening from their
obedience spells and are disoriented and unorganized. Follow me.”
They obediently followed as he led them at a quick pace down another
hallway and onto a balcony of the castle.
Night had fallen some time before, and torches to either side of the
doorway had been lit.
Standing on the balcony, Rumpel and the witches looked
upon downtown Far Far Away. Even at this distance they could hear the
thumping music and see the lights as the citizens, nearly all of whom had
signed prosperity deals with Rumpel, danced and cavorted in happiness and
merriment as they celebrated their newfound wealth. “Ah, yes,” Rumpel mused, taking in the
sight. “So many signatories, so few who
bothered to read the admittedly obscure fine print that directed that all funds
would default to the kingdom treasury in cases of supernatural apocalyptic
events. But, hey, what’s
the odds on that?” Then, with a
little smile, he turned to Baba. “Send
the signal,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” she said, laying her broomstick down and
hurrying back to the doorway. She pulled
out the torches from their wall mounts, hurried back to her place beside Rumpel
and then, holding one torch in each hand and facing the ‘Far Far Away’ sign on
the hillside nearby, began making semaphore signals.
From her position standing atop the first letter ‘F’ in
the ‘Far Far Away’ sign, the witch Griselda peered at Rumpel’s castle through a
spyglass. When she saw Baba’s signal she
cackled, contracted the spyglass and tucked it inside her gown. Then she hopped down from the sign and
hurried up the few yards to the wooded top of the hill. There she found, hidden just inside the tree
line, a row of seven large bubbling cauldrons set about ten yards apart from
each other, each with a pair of witches minding them, one of each pair holding
a large flask of glowing purple liquid. Just
beyond them two dozen tall, brawny barbarians with Asiatic features sat upon muscular
horses.
“Okay, ladies,” Griselda said, “we’ve got the signal. Add the catalysts!”
At the cauldrons, each witch holding a flask poured its
contents into the bubbling brew.
Immediately the boiling increased in intensity and a noxious, luminous purple
plum of smoke began rising from the mixture.
As this was happening, Griselda approached the barbarian
sitting in front of his cohort, a mound of a man of well over three hundred
pounds, nearly all of it muscle. He had
a bald pate, but raven hair grew from around it and fell past his
shoulders. A Fu Manchu moustache framed
a smirking mouth, and bushy eyebrows topped eyes with unnaturally black sclera
and yellow irises. (He really should see an ophthalmologist about that, Griselda thought.) Both he and his massive black steed seemed to
snort as she approached.
“Are you and your men ready, Hun?”
“Any time, sweetie,” he said in a controlled low, measured
baritone. He smirked when he saw her
confused expression and then said, “I prefer to be addressed by my name.
“All right,” Griselda said, “who are you, again?”
“I am Yu,” he said.
She blinked. “You
are me?” she said.
“No,” he replied, voice slightly strained, “I am Yu.”
Griselda snaked her fingers under the brim of her pointy
hat and scratched her crusty scalp for a few seconds. “Whatever,” she eventually said, “just be
ready.” She then turned, looked down
upon the lighted, lively town below, and then cried, “Okay, ladies…pour it on!”
With that, the witches tipped their cauldrons over, their
contents splashing out, spreading apart as they spilled downhill, and then
congealing together and forming a dully luminescent purple mass of thick fog that
streamed down the hillside, around the ‘Far Far Away’ sign and on toward the
town below, roiling like a pyroclastic flow.
“Wait for it…” Griselda said as she watched the cloud
advance. It had reached a height of ten
feet and was rising still when it eventually hit the outskirts of town. It then flowed over, around, and through the
town, the sounds of revelry turning to screams of fear as the town was plunged
into a violet haze.
“All right,” Griselda said, turning to Yu. “Remember, you can sack and pillage the
property, but no deaths. Understood?”
Yu sneered down at her.
“I quite recall the terms of our agreement with your ‘king’. And that rather surprised me, as he did not
strike me as a…humanitarian.”
“Ha! He’s hardly
that,” she scoffed. “But, as he puts it,
‘What’s the point of being a tyrant if you don’t have plenty of underlings
around to tyrannize?’”
“Hmm.
Yes, that does sound more…consistent,” Yu said. “Very well. Nobody dies…”
He then drew a long, zigzag bladed sword, and quick as a wink he was pointing
it down with the tip of the blade just beneath Griselda’s jaw, near her throat. She gave an abortive gasp and stared, wide
eyed, up at him. He smiled smugly, and
concluded, “…not even those who deserve to.”
A moment later, apparently satisfied with the level of
terror he saw in Griselda’s eyes, he swung the blade away from her and pointed
it toward the town below. “YAH!” he
yelled, and leaning forward with the sword still held aloft, he began galloping
down the hillside. A moment later his
men made assorted war whoops and followed.
As Yu rode between the first ‘A’ and second ‘F’ of the ‘Far Far Away’
sign, he swung at the wooden supports of the ‘F’, splintering them with one
blow and sending the letter toppling. Many
of his men struck at other letters or their supports that they rode past, downing
or damaging them, leaving the sign looking like it had been attacked by a swarm
of giant termites.
Still standing on the castle balcony, Rumpel watched the roaring
horde following the mist down the hillside toward the town, his steepled fingertips tapping each other. “Good…good…” he muttered with a warped but
contented smile. Then he noticed that,
where the mist began to dissipate where it had begun rolling down the hillside,
it left the shrubs and small trees leafless, and from the fading luminescence
he could see that even the grass seemed to be withering away. “Oh, dear!” he observed with mock
concern. “It seems that the warnings
about the chemicals used in this spell being harmful to plant life were
true. How
inconvenient!” Then his smile
turned wry. “For the people down there,
that is.”
“Sir!” said a voice from beside him. Rumpel turned to see that the witch he had
sent for his coronation gift had returned and was holding it out to him.
“Very good!” he said, taking it from her. He paused for a moment to admire it: a glistening
golden violin, with an inscription that read, ‘To my friend Rumpel – You truly are the king of deal-makers, and I
should know!’ and signed with an ornate cursive ‘L’ whose elongated tail
ended with a little spade-shaped point.
“And it’s still warm!” Rumpel chuckled as he took the bow and rested the
violin beneath his chin. “How about a
little mood music?” he said, and started playing Danse Macabre as the sounds of pandemonium rose from the town below.