Crimpelstiltskin

“Crimpelstiltskin! Where are you, boy?” A short man called into his vast workshop, mostly filled with baskets of wool or finished yarn.

                  It made a wonderful place to hide, as Crimp, or Crimpelstiltskin, had discovered early on in life. He had also learned that if he stayed very quiet and very still that eventually, with much cursing, Rumpelstiltskin would leave him be.

                  “You’ve idled long enough! Time to get back to work, you filthy little bugger.”

                  “Go away,” Crimp thought, as if he hoped to move Rumpelstiltskin like a puppet. “I already did what you asked. Let me rest.”

                  He heard the shuffling of Rumpelstiltskin as he moved baskets around, searching for him. He was getting too close for Crimp’s comfort.

                  Crimp got up from the floor and began to creep away from Rumpelstiltskin. All he heard were his own footsteps.

                  “Oh, crap,” Crimp thought.

                  It was too late. Rumpelstiltskin leapt from behind one of the baskets and had Crimp by the ear.

                  “There you are! You know, boy, you should find a new ‘hiding’ place. This one has become too predictable, I think.” Rumpelstiltskin pressed his large, pointy face into Crimp’s. Although he was a good foot and a half shorter than Crimp, he was strong for his size.

                  “Well, boy? What have you got to say for yourself?”

                  “Sorry, Uncle,” Crimp muttered. “I won’t do it again.”

                  “That’s what you said last time.” Rumpelstiltskin dropped Crimp on his bum. “Now, boy, march! I want supper ready in an hour. And don’t burn anything just to spite me. I’ll make you pay for it two fold.”

                  “Yes, Uncle,” Crimp said curtly, rushing off to the kitchen.

                  Once there, Crimp began dragging out the pots and pans, just as he did every afternoon. The iron pot was so rusted the food cooked in it came out reddish and the handle of the frying pan would have fallen off if he hadn’t taken it to the smith’s behind his uncle’s back.

                  It was just another reason Crimp had to get out, away from the hours of winding hanks of yarn, away from Rumpelstiltskin’s hollering. He wanted to go back to where he had come. The only problem was that he didn’t know where that was. Rumpelstiltskin was careful to keep that secret.

                  Later that night, after a well laid supper and several mugs of grog for Rumpelstiltskin, the little house filled with his ramblings. He spoke of clouds, a pimple, and other pointless things. Crimp knew that Rumpelstiltskin was harmless when he was drunk.

                  It was a typical Sunday dinner until Rumpelstiltskin said:

                  “If you want to blame anyone, blame it on your mother.”

Crimp almost didn’t respond, for the statement shocked him so. He was never told anything about his parents. “Blame what on my mother?”

                  “Blame her for why you were here. You were here with me weren’t you? Back in… That silly girl was the one to make the deals with me.”

                  “I was traded for?” All these years Crimp assumed that Rumpilstiltkin had stolen him from a crib somewhere.

                  “Uncle,” Crimp started cautiously, “you say my mother was a silly girl. Why was she silly?”

                  Rumpelstiltskin let out a loud boom of laughter, “The poor, silly wretch wanted me to spin straw into gold for her. To impress a king, no less! The first two times she paid me in jewelry. The third, she promised me her first born.” He took another gulp of grog before continuing, “I bet she didn’t expect to be having kids anytime soon.

                  “After having you, though, she felt differently about the matter. So I, Nice-Guystiltskins, gave her a puzzle to solve. Not to mention three days to solve it. If she did, she could keep the child and I’d go away quietly. If not, I got the baby as my helper.

                  “She collected names from throughout the kingdom, from the most common to the strangest. You wouldn’t believe what some people name their kids!

                  “Finally, she sent a woodsman to follow me home. He caught me chanting my little song about the fire, drinking my grog. I bet he thought I was drunk! Well not this little man, no sirie. I heard him coming and quickly changed my little song. I replaced my name with one from a little rhyme my mother use to read me.”

                  Crimp stopped darning the hole in his jacket. Rumpelstiltskin usually would have been suspicious of Crimp’s rapt attention, but now he was too drunk to care. Crimp was hatching a plan. He just needed Rumpelstiltskin to let one piece of information slide off his greasy tongue.

                  He took another swig of his drink, “Ah, it was satisfactory, seeing the triumph in your mother’s eyes when she announced me as ‘Rumpelstiltskin.’ But, of course, she was wrong and you were mine. Yes, she was a silly girl to think she could get the best of me.”

                  “Uncle, I don’t mean to pry, but just what is your name?”

                  “My name boy? Nobody knows my name. Not even I do.” He stopped to consider this last statement.

                  “Wait! I know my name, it’s…”

                  Crimp listened eagerly.

                  Thump! The little man’s large head hit the table.

                  Crimp felt his heart drop into his stomach. More than ever did he want to escape Rumpelstiltskin’s house.

                  Two days had passed since Crimp had finally demanded his freedom.

                  Rumpelstiltskin had laughed, finding Crimp’s request…well, laughable.

                  Crimp, however, stood stubbornly by his offer: if he guessed Rumpelstiltskin’s true name in three days, he would be free. If not, he would stay and work without another peep out of him.

The little man had been suspicious. He knew he had been drunk the other day and hoped he hadn’t given the boy any clues.

                  Crimp insisted that he hadn’t told. He remembered too vividly the disappointment he had felt after Rumpelstiltskin conked out at the table.

                  Rumpelstiltskin had considered. No one, no animal, plant, or human for that matter, knew his name. He’ll never get it and I’ll have a hard worker to boot.

                  With this in mind, he had promptly agreed.

Crimp was now straightening out the papers on Rumpelstiltskin’s desk. Rumpelstiltskin had claimed, proudly, that he hadn’t cleaned it for fifty years.

                  “I need names!” Crimp thought. “Either that or someone who would know his name.”

                  His hand landed on a small book. Crimp saw its title and grinned. He just stood there and grinned.

                  The next day at lunch Rumpelstiltskin strode up to Crimp, smiling smugly.

                  “Well, any luck? Any new names?”

                  “Not yet,” Crimp responded calmly. “I have company coming at three. I hope that’s all right?”

                  Rumpelstiltskin snorted and began to walk away. Nothing could spoil his mood now.                   “For today, yes, but don’t do it again, hear?”

                  “Yes, Uncle.”

The clock chimed three in Rumpelstiltskin’s workroom. Rumpelstiltskin looked at the clock and smiled to himself. Crimp’s first, and last, guest should be arriving any time know.

                  Not that I care. After today, all he shall do is work.

                  He had only sat down at his spinning wheel when the door flew open.

                  “Jean Marie!” a loud, female voice cried.

                  Before he could move, Rumpelstiltskin found himself in the chokehold of his mother’s arms.

                  Behind her, Crimp smiled broadly, holding Rumpelstiltskin’s address book.