Mr Rumpels Tiltskin

“The rain’s coming in again,” Linda sighed as she peered through the hole in the attic roof.

Her mother, Alice Miller, barely looked up from her knitting. “Fear not, my child, we’ll find a way, for I’ll spin straw into gold today,” she sang.

“Can you turn raindrops into rubies, too, Mother?” Harry asked, stirring in the dust at their mother’s feet. Linda turned away at her brother’s words, pitying his ignorance, though a pang of jealousy flared in her heart as well, for so often had she longed to escape into the mind of her younger self and forget what it was to worry. She picked at the rotting floorboards and sighed.

“Of course I can, darling,” their mother said, humouring him. “But we have no want or need for wealth and greed, as my father should’ve known.”

“He’s really changed his ways, hasn’t he?” Harry asked and their mother smiled.

“Yes, your dear grandfather doesn’t boast or lie any more – not to a single soul.”

“I’ll bet he would if he could, though,” Linda muttered. “If only they hadn’t cut out his tongue.”

Their mother frowned. “You shouldn’t –” she broke off, turning an ear to the attic stairs as her eyes grew wide in horror.

“Hide, darlings!” she cried, ushering her children towards the darkest corner of the attic. As they reached it Linda grabbed her brother’s arm and pulled him down beside her.

A moment later a man with a long nose and wary eyes strode into view, his military boots striking the floorboards. “Ms Miller,” he said in a nasty voice, “I am quite certain I heard a sound. Who were you talking to?”

“Only myself, sir,” their mother replied, smiling weakly. “I often sing to myself – it helps the work go by faster.”

She glanced eagerly at his face but their visitor hardly seemed to be listening as he looked about the attic, turning his nose up in disgust. “Well, my dear, I’m a frightfully busy man, as you well know, and can’t stay for long. What have you got for me this time and let us hope for both our sakes that it’s better than the tarnished necklace you gave me before.”

“Perhaps this will better suit the gentleman?” Alice Miller asked, sliding a copper ring from her finger and dropping it into his hand. “It eases pain in the bones,” she explained, “and is particularly good in this winter chill.”

The man’s expression was as hard and cold as stone as he stared at the ring. “I will take it today, my dear,” he said. “But let me warn you now: if you haven’t got anything more precious to give by my next visit, I will have to evict you from the house. Shelter is not given free of charge, after all.” He strode from the room, his dark overcoat swirling in a great arc before disappearing down the stairs.

The rain was unrelenting over the next week and under the hole in the attic roof a deep puddle was beginning to form. Linda and her brother sat beside it, soaking up the water with whatever scraps of fabric they could find. The work was dreadfully boring, for the pound of rain against the roof was so loud that conversation was drowned out – and so was the sound of heavy footsteps echoing up the stairs.

“AHA!” a sharp voice cried. Linda turned in horror as their unwelcome visitor rushed into the room. “So this is what you’ve been hiding from me!”

She was numb with fear, but somehow managed to grab her brother’s hand and back into the shadows to hide. She pressed a comforting hand to Harry’s face, fighting the desire to squeeze her eyes shut and pretend this wasn’t happening.

“Tell me, Ms Miller,” the man said, his hungry eyes roaming the shadows where Linda and her brother were hiding, “what will you give me this time?”

“Please, sir,” their mother sobbed, “I have nothing left to give.”

“Don’t you?” With two long strides he crossed the attic, his heavy boots clunking, and grabbed Linda’s wrist. “Let me take a look at you, girlie,” he said, pulling her into the light.

“No!” Linda gasped, struggling to release herself. Her captor twisted her arm and she cried out in pain, silent tears running down her face.

He pressed his thumb against her cheek, smudging her tears and seeming to wipe the dirt away. “You’re a pretty one,” he growled, “and sure to make a bundle on the market.”

“NO!” Alice Miller cried and threw herself upon the man’s feet. “Please, have mercy. Linda is just a child!”

The man seemed to consider her for a moment, his cold grey eyes set on Linda’s. “I’ll give you one more chance,” he said at last. “My name is famous in the wealthier classes, though I doubt it has penetrated the scum in which you live. I will return in three days and if by then you can guess my name you may keep the child.” He scowled and pushed Linda back toward her mother before striding from the room.

“Oh, my dear Linda,” Alice Miller sobbed, extending an arm to her daughter. “If only there was something we could do.”

“I have an idea, Mother,” Harry said, and for once Linda did not pity the look of childish exuberance on her brother’s face. “The man said he’s famous among the wealthier classes, and the place all people with money visit is the bank. I could hide beside the entrance and listen for the man’s name.”

“Bless you, child,” their mother said, kissing him. “The stairs to the bank may be long and wide, but they will easily hide a child lurking in their midst. Go, Harry – your sister’s fate depends on you!”

It might have been the longest day Linda ever lived. The work was tiring without her brother’s help, and though the rain had long stopped, the puddle on the floor loomed larger than ever. All the while her mother knitted, though sometimes between the clacking of the needles she heard her sing: “Shh, Linda, don’t fret – we’ll discover that man’s name yet.”

At last they heard the sound of Harry’s light footsteps on the stairs. He was cold and tired, though as he curled up on the floor at his mother’s feet he repeated each name to her that he had heard and committed to memory, and which their mother wrote in chalk upon the floor. All were common names like “Robert Tilbury” and “Samuel Billings,” though Harry said he was sure the name they were searching for would be a little more exotic than these.

The second day passed much like the first, and by the third day Linda found herself in quite an anxious state. They had but a few hours to find a name that Harry thought would be somehow different, Linda was sure belonged to a man of strong heritage and their mother believed would be spoken with great reverence in light of his powerful threats.

It was almost dark when at last Harry appeared, tired and worn as ever, but this time with a spark of hope dancing in his eyes. He relayed what he had seen – a story about two men who, upon leaving the bank, had spoken of a “Mr Tiltskin” who had docked the entire day’s pay of a worker who had pronounced his name incorrectly.

“It’s a German name,” Harry explained, “and pronounced Rumpels Tiltskin. Say it just like that, Mother, for I’m sure it’s the right one.”

Barely ten minutes passed before they heard the heavy clomp of boots upon the stairs and their visitor arrived, striding confidently across the room.

“Tell me what my name is or I will take the girl,” he said, his eyes gleaming at Linda.

“I hardly think that will be necessary, Mr Rumpels Tiltskin,” Alice Miller said and the man gaped at her.

“Someone told you!” he cried, stomping his boots upon the floor. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the rotting floorboards gave way, crashing onto the ground below and taking their visitor with them.

“Is he dead?” Linda breathed, feeling herself tremble all over.

Their mother peered into the dark hole in the floor. “Yes, dear,” she said and, casting away her knitting needles and wool, pulled her children into a hug. “There’s nothing to worry about now,” she whispered, kissing each child upon the cheek.

And for once Ms Miller was right, for within days of Mr Tiltskin’s death Linda found a large collection of gold coins scattered across the floor below. Though she often wondered in those coming days about where the money had come from, she couldn’t help but suspect it had fallen from the wealthy man’s pockets as he clattered to a halt upon the floor.