Rumpelstiltskin

In a kingdom where ambition often overshadowed truth, there lived a miller who had a beautiful daughter with hair like spun gold and eyes that reflected the sky. Though they lived modestly, the miller was consumed by dreams of grandeur and the desire to elevate their station in life.

One autumn day, when the king was traveling through the countryside, he stopped at the miller’s humble mill to observe its operations. The miller, seeing an opportunity to impress the monarch, bowed deeply.

“Your Majesty,” he declared, his voice quivering with excitement, “not only does my mill produce the finest flour in the kingdom, but my daughter possesses a most extraordinary ability—she can spin straw into gold!”

The king’s eyes widened with interest, for his treasury had been depleted by years of extravagance and war. “Can she indeed?” he asked, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Such a talent would be most valuable to my kingdom.”

The miller, caught in his own lie, could only nod enthusiastically. “Yes, Your Majesty. Her skill is unmatched.”

“Then bring her to my castle tomorrow,” commanded the king. “I shall see this remarkable ability for myself.”

When the miller returned home, his daughter was horrified by what he had done. “Father!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “How could you tell such a tale? You know I cannot spin straw into gold! No one can!”

The miller wrung his hands in despair. “I was caught up in the moment, my child. But think—if you marry the king, our troubles will be over.”

“The king will not marry me,” the girl sobbed. “He will execute me for your deception!”

Nevertheless, the following morning, royal guards escorted the terrified young woman to the castle. The king led her to a chamber filled with straw and containing a spinning wheel.

“Here you will stay until morning,” he declared sternly. “If by dawn you have spun this straw into gold, you shall be rewarded handsomely. If not…” He left the threat unspoken, but his meaning was clear.

The door closed with a heavy thud, and the lock turned. The miller’s daughter sank to the floor in despair, knowing her fate was sealed. She had never even used a spinning wheel before, let alone possessed magical abilities.

As midnight approached, her tears flowed freely. Suddenly, a peculiar sound—like the crackle of autumn leaves underfoot—drew her attention to the window. To her astonishment, it swung open, and into the chamber hopped a small, strange-looking man with a pointed beard and eyes that glinted like polished obsidian.

“Why do you weep, fair maiden?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly melodious for one so diminutive.

Between sobs, the miller’s daughter explained her predicament. The little man circled the room, examining the straw and the spinning wheel with curious interest.

“I can solve your problem,” he declared, rubbing his hands together. “I can spin this straw into gold before dawn.”

Hope flickered in the girl’s heart. “You would do this for me?”

The little man’s smile revealed teeth as pointed as his beard. “Not for nothing, dear child. What will you give me in return?”

The miller’s daughter, having been brought to the castle in haste, had few possessions with her. She removed a simple necklace—a gift from her mother before she passed—and offered it to the stranger.

The little man examined the modest piece, then nodded. “It will do.”

With surprising agility, he seated himself at the spinning wheel. His feet barely reached the treadle, but his hands moved with uncanny speed. The wheel began to whir, and before the astonished girl’s eyes, the straw fed into the wheel emerged as gleaming golden thread, which the little man deftly wound onto the spindle.

Throughout the night, the strange visitor worked tirelessly. The miller’s daughter, exhausted from her ordeal, eventually fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of the spinning wheel. When she awoke at dawn, the chamber glittered with spools of golden thread, and the little man was gone, taking her necklace with him.

When the king entered and saw the miracle that had been performed, his greedy eyes shone with delight. “Impressive!” he exclaimed. “But can you replicate this feat?”

Before she could answer, the king led her to a larger chamber filled with even more straw. “Spin this by morning,” he commanded, “and I shall consider your achievement genuine.”

Once again locked alone with an impossible task, the miller’s daughter wept until midnight, when the window creaked open and the same little man appeared.

“My, my,” he cackled, surveying the increased quantity of straw. “Your situation has not improved, has it?”

“Please help me,” she begged. “I have nothing left to give except this ring.” She slipped a silver band from her finger—another memento of her mother.

The little man examined the ring closely before pocketing it. “Very well.”

Again, he worked through the night, his small form a blur of motion as the spinning wheel transformed straw into gold. By morning, the room shimmered with the precious metal, and the little man had vanished once more.

The king’s amazement and avarice grew upon seeing the second chamber filled with gold. He led the miller’s daughter to a third room, larger than both previous chambers combined and overflowing with straw.

“Spin this by morning,” he declared, “and you shall become my queen. For only a woman of such extraordinary value deserves to sit beside me on the throne.”

The prospect of becoming queen brought the miller’s daughter no joy, for she knew the task was impossible without help, and she had nothing left to barter with. As midnight approached, she waited anxiously by the window.

True to form, the little man appeared, his eyes gleaming more intensely than before. “Your challenge grows, yet your resources diminish,” he observed wryly. “What will you offer me tonight?”

“I have nothing left,” she admitted, tears welling in her eyes.

The little man stroked his pointed beard thoughtfully. “Nothing? Then I shall name my price.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Your firstborn child.”

The miller’s daughter recoiled in horror. “My child? I cannot promise such a thing!”

“Then I bid you good fortune with your spinning,” the little man said, turning toward the window.

“Wait!” she cried, desperate. The prospect of immediate death outweighed the hypothetical loss of a child she did not yet have—might never have if she failed. “I accept your terms.”

With a satisfied smile, the little man set to work. By morning, the chamber overflowed with golden thread, and the king’s jubilation knew no bounds. True to his word, he made preparations for the wedding, and within a week, the miller’s daughter became queen.

As the months passed, the new queen found unexpected happiness in her marriage. The king, while still consumed by material wealth, showed her genuine affection. When she discovered she was with child, both joy and dread filled her heart, for she remembered her terrible promise.

After the birth of a beautiful son, the queen allowed herself to hope that the little man had forgotten their bargain. But on the night the moon was full, as she sat in the royal nursery singing a lullaby to her infant, the window flew open, and the familiar figure appeared.

“I have come to collect what is mine,” he declared, advancing toward the cradle.

The queen clutched her baby protectively to her chest. “Please,” she begged, “ask for anything else. I will give you all the wealth of the kingdom!”

“I have no need for gold I can spin myself,” the little man replied. “A living child is far more precious.”

Seeing her distress, and perhaps possessing a shred of compassion, the little man proposed a alternative. “I shall give you three days,” he offered. “If within that time you can guess my name, you may keep your child. If not, the baby is mine.”

Hope flickered within the queen’s heart, for surely amongst all the names in the world, his could not be impossible to guess. She agreed to the terms, and the little man departed with a cryptic smile.

The following evening, he returned to hear her attempts. The queen had compiled a list of every name she had ever encountered.

“Is it Caspar?” she asked. “No,” came the reply. “Melchior?” “No.” “Balthazar?”

With each guess, the little man’s smile grew, and he danced with increasing glee around the nursery. “Wrong, wrong, all wrong!”

The first night ended in failure, as did the second, despite the queen having messengers collect unusual names from every corner of the kingdom.

On the afternoon of the third day, as despair began to overwhelm her, one of the queen’s hunters returned from a distant forest with an unusual tale.

“Your Majesty,” he reported, “while tracking deer near the mountain, I came upon a curious sight—a small cottage I had never noticed before, with smoke curling from its chimney. As I approached, I heard strange singing and saw a peculiar little man dancing around a fire, chanting:

‘Today I brew, tomorrow I bake, And then the royal child I’ll take; For little knows my royal dame That Rumpelstiltskin is my name!’”

The queen’s heart leapt with joy and relief. She rewarded the hunter generously and awaited the little man’s final visit with renewed confidence.

When he appeared that night, practically vibrating with anticipation, the queen pretended to struggle with her guesses.

“Is your name Conrad?” she asked. “No,” he giggled. “Perhaps… Harry?” “Wrong again!” he cackled, already reaching toward the cradle. “Then… could it be… Rumpelstiltskin?”

The little man’s face contorted with rage. “The devil told you that!” he shrieked, stamping his foot so forcefully that it sank into the floor up to his knee.

In his fury, he seized his other leg with both hands and pulled with such violence that he tore himself in two, vanishing in a puff of smoke that smelled of brimstone and autumn leaves.

The queen, trembling with relief, gathered her child close, vowing never again to allow deception—her father’s or her own—to endanger those she loved. From that day forward, she ruled alongside her husband with honesty and wisdom, ensuring that the kingdom valued truth as much as gold.

And whenever she passed a spinning wheel, she would pause and whisper a word of gratitude for the hunter whose keen observation had saved her child, and a quiet blessing for all children to be safe from bargains made in moments of desperation.

As for Rumpelstiltskin, some claimed to hear his distinctive cackle on particularly dark nights, while others insisted he had indeed perished in his rage. But all agreed on one thing: the power of a name, once known, could break even the most binding of magical contracts—a lesson worth more than all the gold in the royal treasury.