Grimm Truths: The Spinner

Don’t ask me my name – that's a bit of a sore point. Just call me "The Spinner", like everyone else does.

No one ever comes up here, you know... not that it bothers me. I can’t say I blame them. There’s nothing to do up here, nothing to look at. No trees, no flowers. Everything’s dead. No life of any sort in sight. I think someone would only come up here to die, to sit here and wait for Death. That's my plan, at least... and it seems like he’s never far away.

I think about the others down there sometimes: happy and safe in their little village, with their houses and their families. I wonder if they’re still talking about me? Maybe they haven’t given me a moment’s thought… it wouldn't surprise me. I’m old news now. It was all lies, anyway – not a word of what was said is true. But that didn’t matter, it still spread like wildfire. Everyone started using that bloody word I hate so much. The “K” word. I can only think of one word worse than that – and I never want to hear that again.

I had a home once. I had a family. A mother and father. I remember when I was a kid... Dad would slave away at the spinning wheel in his workshop, and I’d just sit there, watching him, for hours on end. He’d talk to me, father to son, handing down his wisdom. Little nuggets like “Come away from there”, “I bloody mean it”, and my personal favourite, “Don’t you start crying, because that was an accident waiting to happen, you little sod.”

But Mum… Mum was different. She never snapped. She was calm, gentle. And she loved cooking – loved it. She was always in the kitchen, making some creation for me and Dad. She spoiled us both, but me especially. Maybe it was because I was an only child… her little treasure. I think she’d have liked more children, but, for whatever reason, they never came. It’s probably for the best: we would have run her ragged, three or four kids tearing lumps out of each other, as the little beggars do. But I bet they wouldn’t have messed their lives up like I have. They’d have made her proud.

Amazing how the media twists things, isn't it? I’m shocked that you came out here to track me down. God, the things they said… “KIDNAPPER IN FOILED PLOT TO STEAL NEWBORN PRINCE”. There it is again – that damn “K” word. They never asked me what my motives were, did they? The lad’s picture is on the front page of every paper. Doesn't look anything like His Highness, does he?

She was nothing until I came along. Just some manically-depressed jailbird overwhelmed with
hayfever. The miller's daughter, locked up under the orders of the Royal Family. It was her father's fault. Of all the stupid things to say! “My daughter can spin straw into gold, isn't she wonderful?”. Everyone knows that making gold is my family's secret, and as for spinning, we can't be beat. If she’d really figured out how to do it, my dad would have dragged her into court before she could draft the fibre. But that's beside the point. If it wasn't for me, Miss Social Climber would still be in that bloody dungeon, which is a sign of a troubled potential marriage if ever I saw one. (He’s a funny one, that Prince.)

I remember the night I first met her. I was strolling along through the village one night - just having a good old “mooch”, you know – when I heard the sound of crying coming from the ground below me. I looked down, and spotted a window, built low-down into the wall beside me. Being the nosy bleeder that I am, I flung myself to the floor and peered in.

That’s when I saw her.  

Beautiful, even when clad in a hand-me-down dress. She was weeping as though the
very world was ending. I always was a sucker for a pretty girl. Being too damn nice for my own good, I decided to find out what was wrong. I carefully lowered myself further and slid in through the window… only I went through backwards like an idiot and ended up falling arse over brains into a pile of hay.

She was horrified when she first saw me. That’s a common reaction in the women I’ve met - I'm not exactly an Adonis, after all - but after a while, she began to warm up to me a little. She explained about her father’s stupid deal, and how she was pretty much done for unless she got hold of more gold than King Midas possessed by the next morning. So, I sat myself down at her spinning wheel and put my genetic gift of gold-spinning sorcery to good use. After a while, she sat down beside me: talking to me and laughing at my jokes as I worked. I remember her dreamy gaze as she watched me work. That’s why I called her what I called her… “Blue Eyes”.

She gave me these funny little presents. Necklaces and bracelets. She’d got them from the market, like, but it’s the thought that counts. I knew deep down that I shouldn't have done the job for her. It’s a miracle Dad hasn’t tried to sue me. He and Mum must know by now – the story, or at least one version of it, is flying around on every piece of media known to man. But I can’t change things now. I did what I did. I felt sorry for the poor cow.

I really loved her, you know. She loved me too - she told me so herself. When I visited her for the last time, we decided to express our affection for each other. It was all her idea, not mine. She led me on. All right, all right – maybe we went too far, too soon, but we were in love.... or so I thought, anyway. I truly believed we'd be together forever. I never would have guessed what was about to happen.

She didn’t even know my name.

Anyway, the morning came and I legged it before Prince High-and Mighty could get there and tan my hide. He was chuffed to bits with his new “bling”… told the young lady that they’d get married. And did she stand up for herself after her “sweetheart” treated her so badly? Say to him, “Stuff that, son, I’ve met a better man”? No. She just went with it. It turned out she'd had a thing for him all along. It seemed that I was just a pit-stop on her road to romance.

They’d “met” on the Thursday - well, that’s the day Blue Eyes’ father sent her to His Majesty to do his long-needed alchemy work - and they were married on the Saturday. A fairytale wedding. Shame it was the wrong groom. Fancy do, mind. Cake with more tiers than a hotel, five fields’ worth of flowers, so much wine it could fill a fountain. Not that I was there, of course. A lowly spinner like me wasn't exactly high up the guest list.

Then again, there were so many wedding photos knocking about, I probably saw more of the day than those who were there. Normally I leave the glossy mags to the ladies, but I had to read it once I saw her on the cover. Long white dress, hair like silk, that shining smile: the image of a princess. And there, on her left hand, a wedding ring – forged from the gold I’d made for her. A perfect circle against her beautiful, soft skin, binding her to him – and me - forever.

Nothing much happened for a while after that. I heard through the grapevine that a regal bundle of joy was on the way, but I thought nothing of it. I’d lost my girl to the handsome prince. The underdog had lost the fight. I just wished all manner of curse upon Princey Perfect, muttering to myself in rage. But that changed when I saw the birth announcement all those long months later.

I was at a tavern up in the hills, drowning my still-present sorrows. Bored out of my mind, I picked up a copy of the paper that someone had left on the stool beside mine. Five minutes later, I was still apologising to the barman. Well, it's standard procedure when you've spat beer out everywhere.

The picture of the child on the front page revealed all. There was no doubt about it - he was mine. He had my nose, my mouth, and his mother's blue eyes.

I felt dizzy. My breath quickened. My heart raced.

My son. The future king was my son. I wanted him to know everything. He had to know about his true heritage. One day, he’d make his father – his true father - equal to his mother. No more sad little spinner. The courtiers would have to treat me with the respect I’d worked so hard to gain. I had fathered respect itself.

I was elated, excited, ecstatic. So much so, in fact, that I got a round in for the whole pub and spent an interesting night on the bar-room floor, but I digress.

I saw him for the first time the next night. The “proud papa” wasn’t around – he was off on some sort of hunting trip. He’d seemed to have gone on a lot of “hunting trips” since he’d got married… something told me that the bride wasn’t the only one hiding something. I snuck into the royal chamber, and that's where I saw him - sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms as she sang a lullaby. She always did have a lovely voice. 

Blue Eyes screamed upon the sight of me, her unwelcome visitor. She demanded to know - quite rightly, I suppose – what the hell I thought I was doing there.

“Look, flower,” I said, deciding the direct approach was best, “I've seen the pictures, OK? I know the lad’s mine. All I want is visiting rights. The basic paternal package, you know?”

Her reply was brief but clear.

“Piss off!”

Well, you can take the girl out of the rough, but you can’t take the rough out of the girl. Seeing my confusion, she decided to elaborate.

“As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “my son is my husband’s. You were a one-night stand. As if I could truly love a lowly spinner when I have a prince! Now get out of my sight, and stay out, before I call the guards.”

I’m used to offensive talk – I've been involved in a few bar brawls in my time. So I just smiled and played it cool. 

“I thought royals respected their subjects?”, I said to her. “Anyway, love, you forget that I know the truth. If you don’t respect my paternal rights, I’ll go to the press and tell them everything. Where the gold came from, how the baby got here… nothing spared. So unless you want your reputation ruined, I’d be a bit more welcoming, all right?”

She glared at me, her blue eyes now blazing with anger, not love.

“You wouldn't dare,” she hissed.

“Wanna bet?” I replied, feeling cocky.

Those damn words haunt me to this day. Blue Eyes thought about my taunt for a moment, and then smiled.

“All right, spinner… I will,” she cooed. “Name your game.”

I thought my idea was failproof.

""Name", eh?”, I said. “OK. You've three days to find out mine,” I told her. “If you guess it, I’ll go away and pretend none of this ever happened. But, if not, you must publicly acknowledge the child as mine and allow me access to him. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said.

I left then, desperately holding back laughter. I had a very unique name. As far as I was concerned, she hadn't got a hope in hell. 

The first two nights that I returned were hilarious. Not even the wisest men in court could figure out my name. Their guesses - all of them boring, everyday names - had me in hysterics. 

I was starting to feel pretty sure of myself, so I started to celebrate a bit prematurely. I went back to the tavern where I’d first learnt of my son’s existence – a bit of a symbolic gesture, I suppose – and got absolutely hammered on practically every drink in the place. (You've probably figured out by now that moderation isn't one of my strong points.) 

It was Karaoke Night - even if Wednesday is a funny night for it - so I got up there and sung a song to the intoxicated crowd. They would soon know that the prince wasn't what they believed he was. They needn't fear him when he became king. He was the same as them: a commoner. There wasn't a drop of regal blood in his body. I made up a tune and words as I went: a song mocking Blue Eyes and her stupidity for agreeing to play my game. I even sung out my name as a lyric.

Of course, if I’d known about the private detective at the time, I’d have kept my mouth shut. (He
even bought me a pint, the cheeky bastard.)

The third night came. Her Highness played the innocent at first, suggesting more stupid names
and giving me the giggles. It would all be over soon. The kingdom would know that the Prince was my son. 

But then she said it. With one word… four syllables… I was destroyed.

The courtiers laughing… at my downfall, at my name. I still hear them as I sleep, echoing and ringing in my head. The loudest sound is that of the lady on the throne, who laughed at me most of all - her blue eyes, once bright and loving, now mocking and cold.

Both rage and sorrow enslaved me. I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream out the truth, to tell them all that Her Highness wasn't as wonderful as they all thought. But, damn it all, I couldn't. Despite the growing anger, I still felt love for my child. I wouldn't destroy his future, yet I wouldn't become a jester to the court either: a figure to laugh at whenever they got bored. So I turned and left without a word, slamming the door behind me, shutting my son out of my life forever. 

I walked out of the palace. Then I ran. I sprinted all the way to the border, but I didn't stop. I just ran on. I hadn't a clue where I was going, but I knew I never wanted to go back to where I’d come from. A few days later, I reached this place. A cold bare cave on a foreign hill. 

I've been here ever since.

I heard what Blue Eyes told the people. It was the same lie she told the courtiers to get them to help her. She admitted that she hadn't spun the straw into gold herself and that it was me all along - that’s one small victory, at least - but she claimed I’d only done it as part of some horrible deal. Apparently I wanted to take away the first-born child of herself and her husband, and place the royal line in jeopardy! How ridiculous! If I cared for her enough to help free her from a dungeon, why the hell would I want to take her child away? Still, the morons bought it - hook, line and sinker. It’s true what they say: small lies will lead to bigger ones. As you'd expect, I don’t feel any love for her now. If her husband found another woman to rule beside him and kicked her out, I’d laugh. No doubt he'd have to make up lies about her to justify a separation, but hey - what goes around comes around.
       
Well, what else can I say? Right now, my son is growing up in a palace, surrounded by riches – riches I created – while his father lives as an exile. I suppose I should be grateful, in some ways. My son will have a good education and a decent life, better than anything I could offer him out here. But, as hard as his mother may try, his true heritage will come through one day. I'm not sure how, but it will. Maybe it will be when the young one finds his foil-wrapped chocolate coins have suddenly become a lot more realistic. Maybe he’ll take after his dad and be handy with a spinning wheel. Maybe, as he grows older, his smile will be like the smile I gave Blue Eyes when she agreed to play my game: whenever her son is happy, she'll be reminded of me, and her joy will become her curse.

At any rate, I know the truth will come out.

Long Live the Little Prince.