Spun (3 page)

Tillz hated coming into the village, hated leaving his secluded hut in the woods and venturing out among the people. He had become accustomed to his solitude and found the presence of others disconcerting. Thankfully, he needed to travel to the village only rarely, having become mostly self-sufficient over the years. Still, there were a few items he could not make, a few food staples he could not kill or trap for himself, and so venture into the village he must a few times each year. On these visits, he conducted his business as efficiently as possible, dealt only with a few trusted merchants, and returned to his forest sanctuary as quickly as he could.

He crossed the main road, now reduced to a slowly moving river of mud, and passed two men coming in the opposite direction. With his usual uncanny perceptiveness, he determined after only a quick glance they were a father and adolescent son.

Tillz had just passed the duo when he heard the older man whisper from behind him, “It’s ’im. It’s the
rumpelstilzchen
.”

Tillz scowled.

“Nonsense, Father,” the son replied. “The
rumpelstilzchen
is just a legend, he doesn’t exist.”

If Tillz were given to such action, he would have smiled at the son’s tone—like a patient adult enduring the whims of the extremely senile or the very young. He glanced behind him and saw the son take his father’s arm and hurry him along the street, likely pulling him away from the object of his fancy before he engaged in any more embarrassing pronouncements. Tillz breathed a sigh of relief for the skepticism of the younger generation. The elders remembered too much.

Tillz picked up his pace and was almost to the edge of the village when a glowing lantern caught his eye. It was the tavern, still open for business, serving pints to those few willing to brave the weather for them. He was struck with a sudden impulse to enter the tavern and have a pint himself. It was a reckless and foolish thing to do—and he was about to berate himself for thinking it when he decided instead to act on his impulse. Why not? He so rarely allowed himself an indulgence of any kind, and a pint of pilsner or a glass of brandy would go down smoothly on this cold, rainy night. The tavern was likely to be sparsely populated, the weather keeping most of the villagers home so tonight was a better night than most to give in to such a whim.

He entered the tavern and scanned the room. Indeed, there were no more than a handful of men present. They all seemed rather deep in their cups. He could sit in the dark corner and easily avoid notice. After procuring a glass of brandy, he moved to the shadowed corner farthest from the door and sat. The booth was clearly made for a more normal sized man, and Tillz had to fold his tall, bulky frame to fit into it. He removed his sodden coat, rubbed a hand along his aching scar, and tried to stretch his long legs as much as he was able, cramped as they were under the narrow table.

Tillz swept his gaze around the room, curious to see who his fellow drinkers were. There was the elderly man near the door, gray-haired and blurry-eyed, who looked as though he spent every night exactly where he was. Across the room from Tillz sat a younger gentleman. He was finely dressed, almost effete in his bearing and mannerisms, and Tillz knew in that way he had that the gentleman was in the tavern tonight in an attempt to drown his sorrows. Woman trouble, Tillz suspected. Nearest Tillz sat two men, one tall and thin and rat-like in appearance, the other shorter and squat, very much resembling a bulldog.

“Awfully kindly with the marks tonight, Roulf, buyin’ the drinks and such,” said the rat. “Werner increase your wages?”

Tillz’s attention was piqued at the mention of Werner.

“No increase … yet.” The bulldog—Roulf—scratched his crotch while gulping his pint. “But I ’spect to come into some more money soon.”

“Eh? What do you have up your sleeve this time? Gambling? A new angle?” The rat leaned forward, his face all eager anticipation. “I’ll have in to whatever it is.”

Roulf smirked. “No angle this time. It’s a sure thing, and I don’t even have to do nothin’. I just sit back and let the reward roll in.”

The rat grinned eagerly. “Tell me, man, what is it?”

Roulf looked around the tavern to see who might overhear, completely overlooking Tillz in the corner as he eavesdropped on them. Tillz had a way of becoming invisible when he wanted to escape attention. No small feat, considering his size and striking appearance.

Roulf leaned in toward his companion. “Werner’s found a girl who has discovered how to make gold,” Roulf said in conspiratorial tones, “and once she does, I’ll be richer than you can imagine.”

The rat’s eyes bulged. “Who? Who could do such a thing? The apothecary’s wife?”

Roulf laughed, exposing a nearly toothless mouth. “That batty old hag couldn’t make juice if you crushed the grapes for her, much less make nothin’ into gold.” He laughed again, clearly amused by his unfunny jest. “No, Jergen, it innit her. It’s the miller’s daughter. Anna … Katja…”

Anja
, Tillz thought. He knew to whom Roulf was referring. He’d seen her in the village, though he always took care that she never noticed him. He’d always been intrigued by her. Something about her serious nature, so incongruous with her wildly stunning features. Hair the color of sherry, neither red nor brown nor blonde, but rather a strange, heady mix of all three. Large, dark brown eyes so startling against her marble white skin. Eyes that seemed to see all and know all. Curves that made him want to give up his solitary life and devote it to getting to know each soft inch of her body… Tillz deliberately broke off his train of thought before it ran wild, brought his attention back to the two men.

“How d’you know she’ll give you and Werner the gold? How d’you know she won’t keep it for herself?” Jergen asked.

“Werner has her locked up in one of the cottages behind the
rittergut
. Says she figured out how to turn iron and copper and whatnot into gold, and she’s got till morning to do it.”

“And if she don’t?”

Roulf shrugged. “He’ll kill her I guess. Her or her father. Or her
and
her father.” Roulf shrugged again.

Tillz stiffened. He was aware of Werner, knew what he was capable of. He hated the thought of the lovely, mesmerizing Anja in that bastard’s clutches. Hated to think of her alone and frightened in Werner’s cottage. For the second time that evening Tillz was seized with a wild impulse.

* * * *

Anja couldn’t say for certain what had awakened her. Perhaps it was a crack or hiss from the fire still burning strong in the hearth. Or perhaps it was a flash of lightning and the accompanying boom of thunder. Whatever it was, Anja woke with a start, confused for a moment as to where she was and how she had arrived there. Then her head cleared and the exact details of her predicament came flooding back to her.

Anja sat up and stretched her aching limbs. Though she was no longer wet—the heavy cotton of her
dirndl
had been dried and stiffened by the fire—the hours spent cold and damp and her nap on the frigid, hard, stone floor had left her feeling as if she had been trampled by a run-away horse. When feeling finally returned to her extremities, she stood and stretched again. Her stomach rumbled, and she remembered the food Werner had left for her. She decided she would eat a little and then figure out what to do next.
I
will
get free from here
, she told herself firmly.

As she walked to the table, the hairs at the nape of her neck stood up, and her peripheral vision caught the outline of a man sitting in the armchair. She jumped back. A startled yelp escaped her throat before she could stop it.

“Werner?” she asked, and she hated how her voice shook slightly.

The man stood slowly, fire lit his face, and Anja realized the intruder was not Werner. The man before her was large, larger than Werner or any man she had ever seen, and though bulky, he somehow managed to move with an animalistic grace. The fire illuminated him from the side, and Anja could just make out the dark locks of hair falling in an unruly riot around a face etched with sharp planes and angles. A wicked scar ran along his left cheek, which added to the sense of mystery and danger that surrounded the stranger like a shroud.

Anja realized she stood stiff and unmoving, holding her breath and staring at the stranger idiotically. Some small voice in her head wondered why she wasn’t more afraid. She did feel some fear, but by rights, she should be terrified. The man was huge and dangerous-looking, and had somehow managed to gain access to her barred and locked cottage.

“Wh-who are you?” Anja whispered. “Has Werner sent you? I haven’t got the gold … yet.”

The man stood still by the armchair, his stance relaxed, his expression relatively non-threatening. “No,” he said, his voice rough, “Werner hasn’t sent me.”

He didn’t seem inclined to offer any further explanation.

“Then who are you? Why are you here?” Anja glanced at the barred window and locked door. “And how did you get in here?”

The stranger shrugged, as if the mechanics of his sudden appearance in what amounted to her prison was so trifling as to warrant no illumination.

Anja took a few more steps back and moved around the table in an effort to put some physical separation between them. “What do you want of me?”

“I heard rumor of your … situation … and I wanted to help.” The man’s words came out strangely, deliberately, as if he was unaccustomed to speaking.

“You wanted to help?” Anja repeated.

The man nodded. “I know Werner has you in here because he thinks you have unlocked the secrets of alchemy, that he expects you to turn iron and copper to gold.” He paused, seeming to want confirmation, so Anja told him it was true. “And I assume this expectation is impossible, that you cannot, in fact, do such a thing.”

“I cannot,” Anja said.

“Then tell me, how did Werner come to believe you could?” The stranger’s voice was deep and rumbling, each word held a hint of the exotic—and a promise of something else, though Anja had no idea as to what that would be.

“My father…” Anja broke off.

How, exactly, was she to explain her situation? Was she to just blurt out that her father had spun a drunken tale to a powerful and violent man about Anja succeeding where thousands had failed, even though she couldn’t turn copper to gold? A tale concocted out of the hopelessness of a desperate financial situation borne of her father’s drinking and gambling away their money when he should be milling to earn more?

It was an absurd thing to tell a stranger, and Anja could scarcely believe she had almost told this intruder the most painful and private details of her life. That she had almost spoken so ill of her father to a person she had never laid eyes on before. She was ashamed of herself for the impulse.

And yet…

There was something about this man who stood before her, something in his bearing and countenance that made Anja feel at ease. The way he spoke to her, his voice rich with concern, made her feel as if she knew him. The way he looked at her, his dark eyes holding nothing but respect and sympathy—it made Anja want to pour her soul out to him. Anja could feel the power and danger bundled just below his surface, but it was his kindness she responded to, and she had the inexplicable yet undeniable sense that for her, this stranger meant safety.

Still, no matter how compelling this man was, she was far too sensible to let herself be completely unguarded. “My father made a silly jest to Werner about me studying alchemy and discovering the secret to making gold, and Werner, in his greed, took his jest as fact,” she said.

The stranger studied her face for a silent moment, and Anja saw by his expression that he knew she was not telling him everything. He looked as if he might challenge her explanation, but then he simply nodded. He would not prod her further.

“And so Werner has dragged you here, locked you in his cottage, and demanded that you make gold for him,” he said. “I do not suppose either of us need mention how Werner will react when morning comes and there is no bounty.”

Anja shivered at the man’s words, and she realized there were two opposing sentiments causing her reaction. The thought of Werner discovering the truth filled Anja with an almost all-consuming, terrified dread. Werner was violence and greed and maliciousness, and Anja shook from the fear that soon she would feel the full brunt of him.

There was something else, though, that caused Anja to tremble. She knew, without knowing exactly how, that the man standing in front of her now was in direct opposition to all that Werner was. This man was calm, deliberate, in full control of his temper and actions. His face showed inquisitive concern, his voice reached out to her like a caress, and Anja wanted to turn to him for salvation. She wondered at that reaction, why it was as if she already knew him and could look to him for help.

“I have a proposal for you.” The intruder crooked his finger, beckoning Anja closer.

Though her rational mind told her it was madness, she still found herself walking to the man, almost as if he were physically pulling her toward him. He was intrigue and mystery, and Anja wanted to know more.

“I have what you need.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew his hand, and held out his palm to her.

Anja leaned closer and saw he held a few chunks of what appeared to be gold. She sucked in her breath. “You’re proposing to give me that gold?” she asked incredulously. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I want to help,” he said simply, as if that were all she needed to know.

Anja’s head spun—a thousand questions needed answers. “But why would you give a complete stranger gold?”

“I have no need of it.”

Anja scoffed. Any fear or curiosity was completely superseded by a feeling of ridiculousness. “Everyone has need of gold,” she said.

“I do not. I cannot eat it, nor wear it, nor keep warm by it. What use does it hold for me? None. Yet it can save you from Werner’s wrath.”

Anja shook her head, trying to clear it of the sense of unreality. “Even if that were so, that you didn’t need it—” Anja remained skeptical on this point, “—why don’t you just take me out of here? You entered the cottage somehow. If you truly want to spare me Werner’s wrath, just leave with me in the same manner.”