Chapter Two: Morraine's Tale

My name is Madam Morraine. I am a simple old peasant woman, not a scholar or a historian. But I set ink to paper now and join the other writers of this collection because my story belongs in the annals of history.

Not only am I a veteran of the Ogres War, I am the only human witness to its final battle. Except, contrary to popular opinion, the war did not end with a battle at all. It was more of a peace negotiation, executed by one man: Rumpelstiltskin the Spinner, known today as the Dark One. If you, the young person reading this, are fortunate enough never to have seen a real ogre, it is all thanks to him.

I was only fourteen when I was drafted. If that sounds shockingly young to you, you’re right, but that was the standard practice in those days. The war had been going on for so many generations, there were hardly any soldiers left to fight, so the draft age kept getting lower. The meanest soldiers in the army were given the task of conscripting the kids. Those monsters were so cold-hearted, they could march us away from our families and ignore our cries and screams. In my province, that was General Hordor.

Everyone knew that he’d come for you on your birthday, so some of my friends escaped ahead of time by following the call of the Piper of Hamelin. Nobody ever saw them again, but at least they didn’t get torn limb from limb by an ogre.

I decided to take my chances and go to the front. Perhaps I’d be one of the lucky survivors who’d get to go home someday. So I vowed to be brave when my turn came, but nothing prepares you for the sound of your mother howling for mercy or your father’s helpless rage as he tries to fight for you. It was no use fighting anyway. Not only were Hordor and his men stronger and better armed, they were propped up by the Dark One of those times, the dreaded Zoso.

You’ve probably never heard that name before. Rumpelstiltskin has been the Dark One for so long, hardly anyone alive today can remember his predecessor. But I come from the same village as Rumpelstiltskin, and I knew him when he was a meek spinner opposed to the war.

“It’s not courage. It’s not honor. It’s sacrifice!” he would say.

The people of our village said he was just making excuses for his own cowardice. He was lame back then, and everyone said it wasn’t from a war injury. They said he crippled himself deliberately to escape the fighting. Perhaps that is true. I was just a baby when it happened, so I really don’t know. But I do know this: many villagers secretly agreed with him. They were just too afraid to say it when our leaders could hear, lest they sic Zoso on them. Though I was young, I understood that perfectly.

When I got my first sight of an ogre from the trenches, I knew that Rumpelstiltskin was right all along. We were nothing but cannon fodder. Why would our leaders do this to us?

That night in the encampment, and every night afterward, I heard lots of my comrades praying. The ones who worshipped the warrior gods prayed to become famous heroes, but I overheard more appeals to Reul Ghorm, which is the true name of the Blue Fairy.

“Reul Ghorm, protect me from harm.”

“Reul Ghorm, make sure I get home.”

“Reul Ghorm, save me.”

You knew they were being answered when they were surrounded by a shimmering mist, but you couldn’t see the Blue Fairy nor hear what she said. Her answers come in private conversations.

When I saw that, I knew I had to try it, too. “Reul Ghorm, please end the war.”

The second after I said it, a blast of blue light came down from the sky. It looked just like a shooting star, except it didn’t land far away. It turned into a tiny ball that floated right in front of my face, and then, pop! Reul Ghorm took her fairy form. She was as kindly and beautiful as the legends say.

“Your wish will be granted,” she told me. “Every generation has its designated savior, and now the right conditions have converged. Unfortunately, they’re unusually fraught in this case. The Black Fairy inserted herself, and her choices warped the path. There are so many wrongs to be righted!”

She shook her head like she was working out a thorny problem. I just stared at her, too awestruck to speak.

“You will live to a ripe old age, Morraine,” she said. “You are clear of vision, sharp of mind, and pure of heart. You have sown the seeds for a great redemption.”

She touched me with her wand, and a sense of peace washed over me. Then, with a flutter of her wings, she flew away.

I’ve always cherished that moment. I’ve told the story to my children and grandchildren many times. And indeed, her blessing came true. I am now a white-haired great-grandmother.

I slept well that night. I knew my prayers would be answered. And the next morning, everyone heard the results. A knight on horseback came charging through the battlefield. “Children, return to your parents!” he called. “Parents, return to your children! Enough death! The war is over! The war is over!”

When the knight got close enough for me to get a glimpse of him, I could scarcely believe my eyes. It was Rumpelstiltskin, only he wasn’t lame anymore. He was riding his horse like a champion and wearing gilded armor. Above his head, he held a dagger that looked just like Zoso’s. It seemed to collect the sunlight as he rode. A golden beam shone right through it. Rumpelstiltskin was glowing, too.

“He’s the Light One,” I thought, the words coming to me in a flash.

I realize how daft that sounds. Everyone knows of the Dark One, but whoever heard of the Light One? I still stand by that impression. Even without seeing it for myself, I understood what happened. Somehow, Rumpelstiltskin stole the Dark One’s dagger, making himself the new Dark One.

But his dissent against the war didn’t change. Now that he was invincible, he was going to pursue justice as he saw fit. And I refuse to let the world forget what he did next. He performed a miracle. He ended the war.

With his furry brown cape sailing behind him, he rode all the way up to the front line. The moment the ogres saw him, they dropped their weapons and stood as still as statues.

“Go home, everyone!” he shouted. “The war is over!”

It was complete chaos after that. People recognized the dagger from legend, and they went scattering in every direction. Nobody understood why the new Dark One was sending them home, but they were only too happy to leave. Some of them were far from their villages and had a long way to travel. But those of us who came from the Frontlands stayed right where we were. We stood behind Rumpelstiltskin, eager to see what he would do next.

Cries for revenge echoed from all over the battlefield.

“Finish ‘em off!”

“Kill ‘em all!”

“Die, ogres, die!”

The last one caught on as a chant. Hundreds of battle-weary soldiers who’d lost way too much all began shouting in unison. “Die, ogres, die! Die, ogres, die!”

Rumpelstiltskin let the angry chant go on a little while, but not too long. “Enough!” he finally shouted, turning back to the crowd with fire in his eyes. “Go home, all of you!”

Nobody budged. So, like a parent being tested by unruly children, he got rid of us - firmly, decisively, and painlessly. He held his dagger with the flat side toward us, inching it forward ever so slightly, and an invisible wall pushed us all away. Everyone disappeared at once. The only ones left were him, the ogres, and me. Somehow, instead of ending up at home like everyone else, I was pushed behind a nearby tree.

Rumpelstiltskin pointed his dagger at the biggest ogre. Perhaps he was already their leader, or perhaps Rumpelstiltskin chose him for the job, but he must have cast some kind of spell on him. The ogre’s whole face lit up, like he’d suddenly gained human intelligence. As scary as ogres are, they look and sound pretty stupid. All they do is grunt or shout. But now, this one could speak and understand our language. He walked right up to Rumpelstiltskin, and they began negotiating.  

“Let’s end this once and for all,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “What do you want in exchange for leaving us humans alone?”

The ogre knew exactly what he wanted. “Leave us alone.”

If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I wouldn’t have believed it. I saw how brutal those ogres could be. After all those years of fighting, was that only thing they wanted? Just to be left alone?

“Ah, such a simple request, yet so difficult to achieve,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “Humans have a perverse weakness for war. We convince ourselves that there’s glory in it.”

The ogre nodded. “Ogres like fighting, too. It gets us in a frenzy. And once we start, it’s hard for us to stop.”

“Then we will need a magical barrier to separate us. We’ll protect ourselves and each other from our species’ worst tendencies.”

“Sounds good to me,” said the ogre.

It sounded good to me, too. I figured Rumpelstiltskin would make a magical barrier appear between us right then and there, but it was much more complicated than that. You might say he banished the ogres to another realm, but even that doesn’t quite describe it. As I said, I am a simple peasant woman, and I was little more than a child when I saw this. I hope I can do it justice.

Rumpelstiltskin lifted his dagger skyward, and it collected more sunlight. Then he lowered the dagger and pointed it toward the ground.

“Place your finger on top of my hand,” he told the ogre. The ogre’s finger was gigantic by comparison, but nothing could crush the immortal Dark One. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, this would become the customary way he sealed all his deals: by physical contact.

As soon as Rumpelstiltskin and the ogre were touching, the sunbeam streaming from the dagger turned into a dark, swirling storm cloud. After a few seconds, the earth began to shake. I never felt anything like it. I had to grab onto the tree just to keep myself from falling down.

When the shaking stopped, there was a long, deep gash in the earth. Rumpelstiltskin stood on one side of it, and the ogres on the other. Then, with a tiny prod of the dagger, the ogres’ side began moving backwards. It went slowly at first, but the gap between us grew wider and wider. I stood and watched until the ogres receded so far back, they were nothing but tiny dots. They were standing on the edge of their own jagged cliff, and so were we. The valley between us filled up with fog. That was the last I ever saw of any ogre, thank G-d.

Now it was just Rumpelstiltskin and me. I knew it was all right to come out of hiding. I was so grateful, I could have thrown my arms around him, but he didn’t give me the chance. He looked me straight in the eye, gave another little prod of his dagger, and sent me home. It was just like the way he put me behind the tree, only this time, I felt the change more strongly. I floated from one place to another in a single second. And before I could catch my breath, my parents were covering me in hugs and kisses. My best friend, who was just under the draft age, was there, too. Everyone else in our village was outside celebrating, but they stayed in, waiting for me to arrive home, safe and sound.

Rumpelstiltskin ought to have been hailed as a hero after that, but people forget quickly. Also, the powers he’d taken on in becoming the Dark One kept changing him, so people grew wary. The golden aura that made him look like “the Light One” on the battlefield settled on his skin in a sickly yellowish-green. He became so ugly, he looked almost inhuman, and that was just a sign of how the power was changing him inside.

He grew cunning and vengeful to the people who’d hurt him in the past. He was an easy target for bullies when he was lame. He began making sure every one of those bullies got their come-uppance. Many said he took it too far, but those same folks cheered when he ran General Hordor out of town. We all did.

And so, before long, people lost sight of how much he benefitted us. They began saying he ended the war for his own selfish reasons, but if that were true, he would have used his powers differently. He could have just protected himself and the few people he cared about, but he did more. He ended the war for all of us. 

After that, he made himself rich, which only made people hate him worse. But I contend that anyone would do exactly the same thing given the power. It’s just that everyone else would wish themselves a pile of gold and be done with it. Not the new Dark One. He acted like a naughty little boy having a lark at being a wizard. He made a joke of his new fate. The poor old yarn spinner could now spin straw into gold.

Naturally, he improved his living conditions, too. His old house was like any other in our village: a cottage on a small patch of farmland. One day, the earth around it started shaking, just like it had on the battlefield. My neighbors began screaming in panic, but I understood what was happening. Rumpelstiltskin was doing more magic. And when my neighbors saw a mountain swell up out of the ground, taking Rumpelstiltskin’s cottage with it, nobody had any doubts. The mountain grew tall enough to overlook the whole village, and the cottage turned into a castle fit for a king.

The local townsfolk avoided him after that, but strangers did not, especially after he began bartering his magical cures. To this day, it’s known that he can fix every problem imaginable – illness, heartache, famine, family strife. People travel from distant lands just to consult him. I see them around the village all the time, staying at the inn, which is where I worked for many years. That inn turns over a tidy profit on his visitors alone. Even royalty comes. Rumor has it that he keeps a hand in all sorts of palace intrigue. People say he’d agree to turn a commoner into a king just because he thinks it’s funny. But with all the squabbles and rivalries that happen amongst our leaders, we’ve never had as much war and violence as there was in Zoso’s times.

Being so close, we villagers have heard many stories. Every story is different, and all of them are complicated, but they all share one similarity. At some point before striking a final deal with a handshake and contract, he giggles in that odd way he’s so famous for and says, “All magic comes with a price.”

It’s impossible to know what happened with everyone. The visitors go back to wherever they came from, and sometimes you hear the ending of a story, but usually, you don’t. As for me, I’d heard enough about people landing in bigger trouble after one of his deals that I knew to stay away. He always delivers on his promises, but never without a catch. That’s why he has such a shady reputation. But if you pay heed to the details of these stories, you’ll see that he doesn’t actually lie. He speaks in double meanings, and that trips people up. Like the way he says, “All magic comes with a price.” He laughs like it’s a terrific private joke, but I think he’s warning people. Trouble is, nobody listens. They’re all so hell-bent on whatever they’ve come for.

The people who have it worst are the ones who negotiate new terms. Those folks must realize they’re exchanging one set of problems for another, but it’s said that getting out of debt to Rumpelstiltskin is like untangling a life-sized knot. With yourself stuck in the middle.

That is why I dared to visit his castle only once. It was thirty years after the war, and my firstborn daughter was soon to be married, but she was not the reason I went. For years, it had been bothering me that so many people didn’t acknowledge how the war really ended, and I had seen more than anybody. Since my children were older, I thought I might have the time to write my story and set the record straight.

“Madam Morraine,” he said when I entered his grand banquet hall. He had not laid eyes on me since I was a teenager, but he never forgets a name. “Are you looking for a magical gift for your young couple? The Cauldron of Endless Nourishment, to help them through the lean times? Or perhaps a store of potions to ensure the health of your future grandchildren?”

He made these objects appear before me as he spoke of them. It was dizzying to be surrounded by all that magic and opulence at the same time, but I resisted his offers. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, since he is also said to be a Seer, was he assuring me of grandchildren? Or was he warning me of lean times?

“We will meet life’s challenges as they come,” I replied. “I am here for permission, not magic.”

“Really? How refreshing!” he tittered. “Permission for what?”

“To write about the war. About how you saved us all.”

“Oh, that,” he said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “You do realize nobody will believe you. What an outlandish tale! The Dark One saves the realm.”

He laughed, and then, right in the middle of the conversation, he moved over to his spinning wheel and set to work. It was rather rude behavior, but being who he was, he could get away with anything.

“Even if nobody believes me, I feel a need to tell it. I know what I saw.”

He stopped the wheel abruptly. “Oh, do you now? Then let’s hear, dearie, just what did you see? What ever became of the ogres?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me, sir.”

Bold on my part, but this was the one and only time I ever intended to ask him for anything. I couldn’t let myself be sidetracked. Not by his questions, not by his taunting, and not by the sheer intimidation of his bizarre presence.

“Aha!” he cried, making me jump. “So you are here for magic! Everyone is, of course.”

“Not me.”

He looked at me, unmoved.

“Please,” I said.

And for reasons I will never understand, that softened him. His tone changed completely. He sounded like the gentle spinner I remembered from childhood.

“The ogres are on the other side of the Edge of Realms,” he said. “They are safe from us, and we are safe from them. Only a fool would disturb them, but then, the world is full of fools. Perhaps, if people remember how terrible the war was, there will be hope for us.”

He raised his hands, and I knew he was about to perform more magic. The floor I was standing on split off into its own little island, separate from the rest of the room, just like the separate cliff where the ogres must be.

I’d heard rumors that time worked strangely in Rumpelstiltskin’s castle. For some, it speeds up. For others, it slows down. And nobody realizes how off kilter they are until they get back outside. All I can say is that for me, standing in that circle, I felt myself a child, a teenage soldier, a newlywed bride, a young mother, and an old lady all at once.

When he dropped his hands, the floor sealed back up, and I felt like myself again: a middle-aged woman with a story burning within her.

He crooked a finger at me, as though to signal me to walk closer, but I did not need to walk. Under his spell, I glided over the floor without taking a step. He stopped me when I was standing right across from him.

“You have my permission, but you must comply with my terms. First, you will tell the truth as you saw it.”

I nodded. That was my intention from the outset.

“Second,” he said, producing a bottle of ink from thin air and handing it to me, “When you are ready for your final draft, you will use that ink. It comes from the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Have you heard of him?”

I hadn’t, and I readily admitted it. I reckoned he was testing my honesty.

“Well, no matter. I haven’t much to do with him myself. But I use his ink in all my contracts, and you must do the same with your document.”

I inspected the ink bottle. I couldn’t see anything unusual about it, but looks are deceiving. The whole idea of sorcerer’s ink made me nervous. I hadn’t asked for magic, and now I was holding a bottleful of it.

“Finally,” he said with a barely audible crack in his voice, “you will leave my personal grief out of your story.”

“Of course,” I replied, understanding who he was mourning for after all those years.

But we still had to shake on it. I hesitated, considering every ramification I could think of. I’d heard enough about other people’s mistakes to know that I must take his words very seriously. If I was not careful, I could end up paying a high price. But if all I had to do was tell the truth. . .

“I promise,” I said, holding out my hand. He shook it, and that sealed the deal.

He snapped, and a quill that could write by itself drew up two contracts: a copy for him and a copy for me. Everything we’d just discussed was on it. I know because unlike most people, I read it over carefully.

“You see, you have nothing to fear from that ink,” he said as we signed the contracts.

Once I was holding my copy, he returned to his spinning. “One more thing,” he said almost lazily. “You’ll find a red velvet bag in the left drawer of that cabinet. Bring it here please.”

I would have obeyed him whether he said “please,” or not, but something about his politeness hastened me.

“And when are the nuptials?” he asked, bending down to his basket and filling the bag with the gold he’d just spun.

“May Day,” I answered, pretending not to notice that he was stockpiling a fortune right beside me.

“How auspicious,” he said. He shook the bag up and down. I could hear from the jingling that the golden thread had just turned into coin. “And this is your oldest. Connie, correct? What are the others called?”

Since it was said he used names for magic, I was a bit afraid to tell him, but I was more afraid not to. “Dwelly – he’s the only boy – then Lilly, and last the twins, Lake and Louise.”

With each of my children’s names, he gave the bag another shake, and I could hear the coins multiplying. Then, to my astonishment, he handed the bag to me.

“If your husband wonders where that came from,” he said as I stared at him in shock, “tell him it was a secret gift from Yossele the Miser.”

“Wh-who?” I said, forcing myself to try and act normal.

“A character in some obscure folklore from another realm. He’s the most hated man in town, but he turns out to be its mainstay.”

“But –”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. Your husband will never believe that. Tell him a wealthy tradesman rewarded you for locating something he’d given up for lost.”

He was playing one of his word games, and it was going to work in my favor. He was a tradesman of sorts, but the way he phrased it, my husband would assume I received a generous gift from a grateful guest at the inn.

He pointed to the bag, and it suddenly went light. “There,” he said. “Now you can dole it out to each of your children on their wedding day. That’s Connie’s share. The rest will reappear when needed.” 

Just like when I was a girl on the battlefield, I could have hugged Rumpelstiltskin. Yet part of me remained leery.

“You do not owe me,” he said. “All magic comes with a price, and now I have paid it. Remember our deal. Record your truth.”

And so, I have done just that, though it took me many years. The account you are now reading has undergone plenty of revision. Setting something down in magical ink would give anyone pause. Besides, I didn’t think it was prudent to reveal the source of my family’s income, and of course, life has kept me very busy. But as I am obligated to tell the full truth, I’ll admit that I waited until I lived a long and happy life before releasing my story. I believe I’ve kept the terms of the deal, but if I have made any mistakes, I am no longer afraid of harsh consequences. I have always felt I owed my very life to Rumpelstiltskin. I hope I have repaid my debt to him.