The Ugly Little Man's Version: Rewriting Rumpelstiltskin

New Poem in a New Journal.

The Journal is Meniscus, the poem 'The Ugly Little Man's Version.'

http://www.meniscus.org.au/Meniscus%20-%20Volume%201,%20Issue%201%20%5BFINAL%5D.pdf

The Ugly Little Man’s Version.

 

Let’s face it: her father was an idiot;
‘My girl can spin straw into gold.’
Another father, scared of anonymity, 
sacrifices his daughter to prop his flagging self-esteem.
What good it did him I don’t know. 
I didn’t see him at her wedding feast.

The king? An idiot with power. 
Greedy? That’s why he’s the king.
‘Prove it or die.’ He gets the gold, 
and when he’s got enough, he gets the girl.
Transfigurations valued in a market of exchange, 
where surface gloss and title masquerade as beauty:
straw to gold, jailer to husband, girl to queen,
only the ugly little man remains unchanged.

The biggest fool of all. I failed three times.
Mistook the pleasure in her eyes when I appeared,
thought she was pleased to see me, thought she cared.
It was, of course, relief she’d live past morning.
Once she didn’t need me anymore,
she walked out of her spinning room
and slammed the palace door.
Took the proffered hand and stepped on up
to carriages and gowns, the world’s applause,
safe in the public scrutiny of everything she did,
paying her sweaty taxes in the marriage bed.

My second failure? I credited her with some intelligence.
When I asked: what will you give me?
she never stopped to think that what she valued
might be worthless to an alchemist.
She could have said, a smile, a song, my company.
But no, she failed my simple test.
She should have screamed; ‘My child? Never!’
Then I would have taught her how it’s done:
her independence in a simple trick. 

But no. Superficial as her father and the rest.
I can’t imagine being wed to anyone
who’d sign the warrant for my execution
with the same panache he signed the wedding deed.

My last mistake? I thought she’d be ashamed.
I saved her life three times: she never once asked me my name.

My Aunt used to tell me this story. The bit I waited for was the end.  A list of increasingly ludicrous non-names:  "Is it Humbly Stumbly?". "No!".  The Queen's voice became more desperate as the names sillier: Rumple's became more gleeful with each wrong guess.  When he stamps his foot in rage and stamps so hard his foot gets stuck in the ground and he pulls so hard he pulls himself in half,  H who  was a good mimic,  made that final shriek worth the wait.

There's an early French version called Ricdin Ricdon which is anything but understated. The girl has a name, and the story's version of the father's famous boast, which is made a by a woman, is a sarcasm which is taken literally. Ricdin Ricdon gives the girl a magic wand on one condition. He will return for it in a year, and she must say his name...WHICH HE TELLS HER.  I know it's a fairy tale, but how hard would it be to remember "Ricdin Ricdon". Who is a demon, or the devil, and after her soul. It's very ..very ...long. And involves family histories and various other generic whatnots.

The House Hold Tales version is a masterpiece of compression. Nothing is explained. The Miller makes his stupid boast, the King puts it to the test. Each time Rumple saves her she gives him something, and finally promises him her first child. Why he wants the child is not explained. The Miller's daughter, who is never given a first name, becomes The Queen. We don't hear what she thinks about this. To parallel the three spinnings, Rumple gives her three chances to guess his name. Finally, she does so. He screams in rage and pulls himself in two.

I wondered what his version of the story might be.