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The Prince told them to Isabella.
Late that night, there was the little man.
‘Well, can you tell me my name?’
‘Is it Peveril?’
‘It is not.’
‘Is it Peregrine Pighurst?’
‘It is not.’
‘Is it Patrick Prendergast Petunia Junior?’
‘No, it is none of those stupid, ridiculous names.’
And this time he didn’t laugh. The eyes in his knobbly potato face were as hard as the ice outside the palace walls.
‘This is no game. Tomorrow night you will look your last on your child.’
He was gone.
And bitterly, bitterly, Isabella wept.
The next day was the last day.
The knights did nothing.
But three men never gave up, as the whirling flakes fell thicker than ever. One was, of course, the Prince. He rode like the wind under the mountain overhangs, white horse like a snowstorm in a snowstorm. They staggered on through the deepest drifts and they crept up icy ledges. But nowhere did he see the little man, or hear any word of him.
The second was the old miller, who loved his daughter more than the breath in his body, more than his own life. He wanted to save her child. Of course he lived in the palace now, and the great mill wheel stood rusting in the frozen river. He trudged along the silent bank, hoping to hear some word of the little man. But no one he ever saw knew anything at all.
And there was a third.
This was a man who had loved Isabella from the very first moment he saw her. And he had hurt her.
He didn’t want that. He wanted her to be happy. When at last she married the Prince, the man had been overjoyed. And now he was crawling and scrambling through thorns and undergrowth, through brambles and whipping bushes. His skin bled and his eyes stung as he looked for the little man.
Do you know who it was?
It was …
GRINLING!
For Grinling wasn’t a bad person at all. Early in his life, he’d been captured by the King, who made him his slave. He’d always had hairy ears, of course, but the King had made him grow them out for ever, like sideways horns. Or else he’d grind poor Grinling’s bones into wine.
And he heard someone singing.
A harsh, low, rasping song, such as he’d never heard in all of his life.
He crept behind a tree.
He felt the touch of hands on his back. But he knew they were friendly. He knew they were the old hands of the miller, and the young hands of the Prince.
No one dared breathe.
Down in a clearing of the forest, a fire was burning brightly. And round and round it danced none other than the little man!
As he danced he sang:
‘Crackle, logs, and stars, be dumb,
Tonight a royal child will come.
They’ll never beat me at my game,
For RUMPELSTILTSKIN is my name!’
Softly the three watchers stole away through the snow.
That night, everyone in the palace was waiting and whispering, when they felt the shudder of footsteps on the stairway.
‘Well?’ said the little man.
‘Oh,’ said Isabella. ‘It’s you again. Now, tell me. Could your name be Tim?’
‘It is not,’ he sneered.
‘Is it Jim?’
‘It is not.’
And this time he grinned from ear to ear.
‘Oh well, then,’ said Isabella, gently rocking the cradle with her foot, ‘I suppose it must be Rumpelstiltskin.’
The little man’s face froze like the ice on the mountains. Then it split in a great bellow of rage that shook the palace walls. He lifted a huge, hairy foot and he STAMPED!
He stamped so hard he went through the floor, and through the floor under that, and through the basement. He stamped so hard he went down, down, down, to the centre of the earth.
And nobody ever saw him again.
The Prince and Isabella had many more children. On summer days, they walk with them through the forest and down to the riverside. The great mill wheel is again turning, for the lazy knights have to work there by the water.
The cogs creak, and the shaft spins, and the great stone goes grinding round.
It’s like an elephant dancing … for joy!
About the Author
KIT WRIGHT was born in 1944 and is the author of more than twenty-five books, for both adults and children. His books of poetry include The Bear Looked Over the Mountain (1977), which won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize and the Alice Hunt Bartlett Award, and Short Afternoons (1989), which won the Hawthornden Prize and was joint winner of the Heinemann Award. His poetry is collected in Hoping It Might Be So: Poems 1974–2000 (2000).
RUMPELSTILTSKIN: A MAGIC BEANS STORY
AN RHCB DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 11974 5
Published in Great Britain by RHCB Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
A Random House Group Company
This ebook edition published 2011
Text copyright © Kit Wright, 1998
Illustrations copyright © Ted Dewan, 1998
Rumpelstiltskin first published by Scholastic in 1998. Published as part of the Magic Beans anthology by David Fickling Books in 2011.
The right of Kit Wright and Ted Dewan to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
RANDOM HOUSE CHILDREN’S BOOKS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk
www.totallyrandombooks.co.uk
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Kit Wright, Rumpelstiltskin
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Late that night, there was the little man.
‘Well, can you tell me my name?’
‘Is it Peveril?’
‘It is not.’
‘Is it Peregrine Pighurst?’
‘It is not.’
‘Is it Patrick Prendergast Petunia Junior?’
‘No, it is none of those stupid, ridiculous names.’
And this time he didn’t laugh. The eyes in his knobbly potato face were as hard as the ice outside the palace walls.
‘This is no game. Tomorrow night you will look your last on your child.’
He was gone.
And bitterly, bitterly, Isabella wept.
The next day was the last day.
The knights did nothing.
But three men never gave up, as the whirling flakes fell thicker than ever. One was, of course, the Prince. He rode like the wind under the mountain overhangs, white horse like a snowstorm in a snowstorm. They staggered on through the deepest drifts and they crept up icy ledges. But nowhere did he see the little man, or hear any word of him.
The second was the old miller, who loved his daughter more than the breath in his body, more than his own life. He wanted to save her child. Of course he lived in the palace now, and the great mill wheel stood rusting in the frozen river. He trudged along the silent bank, hoping to hear some word of the little man. But no one he ever saw knew anything at all.
And there was a third.
This was a man who had loved Isabella from the very first moment he saw her. And he had hurt her.
He didn’t want that. He wanted her to be happy. When at last she married the Prince, the man had been overjoyed. And now he was crawling and scrambling through thorns and undergrowth, through brambles and whipping bushes. His skin bled and his eyes stung as he looked for the little man.
Do you know who it was?
It was …
GRINLING!
For Grinling wasn’t a bad person at all. Early in his life, he’d been captured by the King, who made him his slave. He’d always had hairy ears, of course, but the King had made him grow them out for ever, like sideways horns. Or else he’d grind poor Grinling’s bones into wine.
And he heard someone singing.
A harsh, low, rasping song, such as he’d never heard in all of his life.
He crept behind a tree.
He felt the touch of hands on his back. But he knew they were friendly. He knew they were the old hands of the miller, and the young hands of the Prince.
No one dared breathe.
Down in a clearing of the forest, a fire was burning brightly. And round and round it danced none other than the little man!
As he danced he sang:
‘Crackle, logs, and stars, be dumb,
Tonight a royal child will come.
They’ll never beat me at my game,
For RUMPELSTILTSKIN is my name!’
Softly the three watchers stole away through the snow.
That night, everyone in the palace was waiting and whispering, when they felt the shudder of footsteps on the stairway.
‘Well?’ said the little man.
‘Oh,’ said Isabella. ‘It’s you again. Now, tell me. Could your name be Tim?’
‘It is not,’ he sneered.
‘Is it Jim?’
‘It is not.’
And this time he grinned from ear to ear.
‘Oh well, then,’ said Isabella, gently rocking the cradle with her foot, ‘I suppose it must be Rumpelstiltskin.’
The little man’s face froze like the ice on the mountains. Then it split in a great bellow of rage that shook the palace walls. He lifted a huge, hairy foot and he STAMPED!
He stamped so hard he went through the floor, and through the floor under that, and through the basement. He stamped so hard he went down, down, down, to the centre of the earth.
And nobody ever saw him again.
The Prince and Isabella had many more children. On summer days, they walk with them through the forest and down to the riverside. The great mill wheel is again turning, for the lazy knights have to work there by the water.
The cogs creak, and the shaft spins, and the great stone goes grinding round.
It’s like an elephant dancing … for joy!
About the Author
KIT WRIGHT was born in 1944 and is the author of more than twenty-five books, for both adults and children. His books of poetry include The Bear Looked Over the Mountain (1977), which won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize and the Alice Hunt Bartlett Award, and Short Afternoons (1989), which won the Hawthornden Prize and was joint winner of the Heinemann Award. His poetry is collected in Hoping It Might Be So: Poems 1974–2000 (2000).
RUMPELSTILTSKIN: A MAGIC BEANS STORY
AN RHCB DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 11974 5
Published in Great Britain by RHCB Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
A Random House Group Company
This ebook edition published 2011
Text copyright © Kit Wright, 1998
Illustrations copyright © Ted Dewan, 1998
Rumpelstiltskin first published by Scholastic in 1998. Published as part of the Magic Beans anthology by David Fickling Books in 2011.
The right of Kit Wright and Ted Dewan to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
RANDOM HOUSE CHILDREN’S BOOKS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk
www.totallyrandombooks.co.uk
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Kit Wright, Rumpelstiltskin
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Rumpelstiltskin