 The Ghost of Rumpelstiltskin by Lydia Peaver In the black forest years ago, when fairies told the tales we know, the ground had trapped a soul within of a vile trickster mannequin. On the earth he'd stomped and roared with thunder, till rocks beneath were cracked asunder. His fury peaked and frothed with sin, so trapped forever was the ghost of Rumpelstiltskin. Two did tramp long bush and trail, and just before their feeling frail, the forest parts reveals a glade, one just in case withdraws a blade. Neath heavy boughs, the glade was kept dry and hidden from rains that wept, a threat to quell the coals that burned in the ancient pit, where smoke still curled. From town folk and travelers they did hear the riddles history known far and near. So it led to this perfect night, the glade was here, the myth was right. Just on cue conversed in mirth, the first puzzle piece was suddenly birthed. In between punched line and trump, from the forest floor they heard a thump. Both knew enough from tales long told, that lest the fires coals grow cold, one or two other must stoke it hot. Old riddles said, just pull the logs. Now they had learnt through trial and error, for the earth to return a favour, what one must do is speak aloud the words they'd heard as if to a crowd. Thump said the first man, Pull said the second, and half the ghost had now been beckoned. While not exact it's half the fun to figure how the words were strung. When the very forest speaks to you, there's a certain magic one must do. Both repeated the words just learned, then in head and heart letters were turned. First one said thump, the second pull. Then together one word rumple. So the first half of the code was got, the next parts where most folks were shot, depending on what deer and quail, made noise or stirred within the dale. They needed silence, deathly quiet, no telling if the trees would riot, within a breeze of leaves would stir, or spook a beast of feather or fur. Holding breath they dare not blink, in midnight gloom best not to think. A last bat swooped, the fire popped, and suddenly terribly all sound stopped. Deathly quiet a shroud had fallen, if stomachs churned with last night's Stalin, the spell would break, and hearts would spill. For the next word to use was still. That third word now the brothers spake, and the ground began to quake. Crackling flames rose from the fire, as sparks and smoke ascended higher. One final clue was all they needed, and luckily their brother pleaded. He wanted to come but was told no, yet the spell did require that he follow. A bit of a knot this story tied, for in the forest a third must hide, drawn to them by light of flame, into the woods where no one came. They couldn't lead with hints nor hooks, nor letters rich nor maps and books, another soul must to them sneak, brave the dark and dare to peek. To must be seen in flickering flame by someone else who hears the name, chanted by them over the din. Delicious twist they must be kin. When they guessed he must be near, and branches rustled to the rear. Now or never the time was right, to complete the spell this fateful night. Thump said the first man, and the ground did thump. Pole said the second, and the fire did whomp. Now for the whole word to be beckoned, and the first half was fully reckoned. Still said the first man, and the air did freeze. Kin said the second, between chattering teeth. The fire belched a plume of smoke. On sparks and heat they both near choked. In swirling air now drawn with flames, the light and wind had heard the name. Rump, Pole, Still, Kin, they said once. Stilted, slow, each word a punch. Rumpelstiltskin demanding clear, their brother hidden shook with fear. Rumpel screamed the first man, Stiltskin, barked the second. No looking back they called this ally. Then Rumpelstiltskin both chanted finally. In the midst of such insanity a form appeared for all to see. Fists all clenched and with a limp before them stood that dreadful imp. On the earth he stomped and roared with thunder, straight from hell pushed up from under. He stood there waiting at their whim, their loyal ghost of Rumpelstiltskin. In the black forest years ago, two brothers told the tales we know, extorted from their brand new gin. You know them well. Their name was Grim. And thus concludes the ghost of Rumpelstiltskin by Lydia Peaver.