How incredible to be able to make such a choice! Oh, I just choose not to marry! Of course, Kriemhild is obviously a rich woman, and rich women have more choices.
As I read, I can hear the whir of the spinning wheel, the crinkle of the straw. But any time I hazard a glance up, the little man stops working and points at the book. I notice that the lights have gone dim again, with only a circle near me from the lantern he brought, so I can read, listening to the whir of the wheel as I tell about the childhood of the hero, Siegfried. But just as I begin chapter three, the lantern goes out entirely. I sit silent, listening to the whirring, whirring, whirring of the wheel.
“Why did you stop reading?” the man asks. His voice sounds different in the darkness, or perhaps it is only because I cannot see how small and slight he is. It is a manly voice, low and musical and bigger than he appears.
“The light went out, and I was very sorry, for I wished to know if Kriemhild made good her vow, or if she grew up to marry Siegfried.”
He chuckles. “What do you think?”
I lower the book down to the ground. I have no need of it anymore. I lean against the scratchy straw. “I think . . . why would the writer tell us about Kriemhild’s prophecy if she were not going to marry?”
“Clever girl. Do you want Siegfried to marry Kriemhild even if it means he will die?”
I think about it, but not for long. “We will all die someday.”
“That is true enough.” The machine never stops whirring as he speaks.
“To die without true love is a great tragedy.”
A sigh. “That is true as well.” The wheel continued to whir. After a time, he says, “Do you want to know what happens in the rest of the story?”
“Do you know?” I ask, surprised.
“Indeed. It is my favorite story, a story that helped me in many a lonely time. And it is an old legend. Some believe it to be partly true.”
“Then do tell me.”
So, as he spins and spins, the bookseller also spins the story of Kriemhild bathing in dragon’s blood to make herself invincible, then helping the king, Gunther, to win the hand of the warrior, Brunhilde (like our cow, I think). Siegfried does marry Kriemhild, and so, of course, he dies. About an hour before dawn, the man asks me to rise from the bale of straw upon which I sit. I do, and I sink down in the corner, but I cannot find a comfortable spot, as the entire barn floor is covered in something hard as stone. The bookseller’s assistant continues, and as Kriemhild learns of Siegfried’s murder, the sun begins to rise, and I behold a room full not of straw but of gold, sparkling all around me. In the middle of it, the little man stands, spinning the last of it, smiling.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I nod. I do, of course, and yet I feel a twinge of something, some emptiness, some regret. I do not know why. I am going to marry the prince! I am going to be a princess! To have everything I ever wanted!
And yet, like Kriemhild, my story is tinged in tragedy.
I say, “Yes. Thank you. But I am sorry too.”
“Sorry?”
I nod, slowly realizing the reason for it, what must be the reason. Karl does not really love me. I will never have true love. I see that now. No one will ever love me.
I think of the baby growing inside me. Perhaps he will.
“I do not . . . I will not know how the story ends. Can you leave me the book when you go?”
In truth, I am not ready for him to leave. I am scared to see the king again. What will he say to me? What if he asks me how I spun the straw?
But he laughs, a rather cruel laugh. “Silly girl! I have given you riches, a barnful of gold, and you want more. You want my book?”
The light glinting off the transformed straw hurts my eyes, and I shut them. “Sometimes, a story is worth more than gold. Sometimes a story is everything.”
“I agree,” the man says, his face growing solemn. “And some of us have only stories to keep us company. Books allow us to be what we will never be in reality, have what we will never have. I am afraid I must take my book with me.”
I nod. “You have done much for me.”
He takes the book from my hand. “You can always read the other book with your beloved.” His voice, when he says, beloved, is caustic, just as it was when he said handsome prince, like someone spitting out a bad flavor.
I stare at him. “What book is that?”
He gathers up the pages of the book, fumbling with the ribbon that had held them together. “The history book.”
“How did you know about the book Karl sent me?”
His eyes meet mine, gray and strange with a hint of surprise, like a cat startled at ferreting out a mouse. “How did I . . . ?” He looks down, tying the ribbon not very well. “Why . . . Kendra told me, of course.”
Having gathered the pages, he bows. “I must go. Best of luck to you . . . princess.”
Princess. I will be a princess. I smile at the thought.