Let the Mischief Begin

“You can’t live without me!” My shout was not only ignored; it was absently regarded by all of the other seven. I was always left out. I was never understood or even acknowledged, even though I managed to cook and clean for those seven for eight years. Then that white snow chick showed up and now I am staring at the wood grain on a door.

I backed away from the door and felt the heat within my chest

begin to fade. They wanted her. She could do my job. I would walk

away, and I did. I would also find my way in the world to be more than just three feet of domestic work.

I walked through the forest past the cottage with that wretched

gingerbread children fence, the giant beanstalk that was now just a brown stump, and past a field of twelve silver branches that seemed to dance in the wind.

This is my time. I bounced into town and opened the first

door of the tavern and climbed onto a seat.

“What does a runt like you want?” The bartender’s beard looked

like rotten wooden twigs twisted together after a windstorm.

“A drink.” I didn’t make eye contact, because his glare was

already making my head sweat under my hat.

He pushed a glass of water toward me and as it hit my hand, I

grabbed the glass and tossed the contents back onto him.

He sputtered, blinked and then raised his voice for the entire

place to hear, “Surely, you don’t think I would serve you here.”

“Surely, you do not want to risk the destruction of your fine

establishment when I unleash my magic on this place. Now, give me a drink.”

The confidence in my voice moved the bartender, because he

sidled back slowly keeping his eyes locked onto me as he poured a short glass and slid it back to me carefully.

I sniffed the drink to see if I was presented water again, but I

could smell the roughness of a much harder liquor in the glass. I smiled and nodded at the bartender who also nodded and then walked to the far side of the bar to tend to a customer there. I let my mind wander to the conversations about me and I felt around inside of me for the magic. It wasn’t a magic like being able to control ice, take other people’s voices, or even control people with the help of magic gems. No, it was the ability to know what was

needed. I had the ability to sense what people needed to know, hear, or have to make them do what I wanted. That is how I understood and used the water. I knew the bartender needed to be challenged or he wouldn’t back down. I also knew those pathetic seven dwarves needed someone to mother them, well until a real woman showed up. That, admittedly, I never saw coming. 

Now, I listened for the next opportunity, but surprisingly no one

needed anything. Everyone here felt quite content with where they were in the world. There was laughter, plotting, and good-natured conversations which were all horrible for me.

I tossed the drink back, breathed in quickly, and then sighed

through gritted teeth. 

“You look lost friend,” a voice said from the right.

I turned to look but was surprised to see no one sitting next to

me.

“On the wall,” the voice said softly.

I looked again and the silhouette of a young woman came into

focus in a long pane of glass behind the bar.

“Oh, a magic mirror,” I said sardonically, “No thanks. I

know the mischief you can do.”

“I am not a magic mirror. Just an observer in the glass with a

suggestion.”

I glanced around and saw that no one else was paying the

slightest bit of attention to us, so I scooted slightly closer to the bar to lean over and listen.

“You know what everyone else wants, but I know what you want,”

The lips on the silhouette barely parted to let the words escape.

“Go on,” I whispered reluctantly. I have never had anyone

address my magic directly and I felt this could be a trap, but who would want to trap a dwarf who could read the wants of others? That serves no one, but me.

“You want your own story.”

The words seemed to echo endlessly in my ears as the glass spoke a desire I didn’t know I wanted. However, once it was uttered, I couldn’t deny it.

I desperately wanted to be a tale for fairies to not only tell but to cringe over. I wanted people to hear my name and be afraid to speak it. Only the best of the worst get that distinction.

“Yes…”

“So, be your own story.”

“I do not understand.”

“You need go beyond using what others want to make you

comfortable. Use what people want to bring them down. How far can your magic go?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever tried to make what other people want come true?”

“No.”

“Shall we?”

“I might need another drink first.”

“Perfect. You can also use the bartender as a trial.”

I motioned for the bartender and he approached apprehensively.

“I’d like one more drink,” I said and drew the words out so he

would have to linger for a second as a I read him.

He wants the woman with red curls.

Quickly, I turned to the end of the bar where she was sitting

and read her.

She wants him too but her husband, the king, would not approve.

She didn’t look like a queen. There were no royal robes or

jewels, just a beautiful face and a simple flowing gown of green.

“She wants you too,” I said and nodded as he handed me my drink.

“What?” His alarm was instant, but his eyes betrayed his

eagerness.

“Yes. Go to her. Take her far away from

here. Don’t look back.”

The smile was slight, and his movements were quick. He

hurried to her ear, whispered his intentions, and they left without a word.

“Well done,” the silhouetted woman sounded pleased, “This tavern is yours now. I have seen the future. It will take only a week for this couple to be caught and brought back to the kingdom.”

I casually walked behind the bar. There would have to be some

adjustments made so I could serve drinks, but that would be easy as there were several carpenters in the tavern today. 

“We will work well together I think,” the glass said pleasantly,

“You be the stories and I’ll chronicle your work.”

“Yes, what is your name, glass?”

“Stiltzkin.”

“I’m Rumple the dwarf. I’d shake your hand…”

“It’s not needed,” Stiltzkin interrupted, “We have a distinct

future ahead of us.”

“Agreed,” I said as I poured myself a drink from the special

bottle all bartenders hide, “To Rumple and Stiltzkin.”

“May our mischief be fairy tale worthy.”