Five Magic Spindles: A Collection of Sleeping Beauty Stories Read online

  © 2016 by Rooglewood Press

  Published by Rooglewood Press

  www.RooglewoodPress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  This volume contains works of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of each author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Book design by A.E. de Silva

  Cover illustration by Julia Popova

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  THE MAN ON THE BUCKSKIN HORSE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  GET YOUR FREE BOOK

  GUARDIAN OF OUR BEAUTY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  THE GHOST OF BRIARDALE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  SPINDLE CURSED

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  OUT OF THE TOMB

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Foreword

  WHEN THE TIME CAME to select the theme for Rooglewood Press’s third creative writing contest based on a fairy tale retelling, I worried about choosing “Sleeping Beauty.” Following up “Cinderella” and “Beauty and the Beast” is a challenge, since those tales feature active heroines who make choices and take chances that dramatically advance the romantic storylines. With such heroines, writers enjoy a full range of options to create fascinating adventures for their retellings.

  But “Sleeping Beauty”? The famous legend of the heroine who . . . sleeps away half the story? Not exactly the stuff of dynamic characters and high adventure.

  Nevertheless, with the support of my creative team here at Rooglewood, I decided to take the leap. Because, despite its tricky storyline, suggestive themes, and passive heroine, “Sleeping Beauty” is a timeless fairy tale on the same level as its more exciting counterparts. It simply makes no sense to publish a series of fairy tale retellings without “Sleeping Beauty” in the mix! So I made the call, we announced the contest, and I crossed my fingers, hoping the competitors would find ways to infuse energy into this story about a dormant princess.

  Sometimes when painters wish to increase their own creativity, they will choose a limited color palette. In the hands of a talented artist, the result of such a limited palette can be the most stunning, the most creative and beautiful of paintings. The same principle often holds true in the realm of fiction writing. Though it may seem unreasonable, even inadvisable, to limit a plot to the confines of the “Sleeping Beauty” legend, the participants in this year’s contest used those limitations as an opportunity to show us how amazingly creative they could be!

  Choosing only five winners proved more difficult than ever this year. But in the end, the five writers we selected produced the most vivid, exciting, and unusual versions of this fairy tale I have ever seen.

  The collection opens with possibly the most surprising setting of all. Rachel Kovaciny’s “The Man on the Buckskin Horse” is a classic Western in all of its leather-and-gunpowder glory. I went into reading this story with a skeptical eye, wondering how any writer, no matter how talented, could pull off a “Sleeping Beauty” retelling with a cast of homespun characters and no magic. Within a single page I was hooked. Although the innocent young beauty is indeed out of the action for much of the story, Rachel gives the reader a dynamic heroine in her viewpoint character, Emma the midwife, who steps into the role of Good Fairy. And how can anyone resist an enigmatic prince wearing a cowboy hat, boots, and spurs? This author reminds us that classic Westerns are ultimately tales of chivalry like the King Arthur legends of old, including the same romance and drama, re-envisioned for a new audience. Thus the setting that seemed incongruous proved itself a natural fit for a fairy tale, and I became a believer.

  Turning the page to the next story, readers will find themselves transported to a land quite unlike the American Old West. Kathryn McConaughy sets her tale in the ancient Near East, infusing her world with a magic so vivid that one cannot help being swept into the unfolding drama. But it wasn’t Kathryn’s setting alone that made “Guardian of Our Beauty” stand out in the crowd—really, it was her exquisite writing that caught my eye and the eyes of the other contest judges. With a confident combination of poetic lyricism and humor, this gifted author weaves a tapestry of words into an unforgettable work of art. Rarely do I encounter a writing style that captivates me so completely.

  Each year, the first story I read for these contests ordinarily suffers by soon being buried in my memory under countless other retellings of the same tale. This year, however, the first story I read was Grace Mullins’s “The Ghost of Briardale” . . . and there was no chance in the world of its getting buried. This zany comedy—set in a haunted insane asylum of all things!—simply refuses to be forgotten. Grace’s plot is madness itself with its many twists and turns, and her characters are numerous for such a short adventure. Yet she manages to make each character a distinct and loveable—and sometimes loathe-able—individual. How any young novelist could invent such a wild take on “Sleeping Beauty” while managing to maintain the most important aspects of the original is beyond me, but I knew I had to include her story in this set of five.

  Michelle Pennington’s “Spindle Cursed” arrived on my desk with a letter of effusive praise from the judge who read it before me. However, after reading so many unusual and even bizarre retellings, I paused when I saw that this story was a traditional fantasy. It seemed almost too tame a choice. Would the author be able to bring something new to her version of “Sleeping Beauty”? I shouldn’t have doubted. Michelle’s traditional setting serves only to highlight the breathtaking landscapes, the dynamic characters, and the palpable peril of the plot she unfolds. “Spindle Cursed” is a romance at its heart—the skillfully told romance of two genuine people learning to appreciate and understand one another. It’s also a thrilling adventure featuring a menacing dragon, fascinating rules of magic, and numerous daring escapes and desperate schemes. Everything about Michelle’s style reveals her highly developed sense of pacing
and drama, resulting in a tale that is impossible to put down, one that leaves the reader craving more of her world and writing.

  If I had to use only one word to characterize Ashley Stangl’s “Out of the Tomb,” that word would be risk. This story is risky in every possible way. A science fiction fairy tale retelling set on a distant planet and featuring non-human protagonists? How could this possibly work? Yet although Ashley’s hero and heroine may not be human, they are such endearing people, so vividly realized and with such compelling motivations, that I found myself bonding deeply to both of them. The author takes her risky retelling one step further by being the only author in this collection to attempt a gender-role reversal, with a sleeping prince as opposed to a sleeping princess. The result of all this risk-taking is nothing short of stunning. A perfectly paced, heart-wrenching adventure, “Out of the Tomb” reinvents the old legend as something new, something . . . futuristic.

  Every one of these five authors proved herself a force to be reckoned with, tackling this difficult theme head-on and infusing her story with unexpected life and ingenuity. Since launching these contests, I have never seen a more varied assortment of stories. But the diversity of these adventures simply underscores the lasting beauty and timelessness of the original. I could not be more thrilled with the collection you now hold in your hand.

  So dive in, dear reader, and discover for yourself the wonders in store!

  Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  For Dad and Mom, who taught me to love westerns and words.

  And for Deborah, my trusty scout.

  With loving thanks to Larry and our kids.

  Soli Deo gloria.

  Chapter 1

  I WASN’T BACK IN town for more than three minutes before I learned that Mrs. Mortimer had gone and hired herself a gunman.

  Folks like to say our town doesn’t need a newspaper because it already has Emma Thornberry. Precious little happens here in Mortimer Junction that somebody doesn’t tell me about. And I knew of only one reason why Adelaide Mortimer would hire such a man: She meant to have it out with Victor Owens once and for all.

  To my everlasting disappointment, I did not witness the gunman riding through town myself. I had been out attending a different arrival: the fifth Cummings boy in a row, and the loudest yet. But I had barely climbed down from my buggy before the man at the livery told me all about Mrs. Mortimer’s new hireling, his big buckskin horse, and the fancy pistol he wore in a black holster. I got right back in my buggy, believe you me. Let no one call me a shirker! I drove straight out to the Owens place to warn Victor, for it seemed no one else had thought to do so. The closer I get to fifty, the rarer sensible folks become.

  We’ve seen a lot of lone men passing through Mortimer Junction ever since the War Between the States ended. Some with a smile and a whistle to hide behind, and some you don’t feel you ought to disturb. All still fighting battles, within themselves or against others. They drift in, maybe find work for a while, then drift on. Everything I heard about this stranger said he was a different sort altogether, though I doubted he meant to stay in town for long either.

  It was late afternoon when I topped the small bluff that overlooks the Owens homestead. I could see there were no other horses tied outside the little picket fence that keeps the sheep away from the cabin. I’d beaten Mrs. Mortimer and her hired gun. Victor Owens would have some advance warning, thanks to me.

  I was right glad to see sheep scattered all around the house and barn. I don’t care much for sheep, but I must allow they look real nice from a distance, dotting the prairie like so many friendly boulders. Victor fences in more of his land for pasture every year, but the Owenses still have only a few hundred head. Just what he and his daughter can care for on their own. At times they graze to one side of the homestead or the other. The rest of the time they take the flock farther out on their land and camp near them. I was glad to see those sheep near the house because I knew that meant I’d not have to go traipsing about the countryside to find Victor.

  I have long considered the Owenses’ little place the prettiest this side of the Platte River. The cabin rests at the bottom of a small depression in the land, right along a reliable stream bordered by cottonwoods and such. I remember how poor Juliet brought roses with her from back East, bundle after bundle of dead-looking sticks so far as I could see. But somehow she coaxed them to grow around her new little home. I’m grateful she lived long enough to see the way they flourished, how they climbed up the walls clear to the roof and on over it. When those roses are in bloom, you couldn’t paint a nicer picture, and their scent more than masks what you’ll smell if the sheep are pastured nearby. I suspect that might be one reason Juliet planted so many of them.

  But I wasted no time admiring the view that day. I drove straight on down and tied my mare to the picket fence. The Mortimer ranch was still a fair piece up the road, but I didn’t know precisely when the gunman had arrived. He might have had plenty of time to ride out, learn what Mrs. Mortimer wanted from him, and head on back.

  The cabin door stood open like usual. I knew from the constant, rhythmic clacking and whirring that Victor’s daughter was hard at work with her spinning wheel. And this was no puny wheel you could sit by! I’ve often wondered how Juliet convinced Victor to haul that huge wheel west. It stood taller than my shoulder.

  I stepped inside and saw Rosalind, barefoot, wearing a plain dress the color of a winter’s sky. She spun the wheel with her right hand while in her left she held a length of wool that twisted into thread, winding onto a long, sharp spindle sticking straight out to one side. I had always given that spindle a wide berth when I visited the Owenses, for I suspected it could deliver a nasty jab if a person encountered it unawares. Juliet had kept a cork stuck over it whenever she wasn’t spinning, which I thought right sensible. I noticed the spindle was nearly empty—Rosalind must have just begun.

  I felt this was no time for pleasantries. “Rosalind, is your father home?” I asked, forgoing my usual cordial greeting.

  “Afternoon, Miss Emma,” she welcomed me, walking backward to spin the wheel again then slowly moving forward as the wool she held twisted up around the spindle.

  Her calmness ruffled me, I will admit, and I spoke more sharply than I otherwise would. “Where is your father? I got something of real importance to tell him.”

  Rosalind had been too calm for several years. When her poor mother left us, the girl had retreated behind a stockade of tranquility. Once a spirited, joyful child, she no longer laughed, wept, or even grew angry. I’d wanted to tear down that emotionless prison of hers for years but had yet to find the necessary tools to do so.

  Still, she was a lovely young lady, for all her unnatural staidness. I’d long admired Rosalind’s looks. My hair you couldn’t compare to anything but dead grass even when I was young and hopeful. But Rosalind’s hair, thick and dark and glossy, reminded me of a bear rug by firelight. On that particular day she had it braided and wound around her head like a crown. I would have loved to have hair like hers. And her eyes! Dark eyes hold an enchantment, I do believe. Her mother, Juliet, had the same coloring. Part Spanish or Italian or something likewise exotic.

  Now, though, I feared Rosalind’s loveliness would be wasted, never to be passed along to a generation of beautiful babies. When she was young, we had all predicted she would make a splendid match one day. Certainly she should not lack for suitors. But after Juliet’s death, Rosalind’s aloofness kept most men away. Her detachment cooled any interest some man or other would show from time to time. At twenty, she seemed destined to join me in spinsterhood.

  Rosalind raised her eyebrows but did not comment on my lack of manners in questioning her so abruptly. “We have a ewe about to birth her first lamb. Pa’s brought her to the barn. I’m sure he’ll be along directly. Won’t you stay and eat with us?”

  “No,” I told her. “I’ll go find your father now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mrs. Mortimer has hired a
gunman, and we must warn him.”

  Rosalind blinked twice, taking in this information. “You don’t think . . .” She let the wheel begin to slow.

  “Mrs. Mortimer is a determined woman, as well we know. What she wants, she takes. And if someone refuses her . . .” I shook my head. “Your father must be warned.”

  From the doorway behind me Victor Owens asked, “Warned of what?” He signaled his dog to remain outside as he entered. I’ve often wondered how long it takes to train a dog as thoroughly as Victor has trained his. It may look like a nondescript black mongrel, but one word or gesture from Victor or Rosalind and that animal knows precisely what to do. I may not have much use for sheep, but a good dog I can respect.

  “Miss Emma, won’t you stay to supper?” Victor offered. He was not a tall man, but he carried himself well. Though his fair hair had begun to grey and thin, his mustache flourished, fierce as ever. I’ve always thought him comely in his own humble way. Certainly his face held character, which is more than I can say for many.

  “This is no time for pleasantries, Victor Owens,” I told him. “Mrs. Mortimer has hired a gunman. He rode through town this morning and asked for directions to her ranch. I have no doubt that by now he is on his way back here.”

  “To do what?” The corner of Victor’s mouth twitched. “Force me to marry her at gunpoint?” Though he had mourned dear Juliet, he had not retreated inside himself as Rosalind had done. Smiles and laughter remained his companions still.

  “You know perfectly well she gets what she wants, and since for some reason she wants you . . .” I put my hands on my hips, prepared to launch into a good scolding, for I saw he was trying not to smile. “Victor Owens, I wish you would take this seriously.”

  “What I take seriously is a young ewe close to her first lambing. I don’t have time to worry about gunmen or Mrs. Mortimer.”