Deal With a Demon

by Catherine Hurcombe

Content Warnings: Blood, References to Addiction and Death

The witch was not born with her powers, despite what her father said. He relished in the prospect of her having some supernatural gift, and forever boasted of how his daughter could “call in the sheep with her song,” or that “thanks to her, his chickens laid twice as much as their neighbors.” Every meal she cooked was sensational; the house gleamed when she cleaned it; and the straw she spun turned into gold. But it was not magic that made Sieglinde so exceptional, it was work.

She had sung to the sheep until her voice grew hoarse, until she learned which tune would bring them running. She adjusted the chickens’ portions to encourage their growth, and brought in fresh straw when theirs was spoiled. She diligently tended her herb garden, and she purchased a special cleaning polish from the village washerwoman. What she did not know, she learnt, and while her father called it a “natural gift,” Sieglinde knew it to be otherwise. And she knew that there was no price too dear to pay for knowledge.

So when the prince was due to visit and her younger sister lamented that she had no fine clothes for the occasion, she set to work.

They didn’t have much of anything on the family farm. Her father used to have a keen eye for such things; he was once a shrewd man, not content to rest on his laurels, but eager to seek out new opportunities. But then Sieglinde’s mother had died, and he became too busy searching for her at the bottom of a bottle to run his own lands. Now Sieglinde managed the sheep and the chickens, and her sister, Berthild, managed the vegetables and the goat—insisting the latter was as much of a handful as all the chickens combined. As such, Sieglinde could not very well buy her sister a dress, nor could she make one out of the fabric scraps she had to hand.

But when earthly powers failed her, she turned to knowledge of another sort.

That night, leaving her sister in their bed, she tiptoed down to the cellar, careful not to wake their snoring father as she passed. There she sat on the moon-cooled cobbles and held her father’s hunting knife against her fingertip. Then she began to pray.

“Spirits of the night, grant me your succor.

“Witches of the darkened wood, guide me in your ways.

“Children of the old gods, lend me your ears.

“O, demons of foul magic, I ask for your power.”

A single bead of blood, dark as the last apple before winter, welled against her skin and slowly, painstakingly, splashed to the ground. The stone drank it clean away.

Who has summoned me?

A rancid smell filled the air, like rotten eggs or fresh manure, but Sieglinde did not flinch. Nor did she flinch at the impossibly large, scaled feet in front of her and the winged demon attached to them. Instead, she pushed aside her fear and met the being's eyes with a steady gaze.

“I am no one. A farmer’s daughter.”

Even a farmer’s daughter has a name.

“Cannot the same be said of a demon? And I doubt you would give me your name so willingly.”

The creature laughed at that, a great bellowing roar that rang in her ears, and showed off a mouthful of pointed teeth. He did not answer for a moment, instead, taking in the scene around them. The shelves of neatly marked preserves; the protective circle in which Sieglinde had cast her magic; the moonlight streaming through the window, perfectly calculated to maximize its power.

You are a clever one, then. For that, I may even grant your first boon for free.

“I need a fine dress for my sister.”

And you shall have one made of the finest spun gold.

He—for she had now decided the demon was indeed a “he”—took in a deep breath and raised one crooked talon to the heavens. Smoke began to circle around him and Sieglinde could not tell if the shiver that shot through her was terror or excitement. As if lit by a fire she could not see, the smoke began to glow, until it coalesced into a light so blinding it was almost painful to see. When the brightness subsided, she held out her arms and into them fell a gleaming golden dress. She turned towards the demon.

“Thank–”

Say nothing. His voice was low with warning. Never offer thanks to me, or any of my kind. This is not a gift, but a flavor of my power. When next you need me, I will not be so forthcoming.

Sieglinde frowned. “And what if I do not need you again?”

You will. He shot her a knowing look, too knowing by far, as though those blazing eyes could see into the very depths of her soul. The ones like you always do.

🝊

The next day, her sister shrieked with delight at the dress she had been given.

“Sieglinde, however did you afford something so beautiful?”

“Oh, it is not so precious as all that.” She could not hold back the smile from her face at Berthild’s boundless glee. “It is only straw, I simply spun it well.”

“Straw!”

Their father guffawed. The day was still early enough that he had not yet turned to drink and he watched with evident interest his daughters’ exchange.

“Sieglinde, my girl, if that is straw, then I am the king himself!” His eyes twinkled knowingly, and for a moment, Sieglinde could see the ghost of the father she once knew, the man eager to spin any situation to his advantage. “I have always said you had a gift, but perhaps I have underestimated you. Who knows where such power could take us…”

By the end of that day, Sieglinde’s skill was the talk of the village and beyond. Those who did not even know her whispered of her magical prowess. To some, yes, it was an unnatural, sinister thing, but to many it was a marvel. Had everyone not already been so abuzz with news of the king and prince’s coming, she would have doubtless had them waiting outside her door, towing buckets of straw behind them. Nevertheless, she continued her work about the farm, and once her sister could be persuaded to take off the gold-spun dress, Berthild reluctantly joined her.

Only a two-day later, Sieglinde was tending to her herb garden, thinking on what the demon had said. About how “the ones like her” would always come back. What could he mean by that? Had he taken her for some spoiled creature, frivolous enough she would soon summon him for more petty riches? She thought of the hours she had spent learning the ways of the farm’s animals, sharpening her skills as an executioner sharpens his blade, and found his presumption angered her.

Lost in her thoughts as she was, it took her a moment to hear her sister's shout as she returned from the market. Every so often, when they had excess crops, Berthild would take them into the village to sell. Even before his latest tales of her supernatural craftsmanship, there had been those in the village who shunned Sieglinde, no doubt encouraged by her father’s eager boasts about her power. So after several incidents of name-calling, spitting, and sabotage to their market stall, the sisters had agreed it was best to leave their trade to Berthild.

But she had left a mere hour before. As she approached, Sieglinde noted that her basket was only half-emptied, her face red from the exertion of running all the way home.

“They are here! In the village! The baker’s wife said—” Berthild paused for a moment, taking a gasping breath before she could continue. “The baker’s wife said the king and his son have heard tales of a maiden who can spin straw into gold and the king would like to meet her!”

As her sister hurried upstairs to lace herself into the golden dress, Sieglinde did not move. Fear was rank and sour on her tongue, her bed of herbs long forgotten. She looked down to her hand and the still puckered scar from her encounter with the demon. When Berthild had asked, she had told her it was a kitchen accident, which her sister had readily accepted. The wound did not pain her, but the skin seemed to tingle under the weight of her gaze; the promise of her blood singing louder as the king drew ever closer.

There was no time for the full ritual. She could only hope that the demon still lingered somewhere nearby, that her blood alone might be enough to bring him forth. She did not dare to attempt her work inside, not even in the cellar—not while her sister was still rushing about in her efforts to ready herself. Instead, she took the blade she had been using to trim the herbs and dashed it across her palm.

I knew you would be back, but I did not expect to visit again so soon.

The demon seemed even larger outside the house, his monstrous shape incongruous in the pale light of day.

“I need more.”

Another dress so quickly? Why, have you torn the first?

His voice rumbled with amusement, which she loftily ignored.

“I do not need a dress, only the power to create my own.” She met his eyes, and tried not to flinch at the unearthly flames within. “To spin straw into gold.”

I cannot simply give away such magic for free. That is a power many would give their lives to possess.

“Then what do you require as payment?

As I have said, a life. That of your firstborn child.

Another might have thought longer over such a proposition. But whether it was the sound of the king’s horses that spurred her on, or some deeper shadow within her soul, Sieglinde did not hesitate.

“Done.”

If he was surprised at her boldness, he did not show it. Instead, he once more raised his talon, resting it against the tip of her temple. Smoke engulfed her, so dense and sulphuric she almost retched. But before she could pull away, it dissipated, and she gasped at the incredible power shooting through her veins.

I shall return to claim my prize, Sieglinde.

It was not until the demon had vanished and Sieglinde returned to the house that she realized she had never told him her name.

🝊

As expected, the king was enamored by her new gift. Where others might shy away from witchcraft, he seemed content not to question the source of his luck and focus instead on its benefits.

“A talent such as this must be rewarded!” The king had declared. “You shall be married to my son and return with us to the palace.”

Berthild, still in her golden dress, looked as though she might faint from shock, and Sieglinde could sense her father’s glee at the prospect of his daughter’s newfound wealth and connections. But although this should have been her fairytale ending, Sieglinde could not help but feel as though she were still waiting. As though part of her were still out there, with the demon in the herb garden.

And it was not long after her wedding that she was reminded of the deal she had made that day.

The commonfolk were delighted by their prince’s choice of bride and the nobility marveled at the sudden influx of golden clothes and tapestries pouring from the palace—even if at times, Sieglinde felt more like their tailor than their future queen. When she discovered she was pregnant with the prince's child, it was as though an icy bucket of water had been poured over her head.

The prince was not a bad man. A little entitled, perhaps, as she might have expected, and content to enjoy the luxuries of his position rather than spend his time readying for the day he became king. He was not so very odious that she could not bear to carry his child; she knew he would be thrilled with the news, as would his father. And her sister (newly married to a nobleman of the court) would delight in her role as aunt. Even Sieglinde, who had never thought of herself as a mother, found herself strangely enamored with the life growing inside of her. If only the child were hers to keep.

But Sieglinde had not been one to sit idle when she was poor, nor would she do so when she was rich. As a princess, and the soon-to-be mother of heir to the throne, she found there were plenty of resources at her disposal. So once again, she got to work. The months of her pregnancy passed, yet despite her husband’s constant urging, Sieglinde did not stop to rest. In between her royal engagements, she studied, and she learned, and as the babe quickened inside her, she knew she was running out of time.

She had not expected to love the child so, at least not before she was born. But when the court doctors determined Sieglinde carried a girl, the prince began talking about her future—one of endless gold and luxury, with suitors lining up at her door. It was then Sieglinde found herself imagining a different life for her daughter. The prince’s words, as pretty as they were, seemed strangely hollow. Sieglinde did not want these empty riches or noble frivolities for their child. When she felt her daughter kicking, she felt her drive, her determination. Ambition that the prince would never understand.

A storm bellowed on the night she gave birth. Handmaidens rushed to her side and soothed her through the pain, and the midwife was sent for as soon as her pangs began. Sieglinde braced herself for each agonizing wave, breathing in the sharp, rain-scented air as she gripped the frame of her bed. Several of the maids had tried to convince her to lie down or had offered to pull closed the balcony doors. But even as rain slicked the floors, she refused them, relishing in the thunder that roared in time with her birthing cries.

Her daughter was whisked away moments after she was born—not by a demon, but by palace officials, who took her to meet her father and grandfather, and have her assessed by the doctors. By the time she was returned to her mother’s breast, Sieglinde’s bloodied sheets and robe had been changed, and she had regained enough energy to marvel at the baby girl cradled in her arms.

“Your father has not yet given you a name.” Her voice was soft as she addressed her child, who gurgled sleepily in response. “But it does not matter. Whatever they call you, or wherever you go, you will remain my daughter.”

The storm winds had long since abated, but as she spoke, the balcony doors slammed open once more.

Hello, Sieglinde.

The demon stood at the foot of her bed, that toothy smile stretched over the skin of his face. Sieglinde inclined her head.

“Hello.”

You knew I would come. I hope you will not fight me for taking that which is rightfully mine.

“I will not fight you. But I should like to amend our bargain, if I may?”

The creature chuckled. A bargain, once struck, cannot be broken.

“No, indeed. But even a demon’s world is governed by rules, is it not? Rules that say to know a demon’s name is to have dominion over him, and undo any bargains he might have made.”

It was difficult to tell with them glowing as they were but Sieglinde could have sworn the demon’s eyes narrowed. Who have you been speaking to, little witch?

Sieglinde had, in fact, spoken to many people. Magic was not as prominent in the kingdom as it once was, and yet when the news of the princess’ strange power had spread, there were those who were all too eager to see her, and her gift, for themselves. Scholars at the University had been quick to invite her to tour their campus, and in return, she sought from them all that they knew about the demonic powers that governed the magical world. She spoke to servants who knew someone who could cure any sickness or predict the weather days before it came. She consulted with magic-users from all walks of life, drawing on knowledge from the furthest reaches of the kingdom, until she had pieced together a picture of the creature she had summoned a year ago.

“Others who know your story far better than I. Rumplestiltskin.”

The demon roared and the force of it was enough to shake the very walls of the palace. Guards began to hammer on the door and she could hear the frightened wails of servants in the corridors outside.

Very well, princess. You have won your freedom.

Sieglinde could not help but marvel at how one single word had elicited such a change in him. Rumplestiltskin seemed almost frozen with tension, like a clockwork toy waiting to be wound.

I am at your command.

“Wait.” Sieglinde held up a hand, heart thundering. But, she reminded herself, she had prepared for this moment. “Perhaps, in light of this new information, we might make a new deal. The stories I have heard go far beyond a little magical dressmaking. You are a powerful creature.”

What do you suggest?

“Teach me. Make me your apprentice. And my daughter in turn, and her daughter, so that we might learn even a modicum of your power.”

The  gleam of Rumplestiltskin's eyes seemed to dim as he thought on what she had said. She was no monster; she would allow him to leave if he so wished. But she hoped he would remember her not for her kindness, but her intelligence. Her skills that he could readily use, if he were wise enough to see that they might both work better together.

It will not be easy work. It will not be the life of a queen.

The thumping on the door faded into the background as the pair assessed one another. The demon Rumplestiltskin, talons still clenched into fists, and Sieglinde, the one who bested him. The farmer-turned-princess-turned-witch, looking up at him with her daughter still asleep against her chest.

“I should hope not.” Carefully, so as not to wake the child, she rose from her bed. “So, when do we begin?”

🜁🜄🜂🜃

Catherine Hurcombe (she/her) is a fantasy writer based in the UK. Her work is inspired by a love for the mythical and the magical, particularly Greek mythology, and she is currently querying her debut novel.