The Sleeper and the Spindle

“I have noticed many unusual things,” said the tallest of the dwarfs.

They were in Goodmaster Foxen’s inn.

“Have you noticed, that even amongst all the sleepers, there is something that does not sleep?”

“I have not,” said the second tallest, scratching his beard. “For each of them is just as we left him or her. Head down, drowsing, scarcely breathing enough to disturb the cobwebs that now festoon them . . .”

“The cobweb spinners do not sleep,” said the tallest dwarf.

It was the truth. Industrious spiders had threaded their webs from finger to face, from beard to table. There was a modest web between the deep cleavage of the pot-girl’s breasts. There was a thick cobweb that stained the sot’s beard grey. The webs shook and swayed in the draught of air from the open door.

“I wonder,” said one of the dwarfs, “whether they will starve and die, or whether there is some magical source of energy that gives them the ability to sleep for a long time.”

“I would presume the latter,” said the queen. “If, as you say, the original spell was cast by a witch, seventy years ago, and those who were there sleep even now, like Red-Beard beneath his hill, then obviously they have not starved or aged or died.”

The dwarfs nodded. “You are very wise,” said a dwarf. “You always were wise.”

The queen made a sound of horror and of surprise.

“That man,” she said, pointing. “He looked at me.”

It was the fat-faced man. He had moved slowly, tearing the webbing, moved his face so that he was facing her. He had looked at her, yes, but he had not opened his eyes.

“People move in their sleep,” said the smallest dwarf.