The Sleeper and the Spindle

he drawbridge across the moat was down, and they crossed it, although everything seemed to be pushing them away. They could not enter the castle, however: thick thorns filled the gateway, and fresh growth was covered with roses.

The queen saw the remains of men in the thorns: skeletons in armour and skeletons unarmoured. Some of the skeletons were high on the sides of the castle, and the queen wondered if they had climbed up, seeking an entry, and died there, or if they had died on the ground, and been carried upwards as the roses grew.

She came to no conclusions. Either way was possible.

And then her world was warm and comfortable, and she became certain that closing her eyes for only a handful of moments would not be harmful. Who would mind?

“Help me,” croaked the queen.

The dwarf with the brown beard pulled a thorn from the rose bush nearest to him, and jabbed it hard into the queen’s thumb, and pulled it out again. A drop of deep blood dripped on to the flagstones of the gateway.

“Ow!” said the queen. And then, “Thank you!”