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Rapunzel

    Retold by Jacqueline Wilson
    Illustrated by Nick Sharratt

    THERE WAS ONCE a husband and wife who longed for a child. The man made a cradle out of oak and carved buttercups and daisies round the side. The woman sewed many silk outfits and embroidered flocks of lovebirds and butterflies on every single baby garment.
    The years went by. The cradle gathered dust in a corner because the woman couldn’t bear to go near it. The baby clothes stayed shut in a drawer, the bright birds and butterflies trapped in the dark.
    The husband hoped his wife might accept her lot as she grew older but if anything her longing grew worse. Sometimes he saw her fold her arms and rock them as if she were holding an invisible baby. He couldn’t stand seeing her aching so badly.

    The couple lived in a cottage at the edge of the village. The very last house was a forbidding dark dwelling with dragons painted on the door and a glowering griffin weathervane on the roof. The garden was surrounded by a high wall but the husband and wife could peep down into it when they were upstairs in their cottage.
    It was no ordinary garden of cornflowers and cabbages. They recognized some of the plants, lavender, mint, camomile, foxglove … but there were many strange herbs they’d never seen before.
    They rarely spied their neighbour, a wild-looking old woman with tangled grey hair and stark black clothing. She sold herbal remedies and acted as a midwife – but most of the villagers shunned her, whispering that she was a witch. One stupid small boy dared torment her, climbing her wall and pulling up some of her plants. That night he had a fit, fell into a trance, and never walked or talked again.
    The husband and wife steered well clear of their neighbour – but the husband couldn’t help wondering if she might have some magic potion that could help them have a child. She was a midwife, after all. She might know some special secrets.

    One morning the wife discovered a strand of grey in her fair hair. She started weeping because she knew she was almost too old to have a baby now. The sound of her sobs spurred the husband on.
    He walked out of the cottage, down the garden path, out of his wooden gate – and through the sharply spiked iron arch belonging to his neighbour. He stood still in the strange garden, staring all around him. The cobbled path seemed to tilt first one way, then the other, making him dizzy. He forced himself towards the house, plants brushing against his ankles with their bristly leaves, creepers coiling round his calves as if they had a life of their own.
    It took him all his courage to seize the leering lion’s-head knocker. It was horribly hot to the touch so that he only dared one timid rap before snatching his hand away. The door opened almost immediately. The bent old woman stood before him, squinting up at him from behind her grey hanks of hair.
    â€˜I’m so sorry to disturb you, Madam,’ the husband said. ‘It’s just that I couldn’t help wondering … You seem so learned in matters of magic …’ His voice tailed away.
    The old woman waited, rubbing her dry old hands together so that they made a rasping noise.
    â€˜It’s my wife,’ the husband continued desperately. ‘She’s always longed for a child and now I’m so scared this longing is driving her demented. Is there any way at all you can help? Some pill, some potion, some secret spell? I’m not a rich man but I’d be willing to give you all my savings – a purse of gold – if you will help us.’
    The old woman’s mouth tightened until her dry lips disappeared.
    â€˜I have always longed for a daughter myself,’ she said, her old eyes watering.
    The husband stared at her in astonishment, amazed that a weird old witch woman could want a child.
    â€˜Do not look so surprised,’ she said bitterly. She sniffed and composed herself. ‘However, you have