Jack
To the eighth one.
His name was Jack; he was a handsome boy, I confess, with a sweep of golden hair and sparkling blue eyes. As a gurgling babe, he had enchanted the midwife so that she nearly forgot to return him to his mother's waiting arms; as a child of five, he was offered marriage pacts by the mothers of nine four-year-old girls. By the time of his seventeenth birthday, every girl in the village was dangling from the crook of his delightful pinkie finger.
But, God help me, he was as lazy as an ass and duller than a butter knife.
There didn't seem to exist a single reason for his laziness; his mother tried to raise him straight and true, like any mother should. They went to mass every week, like good Christians must. They paid their taxes, as responsible, though bitter, citizens do.
(As for his stupidity, at the age of three, he apparently was kicked by an ass ... it's funny how things fall into place like that, hmmm?)
They certainly weren't very wealthy; they were poor as paupers. All they had to their name was the old house, which Jack's father had left them when he ran away to London to fulfil his lifelong dream (to moon the queen); an old cow named Dandelions; and half a penny. Jack refused to get a job, so his mother was left to weave grass mats to sell. This way, she managed to feed them both for a while (with the food she bought with money she earned, I mean, not with the grass mats).
That is to say, she managed this until Lucinda from across the road broke into the monopoly with her fancy grass-growing, grass-picking, grass-cleaning, and grass-weaving machines, and ousted Jack and his poor mother's operation out of the cruel industry of grass mats forever.
One musty afternoon, Jack's mother was inspecting the pantry, just for a lark -- as usual, it was as bare as a bone. She frowned slightly, wondering where she had heard that expression before.
With a grunt, she dropped into her rocking chair, throwing a glance out the window. Old Dandelions stood there, slowly chewing on a heap of unsold grass mats.
An idea struck the woman so hard she staggered in the backlash; she grabbed onto the kitchen table as her chair threatened to tip over. Wanting to put her plan into action immediately, she yelled, "Jack! Boy, come in here!"
She waited.
And waited. And waited.
A good fifteen minutes later, Jack sauntered through the door and flopped onto a chair. "When is dinner, Mother?" he asked casually. He flipped a golden lock and flashed a brilliant smile.
She bristled. "Jack, didn't you hear me call?"
He looked surprised at the very idea. "No. Why?"
She sighed. "Jack, there's no food anywhere in the house. We have no money. My grass mats are the most sought after commodity in the kingdom following mouse dung and brussel sprouts; all we have is the bloody cow. I ask you now to get up, take her to town, and sell her for a reasonable price." She stared at him. "You do know what reasonable is, right?"
Jack was flabbergasted. "Mother, you expect me to walk all the way to town? To sell that bag of bones?"
"That 'bag of bones' has been feeding us for the last two years!" she snapped. "She's old now, and drier, with nary a drop of milk in that udder." She pointed a finger at the door. "Now, take her to town before I get really angry!"
"But-"
She snarled.
He shrank back, eyes wide, and scurried out the door.
She watched from the window as he unhooked Dandelions' rope from its post. The old cow mooed in protest as he yanked her onto the road.
"Come on..." Jack grunted. "Bloody...creature...come...on!"
Jack's mother shook her head and sat back in her rocking chair. That boy better have more sense than I think he does, she thought, burying her face in her hands.
Meanwhile...
Jack passed through the city gates, the cow sulking behind him. He looked all around him, sucking in his breath, and staring with wide eyes.
The city was bustling with action; street traders shouted and jammed elbows into each other's ribs, fighting to hawk their respective goods to wary passers-by. Horsed nobles had way of the road, and they took up much, dressed in bright colours, flashing polished swords and jangling fat money purses at their belts. Youngsters with shifty eyes and swifter hands slipped in and out, craftily sorting through the contents of the pouches of unsuspecting men and women.
Jack gripped the rope tighter in his hand, moving quickly through the crowd.
"S'cuse me," he called. "S'cuse me - oops, pardon me..."
Tying Dandelions' rope on a nearby post, he parked himself on a shady spot on a street corner and began plugging his ware.
"Sir? Sir! Would you like to buy - sir!"
"Madam? Madam! Would you like - madam?"
"Sir...or is it Madam? Sir! Madam!"
And on it went.
It had been high noon when Jack arrived; it was well into the evening when he left, and no one had bought his pitiful cow (evidently, a pretty face did nothing in this town).
As a matter of fact, Jack owed several vendors money, as the result of Dandelions' culinary antics; the cow had chewed through sacks, gobbled up several apples and pears, and nibbled the corner of someone's new dress (it had been freshly woven cotton).
Jack sulked through the city gates; they shut behind him for the night with a loud, disagreeable clang, catching the tail of his shirt ("God curse it!"), which he pulled free after some forceful yanking.
Muttering treacherously, he started down the road. The boy's broad shoulders were drooping; his fetching face gleamed with beads of sweat. He had spent a scorching day at market, not having thought of bringing of food or water, or money to purchase either.
Dandelions was in much better shape, bless her bovine soul, her stomach bulging for the first time in two years; she mooed contently and licked Jack's cheek.
"Ack!" Jack pushed her warm, moist nose away and wiped his face. "Bloody cow."
As they rounded the hill and down the path to their little cottage, Jack wondered what to say, though he was already sure what his mother's reaction would be.
He shuddered.
"Say..."
Jack paused, eyeing an inviting stretch of grass on the side of the road; he could certainly go for a nap then and there.
A wink or two couldn't hurt, he thought to himself. After all, he wasn't in any particular hurry to get home, was he?
Securely tying the cow's rope onto the branch of a nearby tree, he spread out on the sweet-smelling grass, clicked his shoes, and gazed up at the first twinkling stars of the evening.
He was feeling better already. With a sigh of contentment, he reached over, and caressed a batch of fresh cowslips. Their scent wafted under his nose; he jerked as a cloud of sneezes hit him.
"ACHOOACHOOACHOOACHOOACHOOACHOOACHOO!"
"Bless you!"
He blinked. A strange man stood before him; he wore a brightly patterned velvet tunic, and a short peaked cap, from which bloomed a crimson feather.
There hadn't been any man there before.
"Hello, Jack," the stranger said, and wiggled his long, elegant fingers in front of the boy's blue eyes, as though in some sort of strange, alien greeting.
"That's a fine animal you've got there." He nodded and jerked his head to Dandelions behind Jack.
Forgetting to ask why and how the stranger knew his name, the young man wiped his watering eyes and runny nose and looked over at old Dandelions. She was standing near the tree, chomping grass. As the two men watched in silence, she swallowed a cud, hacked it up, chewed it, hacked it up, and swallowed it, before crunching up a new cud.
"Yes, quite fine," the stranger repeated softly. "Tell you what. I'll buy her."
"Really?" Jack's eyes lit up.
"Really." The man reached into his pockets, hmmm-ing and haa-ing. "Oh my, what do you know? I must have forgotten my, er, purse back at the, umm, manor." He smiled.
"All I have," he said earnestly, "are these magic beans." He held out his palm, and Jack peered into it. Sure enough, eight brightly coloured beans lay there. Poppy red, sky blue, olive green, lemon yellow, orange orange, violet purple,, tickled pink, and a peachy bean that looked strangely like Sean Bean. Jack had never seen beans like that before. Well, except maybe for the green one. Beans were certainly green, yes, but never poppy red, sky blue, lemon yellow, orange orange, violet purple, tickled pink, and certainly not like Sean Bean.
"Magic beans?"
"Yes, that's what I said, didn't I?" The stranger's eyes glinted and he put his face very close to Jack's. His breath smelled like peppermint, cinnamon and sweaty socks. Jack wrinkled his nose. "Magic beans ... and not a finer magic bean will you find. Plant them, and you'll see."
"I will?" Jack closed his hand over them, already feeling better about the trade.
"Of course." The stranger nodded confidently, his fists on his hips.
"Wow! Here you go!" Without another moment of hesitation, Jack unhitched Dandelions, and thrust the rope into the man's hand. "Her name is Dandelions and she likes to eat everything from a fine cotton dress to burlap sacks to poorly woven grass mats." Dull as he was, Jack decided against telling this man about her being dry. After all, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Sort of. Kinda.
All right, it would. But who gives a care?
"Well, off I go then!" the stranger said cheerfully. He led Dandelions onto the road, with surprising gentleness. As they went off into the mists, the stranger called over his shoulder, "Good luck, Jack! Enjoy!"
Jack waved. He felt pretty damn good about himself; after all, it wasn't every day that one acquired seven magic beans in one go.
He whistled a jovial tune as he headed home, tossing the beans up and down in his hand.
Now he had something to show his mother.
--
"Mother!" Jack called at the fence gate.
Jack's mother snorted, waking from her snooze; she yawned and stretched her legs.
"Mother!"
She rubbed her eyes and looked out the window. "Jack? You sold the cow." She sounded genuinely surprised. "What did you get for her? A good price, I hope." She rolled her shoulders, producing two loud cricks.
He was grinning. "It was good all right, Mother. Seven magic beans!" he shouted, striding over to the window.
"Oh, yes, magic beans, yes, yes..." she muttered, patting the pockets of her robe.
She swerved around. "WHAT?"
He dropped them in her hand. The colours flashed before her eyes: poppy red, sky blue, olive green, lemon yellow, orange orange, violet purple, tickled pink, and peachy Sean Bean bean. Her eyebrows rose higher at each colour, except for the green bean; everyone's seen green beans.
"They're magic," her son said cheerfully. "The man who gave them to me told me so."
"Magic," she repeated flatly. "Magic." She examined them carefully, pushing them around with her fingers. "Magic."
"Yup." Jack snapped his suspenders proudly.
She threw the beans at him, screaming, "You silly prat! I knew better than to let you sell our cow! Those aren't magic beans! There is no such thing as magic! You just traded away our last hope for a bunch of stupid, non-magic beans!" She slammed the shutters closed, and went to bed, telling herself that she would sell him first thing in the morning at the market. Maybe a girl would buy him.
"Mother?" Jack's nervous voice trembled in the night air. "Mother?" The knob to the front door rattled loudly as he shook it frantically. "The door's locked, Mother. Where will I sleep? Mother?"
She snored.
"Fine!" he yelled defiantly, suddenly furious himself. "I'll plant them, and water them! You'll see! MAGIC! MAGIC!"
"SHADDUP!" the miller hollered out of his window next door.
Muttering enough curses to last anyone through next Thursday, and maybe Friday if you were careful, Jack picked up the seven beans. He squatted by the tiny garden patch in front of the little cottage; he meticulously dug out right small holes with his fingers, and dropped one bean in each hole: first poppy red, then sky blue, then olive green, then lemon yellow, then orange orange, then violet purple, then tickled pink; finally Sean Bean was smiling dreamily up at him.
He covered them with dirt, patted them down, and sprinkled water, fetched from the well, over them. He paused, and drank his own fill from the ladle, wiping his mouth when he was done.
As he prepared a bed of grass beneath a fig tree that had long ago stopped giving figs, he muttered, "You'll see, Mother. You'll see. Magic. M-A-G-I-C-K."
--
The next morning, Jack woke and stretched, squinting into the bright sunlight. He thought, What a lovely, sunny day. The light will be good for my beans.
He got up, and noted the glitter in the grass. He thought, There must've been a drizzle last night; the water will be good for the beans.
He got up, and saw that a bolt of lightning had struck a tree nearby; it had crashed down just centimetres away from where his head had lain while he was sleeping. Black soot streaked the bark; the trunk still smouldered gently, while several branches had been roasted to a crisp.
There must've been a heavy thunderstorm last night, Jack thought. Well, I suppose that's good. For the beans. Yes.
With a leisurely stride, he walked over to his garden patch and stood over it, rocking back and forth on his heels, whistling a merry tune. He looked down. Sure enough, his beans had sprouted overnight. And boy, had they sprouted.
For Jack had planted right ordinary, artificially coloured beans, and grown eight ordinary green string beans. He had been fooled by a professional con artist (who, that evening, enjoyed a lovely steak dinner).
His mother disowned him.