“Stimple?” Jackson said.
Stimple lost control. “BAAAAAAHHHH! No one loves me!”
“Stimple?”
“WHAAAAAAA! Not even a dumb tree!” “Stimple!” Jackson yelled as loudly as he could. Stimple stopped wailing. He sat up and snorted and sniffed.
“Stimple, I think …”
Stimple snorted again, sucking the bubble of phlegm back into his body.
“Stimple. Let’s be rational here.”
“Wha, wha, what good’s that gonna do?” he whimpered.
And then Jackson had an idea.
“What if we put your prayer back on the tree?” Jackson asked.
“But it fell off because … because it was … rejected like meeeeeee!” And Stimple continued sobbing, sounding like a transport truck flying down a highway.
Jackson sighed. “Stimple. It never hurts to try.” He held out his hand. Stimple stopped crying for a moment and looked down at his persimmon-colored glass. He slapped the glass into Jackson’s hand. Jackson bent down and sat beside Stimple.
“There’s just one thing though.”
“Whass that?” Stimple spluttered.
Jackson paused. “I think you need to believe in it.”
“Believe in what?”
“Believe in prayer again.”
Stimple gave a very unpleasant snort. “Why would I do that? What good is that gonna do me? Foolish Stimple. Believing in rainbows and prayers. What a joke!”
Jackson swallowed hard, willing himself not to get angry. “Stimple, lots of prayers are answered. In fact, I think the Author answers every prayer. Just maybe not in the way you’d expect.”
Stimple snorted in response.
“Just try. Please?” Jackson held out the glass to Stimple. Stimple looked at it. He grabbed it clumsily, touching Jackson with his thick, sweaty hand. Jackson surreptitiously wiped his hand on the grass beside him. (Surreptitiously is the way you slip your broccoli to the dog at dinner when your parents aren’t looking.) Instead of the sweat wiping off, the grass decided to break off and stick to his hand. “Urg,” he said.
“Whassat?” Stimple muttered.
“N-nothing. Just …”
“Jus’ what?”
Jackson shrugged helplessly. “Just … believe.”
Stimple looked at Jackson, his big red eyes still leaky with tears. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. He squeezed his eyes shut and squeezed the piece of glass in his hand. “This is dumb,” he muttered under his breath.
“It’s not going to be heard unless you believe.” Jackson looked up at the sky. It was still cloudy. Where was that sun? He looked at the tree. Why had it dropped a prayer?
Jackson stole a glance at Stimple. Stimple’s face was turning red from effort. Jackson looked back up at the sky. The clouds began to move, slowly at first, but then they picked up speed. Stimple’s hand was turning red. Jackson looked over at the tree again. Very delicately, it began to tinkle, the little bits of glass chiming gently together in the soft breeze. Jackson could feel it. Something in the air.
Something …
… amazing.
chapter 88
In Which Jackson Would Benefit from an Oven Mitt
Eeeeerrrrgh! Too hot!” Stimple threw his piece of glass down. He blew on his hands, flapping them in the air like a chicken trying to give you a makeover. Jackson looked down at the glass. The persimmon color was glowing like it was on fire. The copper wire surrounding it had straightened itself out and the words shone bright like fire.
“I think it’s time, Stimple.” Jackson grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it out of his shorts, hiding his hand underneath. He opened his palm and picked up the hot glass, his T-shirt protecting his hand. He walked over to the tree and hung the glass up on a branch.
A bright, white light filled the sky.
chapter 89
In Which the Road Leads Home
Jackson groaned and shook his head. He slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on something red and soft, and there were voices talking quietly behind him. He stayed where he was, listening.
“I’m not even sure if I believe it myself,” said a deep, gruff voice.
“Well, seeing is believing, as you always say, sir,” a polite voice replied. “Humph. I guess so.”
“And was it answered?” The elevator—that’s where he was. Jackson felt the floor beneath him begin to lurch.
“Don’t expect it to be. It was a little crazy. Even for a prayer.”
“Anything is possible, so long as we believe,” the polite voice said.
Jackson figured he had waited long enough. He yawned loudly and sat up. Stimple was leaning against the elevator wall, and Sir Shaw stood by the elevator’s lever.
“Are you all right, sir?” Sir Shaw asked.
Jackson nodded. “What happened?”
“I cannot rightly say, sir. It seems one moment my elevator was empty, and the next, the two of you were inside.” Sir Shaw smoothed his jacket. Jackson looked at Stimple. Stimple just shrugged.
“What was your prayer?” Jackson asked bluntly. It was a very personal question, of course, but sometimes personal questions are the most important ones to ask.
“Humph. It was so long ago, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Stimple twiddled his nose hair nervously.
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters! We found it and put it back on the prayer tree, didn’t we?” Jackson protested.
“A prayer tree, sir?” Sir Shaw asked.
“Yeah! There was a huge tree in the middle of the field and it had shining glass hanging from the branches and there were all these prayers written on the glass and the sun was shining and then we found Stimple’s prayer because it had fallen down and we hung it back up and then there was this bright, white light and then …”
“Main floor, sir,” Sir Shaw announced. The elevator did a little bounce and stopped.
“Main floor? What’s on the main floor?” Jackson asked. With a whir and a churn …
DING!
The elevator door opened.
Outside the doors was a green field with a path running down the middle of it. Far off in the distance, Jackson could make out some houses.
“Is this how I get home?” Jackson asked.
“Yes, sir. You did request to go home? This would be the path to take you,” Sir Shaw replied.
Jackson looked at the path. He did have to go home. But wait …
“Did I only have to ask to go to the ground floor to go home?” Jackson asked.
Stimple shuffled his feet. “Ya, well …”
Sir Shaw smiled. “Perhaps then the adventure would never have happened?”
Stimple nodded vigorously. “Yah, that’s right. Ya had to learn somethin’.” Then Stimple looked at Sir Shaw. Sir Shaw nodded, and Stimple shrugged his shoulders. “And maybe … maybe I was just lookin’ … fer a friend or somethin’.” He looked down at his feet.
Jackson sighed. “You could have just asked, Stimple.”
Stimple smiled awkwardly. “Ya, well …”
“It is time, sir,” Sir Shaw announced.
“Well, thanks for getting me home, Stimple.” Jackson held out his hand to shake.
Stimple eyed the hand uncertainly. “I don’t know where that hand’s been,” he growled.
Jackson shook his head. “I hope that your prayer is answered. Somehow. You just have to believe, you know?” Jackson patted Stimple’s arm. Stimple nodded, still staring at the ground.
Jackson turned to Sir Shaw. “Thanks for everything. It was great seeing you again.” He held out his hand, and Sir Shaw grasped it in his white-gloved one.
“Always a pleasure, sir. And remember …” He ducked down to Jackson’s height and looked him straight in the eye. Jackson felt a strange pull. It felt like his insides wanted to climb out of his body and climb right into Sir Shaw’s arms. Jackson took a deep breath.
“Mind your roots. The Author will always he
lp you find your way home,” Sir Shaw whispered. Jackson couldn’t say anything, so he nodded. Sir Shaw stood up, and the pull was gone. Jackson shook his head and stepped outside the elevator. The dirt path led toward the neighborhood, where all the houses were lined up in rows. He knew that just beyond was the road that led home.
“You know, Stimple, I lost my son a long time ago,” the polite yet dignified voice said.
“Ya don’t say? That’s funny because I lost my dad a long time ago. Actually, I never really had a dad. Or a mom, for that matter,” replied Stimple’s gravelly voice.
“How interesting. I have never had a chance to be a father.”
“I never had a chance to be a son.” And with a whir and a churn, the elevator door closed. Normal.
Acknowledgements
Because I am not rich and famous yet, I only get a page to thank people. When I am rich and famous, I will demand fourteen pages to thank people and then no one will get offended.
Firstly, thank You to my God (who is so much fun to write with). Thank You for these gifts. Thank You for these blessings. Thank You for the growth. All good things come from You.
To my gorgeous hunk of a man, Danny: You are the apple to my pie; you are the blanket to my bed; you are the chai to my latte. Thanks for working so hard so I can keep writing. You’re a rockstar. I love love love love love you! Thank you for Paris and New York.
To my lovely editor, Kathleen: You rock. For putting up with my endless emails and whining. For choosing eels instead of deer. Brilliant. I wish you well, girlfriend, and I wish you glittery disco balls and peppermint mochas, and I am still planning on New York at Christmas. Thanks for being a bestie. And Jacque: thank you, thank you, thank you for putting up with the insanity.
To my other besties: Burb, Gigi, Ally, NeeCee, Lulu, Zuzu, Lynne, Colleen and Suzanne. Ladies … oh, the prayers you have prayed over me … Thank you. I fully expect each of you to buy one hundred copies of my book so I can become rich and famous and can have fourteen pages of acknowledgments. And to the elevator man at Tiffany’s: It was amazing meeting you and thank you for Sir Shaw’s inspiring jobs.
To Zondervan, HarperCollins, Mike and Mark, Melissa, and Cindy: oh, the questions you answered for me! I’m so green, it’s pathetic. Thank you!
To all the kids I got to meet and do presentations for: I loved seeing your happy faces and hearing your silly laughs.
To all those sweet emails I got from around the world encouraging me: Thank you. You make this writing worth the sleepless nights and headbanging and multiple latte drinking.
To anyone else I forgot: Thank you.
And finally, to my boy, my gaffer, my heart-walking-around-my-body … Jackson? You are fantastic. I love your character and I love your heart. You are so funny, it makes me proud. Always be brave and always stick up for the little guy. Be who God wants you to be. Find your story. And thanks for telling me I’m beautiful, because I’m a girl and all girls are beautiful.
If anyone wants a letter from Jenn Kelly (as she has bought lovely stationery), she can be reached at [email protected]. She also has a website: www.jennkelly.com.
About the Author
Jenn Kelly went to forestry school because she failed English Lit., which is why this book has trees in it. Again. She lives near Ottawa but wants summer homes in New York, Paris, and on Saturn. She is married to her best friend, Danny, and is mom to a seven-year-old named Jackson and a neurotic dog named Daisy. She embraces disorganization and fluffy dandelion seeds. Just not in her garden. This is her second book.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Other Books by Jenn Kelly:
Jackson Jones: The Tale of a Boy, an Elf,
and a Very Stinky Fish (book 1)
Jackson Jones: The Tale of a Boy, a Troll,
and a Rather Large Chicken (book 2)
No squirrels were harmed in the
creation of this book. Honest.
ZONDERKIDZ
Jackson Jones: The Tale of a Boy, a Troll, and a Rather Large Chicken
Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Kelly
Illustrations © 2011 by Ariane Elsammak
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
EPub Edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 978-0-310-42282-2
This title is also available as a Zondervan ebook.
Visit www.zondervan.com/ebooks.
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zonderkidz, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kelly, Jennifer, 1973–
Jackson Jones : the tale of a boy, a troll, and a rather large chicken / written by
Jenn Kelly; illustrated by Ariane Elsammak.
p.cm.
Summary: In the middle of a tremendous storm, ten-year-old Jackson Jones
finds himself in an immense tree, leading to more inexplicable adventures.
ISBN 978-0-310-72293-9 (hardcover)
1. Adventure and adventurers — Fiction. 2. Humorous stories. I. Elsammak,
Ariane, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.K29622Jab 2011
[Fic]—dc23 2011014464
* * *
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
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Zonderkidz is a trademark of Zondervan.
Art direction: Sarah Molegraaf
Cover design: Ariane Elsammak
Interior design: Carlos Estrada
Interior composition: Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect
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Jackson Jones, Book 2 Page 11
