“Why did she have to bring that up?” he muttered. “For a few moments, I had almost forgotten.”
It occurred to him that the golden candlestick in his hand was worth more than every object in the miserable cottage where he’d grown up. Look at me now, though, he thought. As rich as a king. Because of what he’d brought down long ago.
All his, all stolen. But somebody paid for it, didn’t she? Probably with her life. And that’s the part of the story that nobody tells.
How was he supposed to explain all that to the little girl behind the door? He put the candle on the table outside Ann’s door and shuffled to his room, praying that a dreamless sleep would come quickly for once.
Chapter 7
Finch was in a frenzy, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for something—anything—to happen. First, the boy had nearly fallen. Then a child’s high scream, barely audible, came floating across the field, and he was sure Nick had been nabbed. But no, the sentry left and now the boy hung there under the window. They could just make out his shape in the moonlight. So close!
“Squint, what the devil is he doing?”
Squint peered intently at the dark form below the window. “He’s still waiting there—no, he’s moving now. He’s going in!”
Finch froze, afraid he might hear another scream. The corner of one eye began to twitch. Seconds passed and no sound came from the window.
“He’s done it,” Finch said. Beside him, Toothless John laughed and rubbed his hands together. Finch turned to face the band. “Now, remember the plan. Inside, we split into two teams. I’ll take one upstairs, Toothless and the other stay below. We’ll leave the sentry on the roof for last. When you find servants, get rid of them quickly, before they can scream and alert the rest. But remember: Leave the old man for me to deal with. There may be hidden booty that only he can lead us to.” Finch poked the rough skin of his palm, testing the sharpness of his jagged knife.
“If everyone does his part, this is the night that makes us rich. No mistakes!”
Nick crouched on the floor just under the window. He breathed through his mouth to keep his labored breath from hissing through his nose. He flexed his cold, aching fingers. The girl never moved, so he was sure she was asleep. He picked up the lantern, tiptoed across the room, opened the door a crack, and slipped into the hallway.
He closed the door slowly, praying its hinges would not squeak. It slid silently into its frame, and he relaxed for a moment. The difficult part was behind him now. Finding the front door should be easy.
Nick undid the knot that tied the lamp to his belt, so he would not trip over the rope as he crept through the dark. He looked down the deserted hallway. It ran the length of the fortress. In the center, a wide staircase descended to the lower level.
Nearby on a wooden table, a tall candle burned in a golden candlestick. Another stood at the far end of the hall, just a flickering yellow star from this distance. Nick ran his hand over the ornate curves of the candlestick and onto the surface of the table. It was beautifully crafted, with inlaid designs of precious metals decorating its surface.
There was a strange, soft sensation under his feet. Looking down, he saw a carpet that ran the length of the hallway—the first he’d ever stood on. It was dark green and blue, with a pattern that looked something like twisting vines. Threads of gold were woven throughout, glimmering in the candlelight.
Nick gulped. Around him were objects of greater value than he’d seen in his entire life. The house must be filled with such treasures. What could be the source of so much wealth?
Nick knew he should head straight down the staircase and slide the bolt on the front door. The gang would be expecting his signal any moment now. But a question popped into his mind: What if it really happened?
It seemed impossible. But there was something about the way the old man answered the girl’s questions, something in his voice. Nick had heard storytellers before. They liked to act as if the story they were telling was real, even though it was just a story. But Jacks voice was different, as if he was trying to act as if it was just a story, to hide that fact that it was real.
Nick’s thoughts were spinning. Was he crazy to think like this?
And something else troubled him. What exactly would Finch’s gang do to the people in this fortress when they got inside? They had been ready to kill the wagon driver in the forest, the man who must be the girl’s father. Would they hurt Ann, who couldn’t be more than five years old? Would they murder Jack?
Nick realized with sudden clarity what a fix he’d gotten himself into. If he opened that door for Finch, death would visit this place. He had to think of something else, a plan of his own. And he realized what he really wanted to do: He wanted to find out if the story of the beanstalk was true.
He decided to explore the fortress to discover the answer. And when he learned the truth, he would grab the most valuable objects he could carry and sneak out a window on the other side, where the gang wouldn’t see him. Then he would run far, far away, where Finch would never find him.
Nick wondered where to go first. On the side of the hallway where Ann’s room was, all the doors looked alike. Nick supposed they were bedrooms too.
But on the other side, to the right and left of the staircase, stood two pairs of wider, taller doors. Nick walked softly to the nearest pair and pulled on a handle. Despite the massive weight of the ten-foot-high door, it opened easily.
It was dark, but Nick sensed a large open space before him. There were windows, but the moon was shining on the other side of the fortress, and its light did not penetrate here. Nick stepped inside and gently shut the door behind him. Then he raised his lantern and opened the hinged side to let out a shaft of light.
Nick clamped his hand over his mouth to cut off his own scream. There, towering over him, was a horrible giant, with gleaming red eyes, mouth twisted in a ferocious snarl, and hands reaching down to grasp with long pointy fingers.
But a second glance told him the giant wasn’t real. It was only a painting.
What a painting, though! No wonder he was fooled at first glance. The walls in the room were as high as two men, and this work of art reached almost from floor to ceiling. The giant was rendered with incredible skill and obsessive detail. Every wart, every hair, every blemish on the skin received the artist’s attention. The background, too, was astonishingly real. The giant stood by a great kitchen table with whole tree trunks for legs. A chair was lying on its side, toppled over when the monster leaped to his feet. The eyes glowed with a wicked inner light, and the way it seemed to be reaching right off the canvas made Nick shiver.
Nick raised the lantern over his head and gazed down the length of the room. The walls were crammed with pictures, too many to count. He knew who the artist must be. And sure enough, in a bottom corner of the picture before him, he saw the painting signed with a single letter:
J
Nick walked along the gallery, casting the lantern’s light on Old Man Jack’s amazing pictures one by one. Each depicted moments from the famous story, together telling almost the whole tale. There was the mysterious stranger—what strange green eyes he had!—trading the beans for the cow. There was the beanstalk towering in the morning sky, with the little boy Jack gazing up, astonished.
In the next picture, Jack climbed the beanstalk at a dizzying height, as the countryside shrank away beneath him.
Another painting showed the top of the beanstalk reaching the mysterious cloud where the giant lived. This was a landscape from a dream, a rocky coastline with frothing mist beating its shore instead of ocean waves. It was an island in the air, held aloft by some unseen force.
In another picture, a giantess stood at the door of the giant’s castle, looming tall over little Jack, She had a pleasant face, compared to the vicious portrait of the giant Nick had seen first. Her black hair was neatly combed back and tied with a ribbon. Nick was surprised by an unexpected detail of this picture: Her belly was huge
and round like a ball, and she cradled it with one hand while she spoke to Jack. With the other hand, she pointed back down the path the boy had taken. Her mouth formed an O, and Nick imagined her saying, “Go! Go away! If my husband catches you …”
At the far end of the room, Nick saw the back of a large easel, holding another canvas. Drop cloths were spread beneath it to protect the floor from splattered paint. As Nick drew closer he caught the scent of oils. He walked around to the other side to see what the old man was painting now.
This one had just been started. Some of it, in fact, was still a charcoal outline. It showed young Jack, wielding an ax, hacking away at the bottom of the beanstalk. Through a wondrous use of perspective, the point of view was from Jacks feet, looking up the length of the beanstalk. The giant was high above, barely visible. The mighty growth had already begun to topple.
The leaves of the beanstalk glistened in the lamplight as if wet with dew. Nick touched that spot and his fingertip came away green.
All those paintings, Nick thought, must have taken a lifetime to produce. And now it seemed the old man had reached the end of the story. But why did he paint with such devotion? Was it because everything that came after his grand adventure seemed so humdrum in comparison? Did he spend his life trying to relive it in this gallery?
But that answer didn’t feel right to Nick. If these paintings were created to celebrate those events, why was it that the lingering impression they left was of despair? There was something about the somber shadows in every picture, and the joyless look in the eyes of every subject. Jack himself looked especially haunted.
Nick realized that he was no longer questioning whether the story was true. The art around him made it hard to believe otherwise.
Standing before the easel, Nick had come almost to the end of the room. He turned around to see what was left to discover.
There, against the far wall, was one more picture: a portrait of the hen that laid the golden eggs. It was a huge bird, three times the size of an earthly hen, in a nest that sat upon a pedestal. She was asleep, with her head tucked under a wing. Nick walked toward that last painting, holding the lantern before him. The background image was the beanstalk rising into the blue sky. It framed the hen prettily.
With every step forward, Nick grew more amazed at how lifelike she looked. Every fiber of every feather was so perfect. It seemed you could touch them. Several of the plump golden eggs sat around the hen in the nest, and they actually sparkled in the lantern light, their shadows dancing as the flame flickered.
But how could the shadows move? Nick wondered—and then he realized that only the beanstalk in the background was a painting. The pedestal and the nest and the hen and the golden eggs were real.
Nick stopped, hardly able to breathe. He put the lantern on the floor. Reaching out carefully so he would not disturb the sleeping bird, he put his hand around one of the eggs and lifted it. It seemed to be made of solid gold, and it was far heavier than he expected. But it resembled a regular egg in every other way, down to the tiny pores in the shell.
He wouldn’t find anything more valuable than this. He took another egg and stuffed one in each pocket. They were so weighty he didn’t dare to carry more, or the pockets could rip loose.
There were windows on each side of the nest. He tiptoed over and looked out of one. This was the opposite side from where Finch and his band were hiding. Vines grew here as well, and they looked as sturdy as the ones he’d already climbed.
Even the sharp-eyed Squint wouldn’t see him if he left this way. With luck, he could be miles away before Finch knew he was gone. Despite the warning he received the night before, Nick was sure Finch could never find him. How would he even know where to look?
Nick draped a leg over the windowsill, but then he stopped to think.
Why not steal the hen?
He looked at the bird. There was the ultimate prize, the endless source of wealth that spawned all the splendor around him, even the fortress itself. It would not be long before the golden eggs in his pockets were spent and gone. But if he made off with the hen, then one day he’d be as wealthy as Jack himself. It was the permanent solution to his poverty.
Nick returned to the easel and picked up the smallest drop cloth. It was made of a thick fabric, so he thought it might adequately muffle the squawk of the hen. He could throw the cloth over the bird, pull the edges together and carry it like a sack. Then he would be out the window, down the wall and into the woods in a minute, running where neither Jack nor Finch would find him. Yes, it was risky, but imagine if he succeeded!
He held the cloth up with both hands and walked lightly toward the bird. When he was close enough, he tossed the cloth over its body and scooped it up.
The bird did not wake. Nor did it move. He uncovered the hen to look closer. He was holding a dry, stuffed animal forever frozen in that sleeping pose.
“It died thirty years ago, boy,” said a voice from the other end of the room. Nick snapped his head around to look. Jack was standing at the door. The little girl from the bedroom was behind him, peeking around the old man’s side. And a powerful-looking young man, one of Jack’s guards, was halfway down the gallery, charging fast.
With a shout, Nick tossed the hen in the air over the man’s head. The startled guard skidded to a stop and caught the bird. Nick used that moment to run for the nearest window. He jumped for the opening, but he’d forgotten the heavy eggs in his pockets and fell short. Before he could scramble completely out, the man grabbed him by the heels and hauled him in, kicking and struggling.
Jack walked slowly down the long room with the little girl tagging along. As the old man walked, he used a candle to light a series of torches on the walls. Soon the room was filled with their flickering glow.
Nick gave up resisting. He stared at the floor with his chest hitching as the guard reached into his pockets for the eggs, and handed them to the old man.
Jack stood before Nick. He wore a robe of shimmering silver cloth embroidered with gold. With his gray hair and long beard, he looked like a wizard.
“That’s the trouble with stolen goods, boy,” said Jack, hefting one egg in each hand. “They’re always more of a burden than you expect.” Jack turned to the young girl behind him. “Thank you, Ann. Why don’t you go back to bed now.”
The girl didn’t reply. Nick had the feeling she was looking at him. He looked up and met her accusing stare. Her expression made him blush with guilt.
“I wasn’t sleeping, you know!” she called.
“Faker!” It was the only reply Nick could think of. The man holding him started to laugh, but quickly stifled it.
“Why did you steal from us?” she asked angrily.
“Because I’ve got nothing, and you’ve got everything!”
“That doesn’t make it right!”
“But it’s right for me to starve?”
The girl didn’t know how to respond to that. She just said “Humph!” and stormed away. Jack watched her go, then bent to pick up the stuffed hen that the guard had placed on the floor. He brushed the ruffled feathers, put it back in the nest, and returned the eggs to the hen’s side. He spoke as he arranged the objects.
“She lived a long, long time, as hens go. But I guess even magic birds don’t live forever. I had her preserved so I could always remember her.”
Jack turned to look Nick in the eye. It was a penetrating, unsettling stare. “She’s full of sawdust now. Do you know what the man said was inside that bird when he opened her up?”
Nick shook his head.
“Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is. She was just like a regular hen. So how, I wondered, could she lay eggs of solid gold?” The old man paused, letting Nick think about it.
“And I could never figure it out. But people are like that too, you know. If you were to cut them open, you couldn’t tell one man’s guts and bones from another’s. But some people produce wondrous things from what’s inside. And some of us are thieves.�
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“It is true,” whispered Nick. “The story. You and the beanstalk.”
Jack looked at Nick for a long time. A new expression came to the old man’s face, as if he recognized something familiar in the little thief before him. Nick saw lines of sadness in that face that looked as if they were engraved a long, long time before.
“What’s your name?” Jack asked.
“Nick,” he answered quietly.
“What’s the rest of it?”
“That’s all. Just Nick.”
“Tell me then, Nick. How did you get in here?”
“Up the vines.” Nick didn’t see any reason to lie.
“So you climbed up here. A poor little boy. To steal my treasure,” Jack said. Even Nick understood how those words echoed another story from so many years before.
The old man kept staring, nodding his head. He seemed to be making a decision. Then he did something totally unexpected.
“Thank you, Roland,” he said to the man who had captured Nick. “That will be all for tonight”
Roland looked at Jack with raised eyebrows. “You want me to leave?”
“Yes. You may go,” said Jack.
Roland opened his mouth to protest, but saw the serious look on the old man’s face. “Yes, Master Jack. I’ll be awake if you need me.”
“Thank you, Roland.”
Roland walked to the door and took one last worried look back at his master.
“Close the door, please, Roland,” said Jack. The door swung shut, and only Nick and the old man were left in the gallery.
The old man bent to whisper to the young thief. “Are you alone?”
Nick swallowed hard over a lump in his throat. “Yes,” he said, and as the words came out he knew they were true. He wasn’t going back to Finch and the band of thieves. He was on his own.
The Thief and the Beanstalk (Further Tales Adventures) Page 5
