“It’s not just my gold you’re after, is it?” said Jack, stepping closer.
“No,” Nick said, mouthing the word more than speaking it aloud.
“What, then?”
“I wanted to know….”
Jacks eyes, wrinkled all around, narrowed until they were nearly closed. “And what if it was true, Nick the Thief? What if you had been me, sitting there?” He pointed at a painting of himself as a boy, sitting as if knocked to the ground, and staring at the awesome beanstalk that towered into the heavens. “Would you have climbed it? Would you have dared?”
There was a long silence. Nick stared at the painting, wondering, Would I? And he could feel the old man’s gaze upon him.
Jack stepped toward the painting and slid his hand behind one side of the gilded frame. I could run for the window right now, Nick thought. The old man was making it easy to escape. But now, Nick realized, he needed to know the truth.
There was the click of a latch, then Jack swung the entire painting away from the wall like a door, revealing a dark space behind it.
Without a word, Jack stepped into that darkness. His candle shed a shrinking rectangle of light around him as he moved through a hidden passageway. Nick followed, putting a hand out to each wall to guide him. The walls were cool and wet at his fingertips. Before him, the old man abruptly turned to the right and disappeared. When Nick reached the corner, he saw Jack standing in a small chamber.
There was a harp leaning against one wall. Large and luminous, it seemed to be made of some material that was half glass and half gold. On one side, its frame was in the shape of a lovely woman with diamond eyes.
“When I first brought her down, Nick, she would sing for you. You just had to ask. Or you could look in her eyes and want her to sing, and it would happen. The music went into your heart, and it was so beautiful you could never describe it.
“But she doesn’t sing anymore. Hasn’t for many years. In time, her magic—her life—just faded away, like the hen’s.”
Jack was quiet for a while. Then he spoke again. “But the harp is not what I brought you here to see.”
There was also a plain wooden table in that room, with a simple box resting on it. The old man put the candle beside the box and removed the lid.
Nick wasn’t close enough to see the bottom, so he stepped forward. Inside was a leather pouch. The old man turned the pouch upside down, and three beans spilled out into the box, milky green in colon. He laid the pouch on the table.
“This is why I brought you. Watch them,” said Jack. He blew out the candle. Immediately Nick could see a faint green light emanating from the beans. The sight amazed and confused him. If Jack used his beans long ago to grow the magic beanstalk, where did these come from?
“It was the night after the beanstalk fell,” said the old man, anticipating Nick’s question. “A single stem grew from where the plant had been rooted. It just came up, right before my eyes. Within a minute, it had a flower, and then a pod. These seeds were inside the pod. Until this moment, nobody else in the world knew about them but me.”
“Can I touch one?” asked Nick. Jack did not reply. Nick picked up a bean and held it close to his eye. It glowed from within. It looked like a tiny point of green starlight was inside, with even tinier points of light circling it, and even tinier points circling those.
“Why does it glow like that?” asked Nick. Again, the old man did not reply. “Hello?” said Nick. He turned around and reached into the darkness where the old man was just standing. Jack was gone.
Nick was afraid. Without the candle, the only things he could see were those beans. One glimmered in his hand, and the other two stared at him from the box like a pair of cat’s eyes. He picked them up and held all three in his palm. They seemed to glow a little brighter together. Nick even thought he could feel a strange energy, a sort of tingle, passing into his palm and through his wrist.
Nick groped for the pouch on the table and found it. Holding the beans in front of him, using their meager glow to light the way, he made his way carefully out of the room. Once he turned the corner into the passageway, the light from the gallery made the going easier. He half expected to be seized when he entered the big room, but it was deserted. The old man was nowhere in sight.
“You want me to steal them, don’t you?” he said aloud. Once again no answer came. Nick stuffed the beans into the pouch and put the long loop of cord around his neck.
“I will then, you crazy old fool!” He climbed onto the ledge of the window, took one last look for the old man in the gallery, and vanished into the night.
Jack stepped out from the shadows of the passageway. In the darkness, the boy had walked right by him.
‘Am I mad?” he asked aloud. Letting the boy walk out like that? Of course he was. But the burden was growing every day. And just when it seemed he would be crushed at last under its weight, the little thief appeared.
How strange it was, to meet this boy. Like flying back through time and meeting himself.
But no, not himself—not exactly. There was more to this one, something different. You could see it in his eyes when you looked past the desperation and fear.
“Go on, boy,” he said. “Go up.” And I will wait for you below. So you can tell me what you’ve seen. And then I’ll know at last.
What became of her.
Chapter 8
Finch twisted the point of his knife into the bark of a tree. “What the devil is keeping that brat? We should be inside by now!”
“Having trouble with the door, maybe. Or he’s caught,” said Squint.
“Shut up and keep your eyes on that fortress,” muttered Finch, stabbing at the tree.
“I’m only trying to—” Squint broke off in the middle of his response. “Someone is coming through the woods”
Metal sang as the entire band brandished their swords and daggers. They stood poised to attack as the footsteps grew louder and then relaxed as a familiar figure came into view. It was Marlowe, the one Finch sent to distract the sentry.
“He’s run off!” Marlowe said, panting.
Finch grabbed Marlowe by the front of the shirt and shook him. “The boy? You mean Nick?”
Marlowe nodded and continued, watching the knife in Finch’s hand. “I did as you told me, Finch. Then I was on my way here when I saw him run across the field. You couldn’t have seen him from this spot, but I did. I tried to catch him but the little bugger was too quick. By the time I got to where he went into the forest, there was no sign of him.”
With a snarl, Finch shoved Marlowe into a tree. Marlowe fell to the ground in a painful heap. Nobody stepped forward to help him up.
Finch tucked the knife away and put both hands to his face, trying to think. His plan, his dream, was disintegrating—because of that boy. When he lowered his hands, his jaw was shaking.
“He’s betrayed me.” The words barely escaped through Finch’s clenched teeth. “He found a prize in Jack’s fortress and wants it for himself. But we’ll find him. And we’ll make him sorry.”
“He … he went east, through the forest,” Marlowe said meekly, still lying on the ground.
“East. That’s a start.” Finch closed his eyes and tried to let his instincts guide him as they had so well before. If I were that little rat, where would I run?
Nick stood on top of the ridge. Below him was the abandoned farm where he first met Finch. It had taken a while to find it again, but he was here at last, only a few minutes before sunrise.
Moving carefully, he went down the slope, grateful for the growing light of dawn, and reached the bottom without slipping on the loose stones. He walked to the center of the farm and sat on the stump beside the buried ax to rest.
Nick pulled the leather pouch from inside his shirt, leaving the strap looped around his neck. He poked two fingers into the mouth of the pouch and pried it open. Turning the pouch over, he let the three beans tumble into his open palm. He brought his hand up to his face to examine
them more carefully. Now that they were out in the daylight, even this weak morning light, their glow was no longer visible. He covered the palm with his other hand, forming a dark cave for the beans, and peeked inside between his thumbs. Once again, he saw those shimmering green lights.
“What are you?” he asked aloud.
For a long while, Nick just sat and watched them. Was it really possible that these three simple beans could create an awesome ladder to another world?
And where was that other world, that island in the clouds? He looked at the sky. Only a few wisps of clouds were visible; otherwise it was just the daybreak’s gentle gradation of color, from the deep blue of night to the blushing pink that heralded the sun.
Unlike Jack so many years ago, Nick knew what was supposed to happen when the seeds were planted. It would be so easy to just drop them on the ground to let them grow. But at the same time, he was afraid to let it happen. All the strange events of the last few days had simply swept him along. Choices were presented to him, by Finch and Jack, Each man, in his own way, seemed to look into his soul. Finch saw a little thief who would open the door to Jack’s treasure. Jack saw a little thief who would steal these beans and call forth the beanstalk again.
The beans. They were the reason Nick had come to this remote spot, far away from villages and prying eyes. It was a farm, after all—a place to grow things.
He looked around, clutching the beans in his small fist. The overgrown vegetable field seemed like the right place to plant them, so he hopped over the rock wall. He dropped to his knees and, with his free hand, ripped weeds away to expose a patch of bare soil.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” Nick told himself. He held his breath. Opening his fist, he turned his hand sideways. The beans stuck to his sweaty palm. With the fingers of his other hand, he prodded them loose. One, two, three beans dropped to the ground. Nick watched closely, afraid to breathe. Nothing happened, and at last he exhaled.
“Am I doing this right?” He rearranged the beans into a neat triangle and sat back to watch again. Nothing happened. He began to feel foolish for believing in their power. Maybe the old man was playing a joke on him.
“No, you’re real, all right. I know you are.” He pressed his thumb deep into the soil beside each bean and pushed them into the holes. Then he scooped a handful of loose dirt and filled each cavity. Brushing the rest of the soil off his hands, he squatted next to the spot to see what would happen. This felt right, but something was missing.
“Water. Bet you need water.” The old stone well was there, but any bucket and rope were long gone, so Nick ran to the stream and scooped up water in his cupped hands. He walked back gingerly, trying not to spill, and poured a little over each hole. It didn’t seem like enough. An old rain barrel at one corner of the house held some stale water, but it was too heavy to carry. Nick wondered if there was a smaller container of some kind in the farmhouse. He trotted toward the dark doorway.
Just before he stepped inside, he saw a metal object glint as it caught a beam of morning light that penetrated the shadowy house. He stumbled back as a figure inside the house stepped forward. It was Finch. His face was the distillation of pure rage, his teeth bared in a snarl, his eyes wild. Nick yelped like a puppy and turned to run. When he spun around, he was looking at Toothless John.
He darted to one side of the vile man. Toothless John reached out and caught hold of the leather pouch around his neck and snapped it back. Nick was yanked off his feet, the strap cutting into his flesh. He fell with a rough thump on his back. Before he could move, Finch was standing over him, reaching down with one strong hand. In the other hand he held his jagged knife.
Finch’s hand clamped around Nick’s neck and lifted him until his feet dangled a foot from the ground. Nick grabbed Finch’s wrist with both hands to keep himself from being strangled. The rest of the band emerged from the broken-down farmhouse and gathered around. Finch held his blade to Nick’s face, the jagged edge pressed against one cheek. His jaw was clenched so tight, he could barely spit out words.
“Didn’t you know, boy? Didn’t you know what I would do to you?” Then, abruptly, Finch wasn’t looking at Nick anymore. He was looking down at his own legs.
Nick followed Finch’s gaze. Finch’s body, from the waist down, was covered with ants. And not only that, but the ground was swarming with living creatures. A thousand more insects scrambled through the weeds. Dozens of blind black moles emerged from their tunnels and fled. Beetles unhinged their shells and took flight. A rabbit bolted in a blur. Hidden birds exploded from the grass and bushes. Countless worms were writhing out of the earth, as if the soil had been poisoned.
Finch uttered an “Ugh!” of disgust. Throwing Nick aside, he tried to swipe the bugs off with both hands.
Nick was on the ground, gasping for air on his hands and knees. As he caught his breath, he became aware of an odd sensation: Wherever he touched the ground, there was a tingling. The feeling grew. It passed through his palms. It flowed past his wrists, almost to his elbows. Goosebumps erupted all over his body.
Toothless John was screaming and stomping and swatting his face with his hands. A swarm of wasps had flown from their underground hive and were angrily stinging him. The thug ran away howling. The rest of the band scattered in a panic, leaving only Finch and Nick at the farmhouse.
Now the crawling bugs found Nick, and they began to climb his arms and legs to escape the strange tingling. Nick wiped them away and jumped atop a boulder. He looked over and saw that Finch had stopped trying to brush off the ants, even though they were up to his chest, his neck, his face, even climbing in and out of his gaping mouth. He was staring goggle-eyed at something behind Nick.
And then Nick could hear what Finch saw. He turned around, not sure he really wanted to know what it was.
The ground there was heaving, and the tingling sensation was joined by a deep rumbling sound that resonated in his chest. A high dome of earth arose where the seeds were sown. It heaved up and down, as if a giant heart beat fitfully at its center. And spreading out in all directions from the center of the mound, it looked like a dozen creatures were burrowing outward, pushing the grass up as they tunneled along.
Finch snapped out of his trance as one of the burrowing things came right at him. He opened his mouth to scream, but Nick couldn’t hear anything above the rumbling. Then Finch ran off into the woods, faster than Nick had seen any man run.
Another burrowing thing was coming right at Nick. It went directly under the boulder he was on, knocking it right out of the soil and sending Nick tumbling. Nick leaped to his feet. The subterranean thing suddenly broke through the earth and shot ten feet in the air. It towered over Nick’s head, green and glowing like a firefly, as thick as a post, and twisting and coiling like a serpent.
A snake! Nick thought. A giant worm! But it was neither, he realized. This was no animal; it was the root of a plant—the root of the beanstalk. But no plant ever moved like this. Nick ran to the farmhouse, clumsy with fear, and hid behind the rain barrel at the corner. Behind him, the root paused, reared up, and then suddenly plunged forward again in Nick’s direction, diving back into the earth.
Then it came up again, several feet ahead. It arched up and over and down again, then up and down again, always toward where Nick was hiding. At the edge of Nick’s wide-eyed vision, he saw other roots plunging in and out of the ground, sewing giant green stitches in the earth, and he knew they were searching for something. They were thirsty, and the world trembled as their circumference grew.
The root was upon Nick’s hiding place now, paused and hovering over the barrel. Nick watched as the tip of the root wrinkled and wagged, as if sniffing the air. Then, before his eyes, another wonder: Tendrils sprang from the root, growing in an instant, a foot long, two feet long, a yard long. They whipped around the barrel and lifted it into the air. Now there was no place to hide.
But the root found what it wanted, and it wasn’t Nick. It was the rainwater. The tip dov
e into the barrel. There was a giant gulp, then a slurping sound as it sucked out the last drops of moisture. The barrel crashed to the ground, dry as toast, as the tendrils uncoiled from it. An egg-shaped lump was sliding down the root, toward the pulsating mound where the seeds were sewn, moving and pausing to the beat, sloshing as it stopped and started. It was water being pumped to the seeds.
In those incredible moments, Nick registered every detail of what was happening around him. A root paused at the top of the well, then slithered inside. Another root nearby, sensing some silent signal, followed it down. The rock walls of the well tumbled apart as the roots doubled in size, then doubled again, guzzling and pumping great gulps of water. Under Nick’s feet, there was a tumbling, grumbling sensation as the roots probed deeper and deeper, pushing dirt and boulders aside and splitting bedrock.
Suddenly the mound gave a giant heave upward. The grass dome burst like a pimple on the earth’s cheek, dirt and pebbles rained everywhere, and there was the beanstalk. No, not one stalk—three, rising and twining together. They shot thirty feet high in an instant, curving at the top like a trio of vipers ready to strike. Then with an unearthly roar, they pointed straight up and grew into the sky, intertwining as they rose. A living rope, thick as the greatest trees, was weaving itself before Nick’s eyes, impossibly fast, impossibly long, impossibly high.
Up. Up. And up it went, gaining speed. A giant root intercepted the stream that ran nearby, dividing at its tip again and again until thousands of tiny squirming wormy fingers drank every drop. Downstream, fish suddenly flopped in the muck.
Up. Up. And up. The high grass along the garden wall, green and lush one minute, dried and frizzled into hay the next.
Up. Up. And up. A row of trees toppled as one.
Up. Up. Up so high, Nick lost his balance and fell as he strained to follow the beanstalk’s path with his eyes.
He lay flat on his back, the easier to watch it go skyward. His body quivered as the earth rumbled underneath it. Nothing could tear his gaze away from the beanstalk.
The Thief and the Beanstalk (Further Tales Adventures) Page 6
