In a Glass Grimmly (5 page)

The girl’s head shot straight up. “Who said that?”

The frog gave her his most sympathetic froggy smile. “I did.”

The girl started like she was having a heart attack.

“Yes,” the frog added. “I can talk.”

Another heart attack.

Then the frog said, “Can you?”

And then the girl laughed. She sniffed, wiped her nose, and nodded. “I’m Jill,” she said.

“I’m Frog.”

The girl laughed and sniffed again. “That’s your name?” The frog shrugged. She smiled and wiped her nose on her arm.

“Can I help?” the frog asked.

Jill shrugged. “I’m running away.”

“Oh . . .” said the frog. And then he had the greatest idea of his long and so far very unpleasant life. He said, “Take me with you.”

“What?” exclaimed the little girl.

“Take me with you,” repeated the frog. “I hate it here. I hate my well. It’s wet, and mossy, and dirty, and very very very very very very very smelly.”

She cocked her head at him, thinking.

“Also,” he added, “there are salamanders.”

“Salamanders?”

“They’re terrible. Trust me.”

Little Jill couldn’t help but grin at the frog. She noticed that he had only three legs. The trees in the wind sounded like waves above their heads. At last, she said, “Okay.”

“Okay!” cried the frog. “Where to?”

Jill thought for a minute. And then she said, “To my cousin’s house.”

“Excellent,” said the frog. And then he said, “But do you think you should put some clothes on first?”

CHAPTER THREE

Jack and Jill and the Beanstalk

M
arie had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.

Marie had a little lamb whose fleece was black as coal.

“Stop following me!” shouted Marie.

Everywhere that Marie went, Marie went, Marie went,

Everywhere that Marie went the lamb was sure to go.

“Get away from me!”

It made the children laugh and play, laugh and play, laugh and play,

It made the children laugh and play to see the lamb follow.

“Nobody wants you here!”

In a little village on the outskirts of the kingdom of Märchen, the boys had invented this song. They sang it every time they saw the little lamb. And every time they sang it, everyone would laugh.

Everyone, that is, except a little boy named Jack.

Jack, you see, was the lamb.

Once upon a time, many years before, a prince left the Castle Märchen, left his kind father the king and his bratty little sister the princess, and went out to live among the poor folk.

He did not want to live a soft life, with servants and bedspreads and tiny spoons for tea. He wanted to live a vigorous life, a hard life: to milk his own cows, chop his own wood, buy and sell like a peasant-man does. And so he did. And he lived like that for many years, until his hands grew hard as his life.

He married a fine woman, and she had a child—with big dark eyes and curly hair as black as coal. But then the woman passed away, and the man was left all alone with the little boy. He tried to raise that boy with all the vigor and hardship that a peasant’s life required.

He tried, and tried, and tried, but it didn’t quite work.

The boy, you see, was a dreamer.

“Where are the chickens?” his father bellowed one day. “Where are all the chickens?”

“I wanted to see them fly, Papa!” the little boy said. “But they don’t fly too good. And then a fox ate them, ’cause he was hungry.” The boy smiled up at his big, strong father. His father felt little veins popping all over his forehead.

Another time, the boy put on his father’s finest clothes and went swimming in the lake. Without knowing how to swim. The boy, luckily, was saved. The clothes, on the other hand, were not.

Yet another time, the boy invented a song. It went, “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick.” Because the boy’s name was Jack. Then he actually tried to jump over a candlestick. He knocked it over. The house burned down. Completely.

As the years went by, Jack remained a dreamer. But he became something else, too. He became a follower.

A few years after the candlestick incident, the little boy walked into his (new) house weeping. “Jack!” his father cried, “Jack! What’s happened?” Jack’s eyes were red and swollen, and his cheeks and arms and neck and ears were all red and bumpy and swollen, too. Jack, still crying, told his father that the boys from the village had given him a plant that would make him strong as an ox and brave as a lion. All he had to do was rub it all over himself. So he did. But it hurt and itched and he didn’t want to be strong as an ox and brave as a lion if it hurt this much. Jack’s father put Jack in a tub of ice water. “Before you rub a plant all over yourself, boy,” his father told him, “make sure it isn’t poison ivy.”

It was after this incident that the famous song was invented:

Marie had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.

Marie had a little lamb whose fleece was black as coal.

“Stop following me!” shouted Marie.

Everywhere that Marie went, Marie went, Marie went,

Everywhere that Marie went the lamb was sure to go.

“Get away from me!”

It made the children laugh and play, laugh and play, laugh and play,

It made the children laugh and play to see the lamb follow.

“Nobody wants you here!”

Marie was a tall boy, with a sharp face and bright eyes, and he was the bravest, strongest, funniest boy in the village. If Jack could have been anyone in the world, he would not have been king of the kingdom of Märchen. He would have been king of the boys in the village. He would have been Marie.

Wait, you’re telling me that “Marie” is a
boy?

Yes. You see, in German countries, like the kingdom of Märchen was, boys are often given two names. And sometimes, the second name is Marie, or Maria. There is a famous poet named Rainer Maria Rilke. He is a boy. Well, he was a boy. Now he is dead.

Anyway, yes, I’m telling you that “Marie” is a boy.

One day, Jack’s father called Jack to his side. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”

Jack nodded. “My birthday.”

His father asked, “Would you like your gift now?”

Jack clapped his hands and jumped into his father’s lap. But his father gently pushed him away. “Boy,” he said, “it’s going to be your birthday. I think it’s time you started acting like a man.”

Jack nodded and slowly crawled down off his father’s lap.

“Not just a man, Jack. I think it’s time you started acting like your own man. Taking more responsibility. And not following those boys around so much.”

“I don’t follow them around,” said Jack. “They’re my friends.”

Jack’s father sighed. “Anyway, money is tight. Perhaps you’ve noticed. You see, the cow—”

“Milky!” said Jack.

“Yes, you call her Milky,” his father conceded. “Money is tight because the cow is not giving milk anymore. We have to sell her.”

“No!” cried Jack.

“And I’ve decided that your birthday present is the opportunity to be your own man: to take her to market all by yourself, and to sell the cow.”

“I don’t want to sell Milky!”

Jack’s father’s face grew dark. “You’ll sell her,” Jack’s father said, “for no less than five gold pieces. You’ll do it all by yourself. It’ll prove that you’re a man—your own man.”

Jack clenched his jaw.
I’ll be my own man,
he thought.

“Happy birthday,” said his father.

The sun was just beginning to filter through the black pines and a rooster was crowing his head off on a nearby farm and the ragwort and the heather were rustling against each other in the wind when Jack led Milky off of his father’s land and onto the road. He was taking Milky to market all by himself.

Jack and the cow walked and walked and walked and walked and walked. Milky lowed from time to time, which made Jack sad, but he just kept telling himself, “Today you become your own man. Happy birthday. Today you become your own man. Happy birthday. Today you become your own man . . .”

As Jack got closer to town, he saw many people on the road: a woman with geese all around her, honking and flapping; a man with a crooked back carrying broomsticks as crooked as he was; a tanner with stiff brown hides clacking with each step.

As the tanner passed by, he eyed Milky. He slowed his pace. He nodded at Jack.

Little Jack saw what he was carrying and jerked his head away.

Those were
cow skins
.

The tanner shrugged and walked on ahead.

Jack kept moving toward the market. After a while, he heard a strange sound behind him. It was like a rattling and a clunking and a shouting all at once. It was coming from down the road. Jack turned and looked.

He could only see a cloud of dust. But he could hear the shouting more clearly now:

“Potions, elixirs, snake oil, gin!

Tell me what ails you and give me a min . . . ute.”

And then, out of the cloud of dust, emerged a broken-down cart with faded banners and rattling glass bottles on a hundred tiny shelves.

“Potions, elixirs, snake oil, gin!

Tell me what ails you and give me a min . . . ute.”

Jack turned and stared at the wreck of a cart. In the driver’s seat sat a greasy man with a long black ponytail. He wore a flowing, floral shirt, faded from the sun and the dust of the road. His face was round like a baby’s, and his eyes were pale blue.

“Potions, elixirs, snake oil, gin!

Tell me what ails you and give me a min . . . ute.”

He’s not very good at rhyming,
thought Jack.

And then, Jack saw, behind the cart, a group of boys from the village, pointing and laughing. They chanted, “Potions! elixirs! snake oil! piss!

Trade with this nut and your money you’ll miss!”

Jack thought,
That’s better
.

And then Jack saw who led the band of chanting, taunting children. Marie.

“Potions! elixirs! snake oil! piss!

Trade with this nut and your money you’ll miss!”

The boys laughed and laughed, and Marie threw his head back and shouted it at the top of his lungs. The man in the cart didn’t seem to notice.

The hulking, jerking cart pulled up beside Jack and Milky, and the man leaned out. He smiled at Jack. He was missing many teeth. “You’re not selling that cow, are you?”

Jack shook his head no.

But the man grinned. “How much are you asking?”

The boys stopped chanting. Jack could feel Marie’s gaze on him.

Be your own man,
Jack thought. And then he said, “Five gold.”

The boys began to laugh. “For that sack o’ bones?” Marie bellowed.

The ponytailed man jumped down from his cart. He slapped Milky’s side. “She give milk anymore?”

“No,” said Jack. And then he thought,
I probably should have said yes.

“Hmm. No milk. Scrawny as an old broom. And a hide like this wouldn’t go for half a piece.” He grinned at little Jack. “Tell you what I’ll do. Nobody at market’ll pay a penny for this cow. She’ll cost more to feed than she’ll ever pay out; that’s why you’re selling her, I reckon.” The man looked knowingly at Jack.

Jack shrugged.

“Thought so,” leered the man with his oily, gap-toothed smile. “So I’ll give you a swap instead. It’s a good swap.”

Jack held on to Milky’s neck and narrowed his eyes. Marie and the other children gathered closer, grinning at one another.

The man announced, “I’ll swap my finest magic bean for this poor beast.”

There was silence on the long, dusty road.

Then someone suppressed a snicker.

The man leaned in close to Jack and said, “I tell ya, this bean will produce a beanstalk that’ll grow straight to the sky. All you’ve got to do is plant it and tend it.”

One of the village boys laughed out loud.

Jack was about to tell the man no—and then Marie said, “That’s not a bad deal.”

Jack swiveled his head at him.

The other boys stared, too.

“No,” said Marie. “Really. Most of what he sells is junk. But those beans . . . Those are something.”

Jack felt suddenly confused. He looked back at the man. In his dirt-encrusted hand sat a single white bean.

“It looks like a regular bean,” said Jack.

Marie laughed. “It takes a real man to tend a bean like that.” He turned to the salesman. “To the sky, you said?”

The man said, “That’s right.”

Jack asked Marie, “You think I should buy it?”

“I don’t know if you can handle it,” Marie replied.

“Oh, I can.”

“I’d be impressed. But I doubt it.”

Jack passed Milky’s rope to the salesman. Then he held out his hand. The man closed the bean within it. He smiled with his round baby face and winked one pale eye at Jack. Then he hopped up on his cart, switched his horse, and rattled on into town, with Milky trailing behind.

Jack watched them go. Then he turned, beaming, back to Marie.

Marie smiled at him—and then let loose a roar of laughter.

Jack’s own smile faded.

The other boys joined Marie in his hysterics. They were slapping their knees, laughing so hard they wanted to cry.

They were not the only ones who, all of a sudden, wanted to cry.

The village boys had decided to follow Jack, instead of the man with the cart.
“Jack took a cow to the market fair . . .”
they chanted.

Jack’s face was hard and set as he walked toward home. Dusty tear-trails streaked both cheeks.

“Jack took a cow to the market fair,

Met him a swindler on the way there!”

He had chased down the man on the cart and asked him to trade back. The man had laughed at him at first. Then he had hit him with his horse switch.

“Jack took a cow to the market fair,

Met him a swindler on the way there!

Dumbest boy you’ve ever seen,

gave his cow up for a bean!”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. Marie led the other children in the chant, waving his fingers back and forth to keep time. Jack wiped his eyes with his sleeve and hurried home.

Jack’s father did not listen to his story. He took one look at the bean in the little boy’s hand, shouted at the top of his lungs a word that I cannot print here, and then flung the bean straight out the window. Jack went scurrying after it.

He crawled around on his hands and knees in the yard, his eyes brimming with tears.

Inside the house, his father banged doors and cabinets and occasionally shouted that word that I cannot print.

As the sun was dipping below the horizon, Jack finally found the bean. He sat by it and watched the sky light up a hundred colors. Purples and reds and oranges that had no names, as far as Jack knew. He felt as if he were burning in them. He could barely breathe. Every time his father slammed another door, he shuddered.