The Thief and the Beanstalk (Further Tales Adventures) (25 page)

Nick found Jack downstairs in the kitchen. The old man was having breakfast with the little girl. The table was covered with fruits, toasted breads, cheese, meats, and something in a covered bowl that smelled wonderful.

“Join us, Nick!” Jack said cheerfully. “I think you and Ann have met before.”

Nick remembered too well the look the girl gave him the last time he saw her, the one that shamed him when he was caught stealing in Jack’s gallery. He knew she was watching him now, but he could barely muster the courage to return the glance. Slowly, shyly, he raised his eyes. And when he did, she graced him with a warm and welcome smile.

“Breakfast first,” said Jack. “Let’s fill that belly of yours, and then I want to hear the whole story. Beginning to end, everything you saw and did. Tell me about that band of ruffians you were mixed up with, about that pair of monsters we saw, and especially about the giantess.”

“That will take a while, sir,” said Nick.

“It can take as long as you want, Nick. I had just about run out of things to paint.”

The night after the beanstalk burned, clouds gathered overhead and a healing rain fell in the parched valley where the awesome plant had grown. The earth eagerly soaked up the moisture, as fast as the skies could deliver it, and the ground stopped smoldering at last.

A tiny vine poked through the charred soil and wriggled into the moonlight. At its tip, a pure white flower blossomed with miraculous speed. Then a pod emerged from the flower. It hung like a beacon, fat with beans, glowing with a milky green light in the cool black night.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at
The Brave Apprentice,
the next adventure from P. W. Catanese.

Available Summer 2005

Look. There’s another one.”

The tailor squinted at the grassy land on the other side of the river from the village of Crossfield. A lone sheep had wandered into view with no shepherd or dog in sight.

“I don’t like it,” he said to the apprentice by his side. “I’m afraid something has happened to old Osbert. Stubborn fool. I told him he didn’t look well. Never should have gone out there with the herd.”

“I’ll find him, master.”

“You’re a good lad, Patch. Go on now—there’s not much daylight left. And cross the second bridge mind you, no sense taking chances at the Tumbles.” The tailor shouted the last few words because the boy was already running along the footpath by the river’s edge.

Patch could run fast and forever, as everyone in town knew. He ran everywhere on those long colt legs, with his tangles of black hair flapping behind him like a pennant. Even when there was no cause to run, Patch ran.
But there was a reason now. Earlier that afternoon, one of Osbert’s sheep had ambled into town unattended. And now this one appeared across the river. It seemed that neither Osbert nor his dog was minding the flock. Besides, by now the old shepherd should have been back at the little house next to the tailor’s home, with his herd safe in their pen.

The river was running swiftly too, as it always did in spring when the snows melted in the hills of the Barren Gray. As Patch raced along the bank he tried to guess why Osbert had lost track of time and sheep. He hoped the old man had fallen asleep on a sun-warmed rock or was helping one of his flock give birth. But darker explanations tugged at the boy’s thoughts, and he dreaded coming at last upon his friend’s cold body somewhere on the other side of the river.

The Tumbles were coming up. Here the banks of the river stood tall and close on each side, and the waters narrowed and hastened between them, frothing among the boulders that cluttered the riverbed. Aging willows lined the banks, and their roots reached into the swirling currents like long probing fingers. The Tumbles bridge, a simple construction with wide, sturdy planks nailed along the trunks of two trees that spanned the gap and no railing on either side, was here. Few dared to take it these days, even though it spared you a long walk to the next bridge much farther downstream. As for Patch, he crossed here often (at least when the
sun was shining), sometimes just for the thrill of it.

He took the bridge the same way as always, slowing only a little as he approached the first plank. Then he jumped high, a leap that carried him halfway across. He landed, took two more long steps, and then leapt again to soar over the far end, out of the reach of any large and ugly hand that might dart out, grasping from the shadowy place under the span.

Patch stopped and turned to look back at the crossing. No such hand had appeared. But in a strange way, he almost wished that it had. As horrifying as it might be, Patch hoped that one day he might catch a glimpse of the troll that was rumored to live under that bridge.

Between two enormous rocks on the far side was the dark space where the troll supposedly carved itself a cave just a few months before. No villager had yet gotten a good look at the creature. Once the farmer Dale came puffing white-faced into town, shouting that something snatched three of his geese as he crossed the Tumbles. People spoke of unearthly groans and a hulking shape glimpsed in the moonlight. And everyone could smell the foul, foul stench that poured from that hole like vapor from a hot spring, the scent of things rotten and dead.

Patch ran to the first hilltop on the far side of the river and stopped to look about. Three times he shouted, “Osbert!” and held his breath to listen for a reply. None came from his old friend. But somewhere to the north, over the next hill, a dog barked.

He ran with his fists clenched and his thin legs slicing through the knee-high weeds. When he crested the next hill he saw the shepherd.

Osbert was sitting slumped with his back against a boulder, rocking gently. His head drooped and his chin rested on his chest. His dog, Pip, was standing next to him with her ears raised high, and she barked again when she saw Patch.

“Osbert!”

The old man’s head bobbed up. He looked toward the sound of Patch’s voice, trying to focus, and then saw who it was. He called out weakly, “You miserable cur! You little rotter! You …” But he interrupted himself with a wince of pain.

Patch dropped to his knees, panting. “Osbert, what happened? How long have you been here? Are you hurt?”

Osbert’s face was pale and shining with perspiration. He shuffled his shoulders against the boulder to straighten himself. “Not sure—felt dizzy. Weak. Hurts in here.” He touched his hand to his chest. “Help me up now, you villain. Got to get home.” The words came in a whisper, as if even talking was painful.

Patch put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Are you sure you can make it? Maybe you should stay here. We could make a fire, keep you warm all night.”

Osbert shook his head and grasped Patch’s wrist. “Come on. Take this old man home before I knock you silly.” He picked up the shepherd’s crook that was lying
next to him and, with the boy’s help, got to his feet. Patch had an arm around Osbert’s waist, Osbert an arm over Patch’s shoulder. The old man wheezed and shuffled along, his right foot stronger than his left, which dragged feebly behind. After every few steps, they stopped so Osbert could rest.

Patch heard a whimper behind them and looked back to see Pip lying on the ground with her ears flattened against her head. “Come on, Pip, he’ll be all right,” Patch said. The dog slunk forward, her belly practically scraping the ground.

At last Patch could hear the shushing sound of the river ahead. “We’re getting near the Tumbles.”

The sweat was pouring down Osbert’s face, though the afternoon was growing cool. “I know,” he said. “No choice, Patch. I’ll never make it to the other bridge. We must cross here.”

“We’ll be fine,” Patch said, squeezing the old man’s side. As he and Osbert hobbled forward like an awkward four-legged beast, he peered at the shadows under the bridge. Across the river to the west, the last sliver of sun dipped behind the trees, and the night began to draw its gloomy cloak across the world.

“Patch,” Osbert said almost too quietly to hear, “you know I never mean all those horrid things I say. You know that’s just old Osbert playing the grumbler.”

Patch grinned. “Oh shut your yap, you mangy bear. Let’s get you home.”

They stepped onto the bridge, watching the planks that creaked under their feet. Osbert was moving slower than ever now, wincing with every step.

When they were halfway across, Patch glanced behind him and saw that Pip had stopped on the other side. The dog was shaking, and her tail was curled down out of sight. She squatted and peed in the dirt.

Patch caught a whiff of something awful—a stench both rotten and sweet that made his stomach heave and bile rise in his throat. Near the far side of the bridge, a hand—a monstrous, stone-colored, knobby-fingered hand—rose from the darkness below. It grasped and held the side, and a troll hauled itself up into the dying light. Osbert moaned and slumped to his knees, almost pulling Patch down with him.

“Run, Patchy,” the old shepherd croaked.

Available Summer
2005

P. W. (P
AUL
W
ILLIAM
) C
ATANESE
was born in New York and grew up in Connecticut, where he lives with his wife and three children. When he’s not writing books, he draws cartoons and works for an advertising agency.

Interestingly, the letters in “P. W. Catanese” can be rearranged to spell “want escape? Paul figures that’s why people read books like his.

To his readers, Paul writes: “Hope you enjoy them. Don’t worry if you’ve forgotten most of the original fairy tale that this story is based on—everything you need to know is right in these pages.”