The Thief and the Beanstalk (Further Tales Adventures) (6 page)

Nick heard the little girl laughing hysterically. Jack must have been tickling her.

“And they sucked all the water out of the ground.
That made the earth very dry and dusty. When that wicked giant came crashing down, he made a deep hole in the ground, and a great cloud of dust and dirt and rocks flew into the sky. And when the air finally cleared, there was no sign of the giant. But the beanstalk—that you could see for months before it rotted away.”

“But Master Jack, why did—”

“So many questions!” interrupted the old man, laughing. “I’ll answer one more, and then you must promise to go to sleep.”

Yes, please go to sleep!
thought Nick. The strength in his hands was failing. And though he’d found a good handhold in the stone, it felt as if the vines under his feet were weakening.

“Master Jack?”

“Yes, my love.”

“Isn’t it wrong to steal?”

“Yes, it is wrong.”

“But didn’t you steal those treasures from the giant?”

The old man didn’t answer for a while. Then, in a different, sadder voice, he said, “Yes. I certainly did.”

“But was it all right, because the giant was evil?”

“What do you think? Is there ever a time when it’s right to steal?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you do something for me, Ann. Think about
that as you fall asleep tonight. And in the morning, you tell me what you’ve decided.”

“Yes, Master Jack.”

Nick heard the door close inside that room. Now that Jack was gone, he had to hold on as long as he could to give the girl a chance to fall asleep. But the muscles in his arms and legs were on fire, while the cold stone was numbing his fingers and toes.

A minute passed, maybe two. He didn’t know if the girl was sleeping yet, but he couldn’t wait another second. He wasn’t even sure if he had the strength to climb into the window anymore.

Jack kissed Ann good night, then stepped into the hall outside her room and eased the door shut. His smile faded and his shoulders slumped as the familiar feeling overtook him. He felt like a drowning man who came to the surface only briefly to feel the sun shining on his face, and then despair gripped him again as it always had and tugged him into the dark abyss. He was an old man, but he suddenly felt even older.

“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.

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.