Jack

by Liesl Shurtliff

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Liesl Shurtliff

  Jacket art copyright © 2015 by Jim Madsen

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhousekids.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Shurtliff, Liesl.

  Jack : the true story of Jack and the beanstalk / Liesl Shurtliff. — First edition.

  p. cm

  Summary: Relates the tale of Jack who, after trading his mother’s milk cow for magic beans, climbs a beanstalk to seek his missing father in the land of giants.

  ISBN 978-0-385-75579-5 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-385-75580-1 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-385-75582-5 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-0-385-75581-8 (ebook)

  [1. Fairy tales. 2. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. 4. Giants—Fiction. 5. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ8.S34525Jac 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014013403

  eBook ISBN 9780385755818

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

  a

  For my brother Patrick,

  who was often told he was a naughty boy, but grew up pretty great

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. A Sprinkling of Dirt

  2. Boom, Boom, BOOM!

  3. Sir Bluberys

  4. A Cow Worth Beans

  5. Up the Green, into the Blue

  6. A Giant World

  7. Cat and Mouse and Giant

  8. Mum Martha and Tom Thumb

  9. Spoon Shot and Pudding Pond

  10. Fee, Fie, Fo, Fum!

  11. Bruno, the Cowardly Giant

  12. Cobbler, Cobbler, Mend the Shoe

  13. Flying the Shoe

  14. Pest

  15. The Swampy Stream

  16. Squeak and Bite

  17. King Barf’s Ambassadors

  18. Tales of Tails

  19. Queen Opal

  20. The Golden Court

  21. Into the Fireplace

  22. Egg-Quake and Food Drought

  23. The Overlooked Thing

  24. Escape Plans

  25. Stealing Treasure

  26. Jack vs. King Barf

  27. Growing Up and Down

  Epilogue: Great

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Sprinkling of Dirt

  When I was born, Papa named me after my great-great-great-great-great-great-GREAT-grandfather, who, legend had it, conquered nine giants and married the daughter of a duke. Mama said this was all hogwash. Firstly, there was no such thing as giants. Wouldn’t we see such large creatures if they really existed? And secondly, we had no relation to any duke—if we did, we’d be rich and living on a grand estate. Instead, we were poor as dirt and lived in a tiny house on a small farm in a little village. Nothing great or giant about it.

  But Papa wasn’t concerned with the details. He believed there was greatness in that name, and if he gave it to me, somehow the greatness would sink into my bones.

  “We’ll name him Jack,” Papa said. “He’ll be great.”

  “If you say so,” said Mama. She was a practical woman and not particular with names. All she needed was a word to call me to supper, or deliver a scolding. I got my first scolding before my first supper, just after birth, for as soon as Papa pronounced my name, I sprang a sharp tooth, and bit my mother.

  “Ouch!” Mama cried. “You naughty boy!” It was something she would call me more often than Jack.

  Papa had the nerve to laugh. “Oh, Alice, he’s just a baby. He doesn’t know any better.”

  But Mama believed I did know better. To her, that bite was a little omen of what was to come, like a sprinkle before the downpour, a buzz before the sting, or the onset of an itch before you realize you’re covered in poison ivy.

  Maybe I was born to be great, but great at what?

  At five months old, I learned to crawl. I was fast as a cockroach, Papa said. One minute I was by Mama’s skirts, and the next I was in the pigsty, rolling around in the muck and slops. Mama said she had to bathe me twice a day just to keep me from turning into a real pig.

  I learned to walk before my first year, and by my second I took to climbing. I climbed chairs and tables, the woodpile, trees. Once Mama found me on the roof, and snatched me up before I slid down the chimney into a blazing fire.

  “Such a naughty boy,” said Mama.

  “He’s just a boy,” said Papa.

  But I didn’t want to be “just a boy.” I wanted to be great.

  At night, Papa would tell stories of Grandpa Jack: how he’d chop off giants’ heads and steal all their treasure and rescue the innocents. I knew if I was going to be great, I’d have to go on a noble quest and conquer a giant—or nine—just like my seven-greats-grandpa Jack.

  There was only one problem. I’d never seen a giant in all my twelve years.

  “Stop staring at the sky, Jack,” said Papa. “The work’s down here.”

  It was harvesttime, same as every year. Work, work, work. Boring, boring, boring. And after the work was done, we were still poor as dirt.

  Papa whistled a merry tune as he cut the wheat. I grumbled as I gathered it up in a bundle and tied it around the middle. We did this over and over, until we’d made a pile as tall as Papa. I thought we’d be nearly done, but when I looked up, I saw acres of uncut wheat. “Snakes and toads,” I grumbled. How I hated the sight.

  “Ain’t she the prettiest sight you ever saw?” Papa called the land she, like a lady he was trying to woo. Most of the time it seemed like the land just spat in Papa’s face, but he was ever faithful. Papa loved the land.

  Me? I could live without it. I preferred a sword to a scythe, and a noble steed to a cow. I’d go on a quest to fight giants and get gold and riches. Then I’d never have to milk another cow or harvest a crop on a hot day.

  I looked toward the house, where Mama was hanging the wash on the line. Annabella was flitting around her like a butterfly, her braids bouncing on her shoulders, not a care in the world, until…

  “Eeeeaak!” Annabella screamed, and frantically shook her apron. A fat grasshopper flew out and disappeared into the tall grass.

  I stifled a laugh. Annabella is my sister, four years younger. I guess when I hit three or so, Mama decided I was a lost cause and tried again, taking every precaution to do things differently. So firstly, she had a girl, and secondly, she didn’t allow Papa to name her or make any declarations of greatness. She was Mama’s sweet girl.

  I remember seeing Annabella for the first time after she was born, all pink and bald and toothless. Mama cooed at her like she’d finally gotten what she always wanted. A boring lump that didn’t bite or even move.

  “Back to work, Jack,” said Papa.

  I sighed. Papa cut and I gathered and tied. Work, work, work. Boring, boring, boring. I considered feigning illness so I could take a break.

  But what luck! Someone else disrupted the work for me. Mama was wal
king toward us now. Annabella bounced at her side, and on the other side was our nearest neighbor, but certainly not our dearest friend, Miss Lettie Nettle.

  She looked none too pleased at this moment. Her eyebrows were pushed together, and the folds around her mouth hung down around her chin like one of those sad-faced hounds, only she was an angry hound. She glared right at me. Mama anxiously twisted her apron in her hands.

  I scratched my head and scoured my brain. Had I pulled any pranks on Miss Lettie lately? I didn’t think so….

  Papa looked up and stopped whistling. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and glanced down at me, as if he knew what was coming.

  “Good day, Miss Lettie,” said Papa.

  “Don’t you ‘Good day’ me. It’s a terrible day,” said Miss Lettie.

  “Oh? What’s the trouble?”

  “My cabbages have been stolen.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Yes. Stolen. The whole lot of them!”

  Miss Lettie Nettle’s pride and joy was her field of cabbages. They always took first prize in vegetables at the harvest festival. If there was an early frost, Miss Lettie covered her cabbages with blankets. I’d even heard her singing lullabies to her fields.

  “Well now, that is a tragedy,” said Papa. “We always look forward to your big, beautiful cabbages.”

  “Tragedy? This was no tragedy, it was thievery!” Miss Lettie glared at me again. I blinked.

  “She believes it was Jack who stole them,” said Mama. Annabella smirked a little. She always enjoyed watching me get in trouble. I searched for a beetle to put on her head.

  “Now hold on a moment, Miss Lettie,” said Papa. “What makes you think Jack had anything to do with your missing cabbages?”

  Miss Lettie Nettle looked at Papa like he was brainless. “Because he always has something to do with it. Remember when he brought me a sack of sugar? I thought that was right sweet and neighborly, until it turned out to be salt!”

  Ha! I forgot about the sugar-salt switch. Snakes and toads, the look on her face when she bit into a salty plum pudding was incredible! I never knew a face could twist in so many directions.

  “I nearly choked to death!” said Miss Lettie. “And no one could ever forget the day he took my…my underthings and hung them out in public!” Miss Lettie turned as purple as a purple cabbage.

  “I remember,” said Papa solemnly, but I could tell he was biting his cheeks, holding back a smile. “I also remember that Jack confessed his crimes and paid penance. He’s a truthful boy. So why don’t we ask him? Jack, son, do you know anything about Miss Lettie’s cabbages?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir.”

  “You little liar!” said Miss Lettie. “This has your hand written all over it.”

  “I didn’t set foot in your field! I don’t even like cabbages.”

  “That much is true,” said Papa. “Jack here doesn’t like anything remotely green. I remember trying to feed him some green beans as a baby, and he spat them all over my face.” Papa chuckled. Miss Lettie did not.

  “He’s not a baby anymore,” she said. “He’s a great big lying, stealing, conniving, rotten—”

  “If Jack says he didn’t do it, then he didn’t.” This time it was Mama who spoke, her face solemn as an oath. I breathed out a sigh of relief. Mama didn’t often defend me, but if she said I was innocent, then I was innocent. Her word was truth and law, and everyone knew it, even Miss Lettie Nettle.

  Miss Lettie scrunched up her face. “Well then, who stole my cabbages?”

  It was a mystery, and in a small village where mysteries are in short supply, word travels fast. By noon the whole village had gathered to inspect Miss Lettie’s cabbage-less field. It was a mess, to say the least. There were great heaps of dirt in some areas, and giant holes in others. Some of the trees had fallen over, torn up by the roots. The Widow Francis’s thirteen children turned it into a playground, sliding down the mounds of dirt and jumping into the newly formed ditches, unaware of any misfortune.

  “My, my,” said Baker Baker. Yes, his name was Baker Baker, firstly because his name was Baker, and secondly because he was an actual baker of breads and rolls and pies. He said his father named him that so he’d be twice the baker. It also had the effect of making him say a lot of words twice. “Who could have done such a terrible, terrible thing?”

  A couple of suspicious glances drifted my way. They were probably remembering how I set fire to the blacksmith’s shop a few weeks ago—but that wasn’t on purpose. I was just trying to light a torch to go on a giant hunt.

  “Jack didn’t do it,” said Papa. “I can vouch for my son.”

  “I heard some thunder last night,” said Horace. “Kept Cindy tossing and turning.” Cindy was Horace’s pet pig. He carried her everywhere and talked to her like she was a real person. “Maybe it was lightning struck your field, fried all the cabbages.”

  “Do you see any fried cabbages here?” asked Miss Lettie. “They’re gone! Uprooted! Stolen!”

  “Wild animals, then?” offered Horace.

  “Maybe it was your fat pigs,” said Miss Lettie. “You’re always letting those hogs get into my cabbages!”

  “Cindy wouldn’t eat your cabbages, would you, girl?”

  Snort.

  “See? Cindy’s a good girl.”

  Miss Lettie snorted, too.

  “I doubt a herd of cattle could have done this, let alone pigs,” said Papa.

  “I’m telling you, it was a storm,” said Horace. “Didn’t you hear it?”

  There were murmurs of agreement. The harvest season brought with it plenty of storms—rainstorms and windstorms and lightning storms—any of which could destroy a whole village.

  “But what kind of storm only tears up one field?” someone asked.

  “It wasn’t no storm,” said another voice. “I know who stole your cabbages.”

  A hush fell as a man limped into the circle, pulling a creaky cart behind him. It was Jaber, the one-legged tinker. His other leg was a scratched-up chunk of wood from the knee down and it made a solid thunk with each step.

  Thunk. Creak. Thunk. Creak. Thunk.

  I’d only ever seen Jaber a few times before, but I remembered his wooden leg. He didn’t live in the village, but traveled from place to place, fixing people’s pots and bringing news from other villages. Some of his stories seemed a little too far-fetched—even for my imagination. Like the one about pigs living in houses, or the girl who arrived at the royal ball in a pumpkin pulled by mice and lizards.

  Okay, so Jaber was probably a little nuts, but Miss Lettie Nettle, in her desperation, was willing to take answers from anyone, even a crazy, one-legged tinker.

  “Who?” she asked. “Did you see who stole my cabbages?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did,” said Jaber.

  “Well? Who was it? Point out the thief!”

  “It was giants,” said Jaber. “Giants stole your cabbages.”

  Everyone froze.

  Giants.

  The word caught my attention like a crumb of cheese calling to a hungry mouse.

  “Giants?” asked Miss Lettie. “Did you just say giants stole my cabbages?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Jaber. “Came in the night and ripped ’em right out of your field.”

  Mutters and whispers rose amongst the villagers.

  “Could it be true?” someone asked.

  “It isn’t true.”

  “Hogwash,” Mama murmured.

  “Where are they?” Miss Lettie asked. “Which way did they go?” Giants or not, she looked ready to track them down and beat them with a hoe until they gave her back her precious cabbages.

  Jaber pointed straight up. “In the sky. The giants live in the sky.”

  Then the village erupted with laughter. Even I had to admit the idea of giants in the sky was absurd. Maybe Jaber was just confused. Maybe he saw them climb a really high cliff or mountain, which sometimes looks like it’s disappearing into the sky. That wasn�
��t so hard to believe.

  “It’s true! It’s true!” shouted Jaber above the laughter. “I saw them rip open the sky with a bolt of lightning, and their footsteps went boom, boom, BOOM!”

  “He’s describing the storm last night,” said Horace. “Didn’t I say it was a storm?”

  “ ’Tweren’t no storm!” shouted Jaber. “The giants, they been stealing all over the country. I just came from a village that was ravaged by giants. They stole everything. The cows, the chickens, all the food from the fields—even the houses and the people in them! The whole ding-dong village, gone, like it was never there!”

  “Maybe it was never there,” said Mama.

  “You know what I think?” Miss Lettie said. “I think it was you who took my cabbages!” She pointed a bony finger at Jaber.

  “Me?” Jaber said.

  “Yes, you! You probably carted my cabbages away and sold them in another village, and now you’re feeding us all some crackpot story about giants falling from the sky! You ain’t nothing but a swindler, is what you are!”

  Jaber’s face turned beet red. His eyes rolled up and down and side to side. “You think it was me? You think I’m stealin’ from you? I ain’t stealin’. Those giants will be back, and if they don’t crush you beneath their feet, they’ll snatch you up and grind your bones!” Jaber was in a frenzy. Spit flew out of his mouth and he waved his arms so wildly he lost his balance and fell to the ground. No one helped him up. They just walked away, hee-hawing about Jaber and his mad tales.

  “He’s a nutter,” said Horace.

  “Nuttier than my Nutty-Nutty Bread,” said Baker Baker.

  “He’s nothing but a common crackpot cabbage thief!” said Miss Lettie.

  “Come on, Jack,” said Papa. “Back to work.”

  “I’m coming,” I said, but as soon as Papa turned, I stepped toward Jaber. He was still sitting in the dirt, talking to himself.

  “They’ll take your cows, your pigs, your houses, and cabbages, and your chilluns. They’ll take your legs, too. Eat them down to the bone, like chicken.”

  “Is that what happened to your leg?” I asked. “Did a giant eat it?”

  Jaber looked up at me. I held out my hand. He regarded me, wondering if I was trying to trick him, but for all the tricks I’d played on people, I thought it’d be right low to trick a one-legged man on the ground. Jaber took my hand and I helped him up. He hopped a little until he caught his balance on his leg. “Thank you, boy,” he said, brushing the dirt off his ragged clothing.