Once Upon the End (Half Upon a Time)

by James Riley

  “You know, just looking around,” he told her, trying to act as if he had been in so many book rooms that they just couldn’t impress him anymore. “Books. Stories. That kind of thing. You know.”

  She smiled. “Stories? What kind do you like? Maybe I can recommend something.”

  The panic hit for the second time, and he frantically searched his memory. May must have said something about their stories here! She’d heard of Jack’s world, she’d heard of the Wicked Queen and Snow White . . . what had she called those stories?

  “Well, I like fairy bottoms,” he told the woman, giving her a knowing smile.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, her smile fading. “What did you say?”

  “Tails!” he shouted. “I like fairy tails!”

  She gave him an odd look. “Fairy tales have actually been pretty popular lately, but I think we’ve got a few still in the library.” She led him through the shelves, winding in and out, before bending down to the very bottom shelf and grabbing a few books. “What have you read?”

  “The usual stuff. The one with Snow White.”

  “Ever read any Jack tales?” the woman asked without looking up.

  Any what now?

  “Can’t say I have,” Jack told her, his voice barely squeaking out.

  She handed him a book called English Fairy Tales. TALES. Right. Whoops. “Those are fun. He’s my favorite.”

  “English? Who is he?”

  She stared at him. “Right. English as in British. From England. I mean Jack. I read all those as a child, I used to love them. ‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’ that kind of thing. You must know that one.”

  He nodded. “Pretty well at this point.” Was this for real?

  “Take a look, you might like some of the others. Here’s a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and Hans Christian Andersen. You might think you know the stories from movies and all, but the originals are very different.”

  Jack looked at the cover of the book English Fairy Tales, with a picture of a boy climbing a beanstalk, and nodded. “You have no idea how different.”

  She gave him another odd look, so he quickly thanked her and retreated to a table, like the other students did, and opened the beanstalk book first.

  Once upon a time . . .

  Jack read through the first story, then the next, and the next, his stomach dropping through his shoes. These were his family’s stories! His father, his grandfather, even some hints of what he had done in the giant’s castle in the clouds!

  People could just read about his life without him knowing?! Were they watching him now, watching him read about himself, that they were then reading, and—

  Probably not. But that woman had said she loved these stories and thought of Jack (or, well, all the Jacks) as a hero. But the Jacks in the stories did what Jacks had always done, which wasn’t always heroic or anything . . . sometimes it was exactly the opposite, outwitting and outplaying people just to win.

  But here . . . they liked that. Just like the Wicked Queen had said. Here, they admired people like him.

  He set the English Fairy Tales book aside, feeling something odd that he hadn’t felt in a long time, and turned to the next book, flipping through it only to stop abruptly at one story.

  Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

  This time, he couldn’t even feel his stomach. He quickly flipped through to the end of the story, where Snow White looked like she died, so some dwarfs put her in a glass box and left her. Then along came a prince and woke her up, and the two got married. He shook his head. When had that happened? And the Wicked Queen went to the wedding and danced herself to death in red-hot iron shoes? . . . Uh?

  Jack quickly read the entire story, then read it again. It had a magic mirror, so that part made sense, but when had the rest of this happened? Snow White had been in a coffin made of ice when he’d last seen her, before the Wolf King had stolen her away.

  Wait.

  Did that mean she could be woken up?

  He quickly flipped through the next book, finding far too many familiar stories. “Rapunzel.” “Tom Thumb,” a boy who sounded a lot like a younger Captain Thomas, at least in size. “Little Red Riding Hood,” just like the outfit Rose Red had worn.

  All stories from his Story Book, the one he’d given to the imps in the past. Had the stories of his world really survived all those years? Apparently whoever the imps had sold them to had been pretty smart storytellers!

  Of course, there were a bunch of stories that didn’t sound familiar, like one called “Donkey Cabbages,” and another called “Cinderella.” Weird titles, but maybe those were made up at some point.

  He’d have to read further; these could be useful. But he couldn’t just stay here all night.

  A girl stood up and carried a few books over to a desk, where a man stamped them, then handed them back. Only, the girl had also handed the man some sort of card, which he handed back to her with the books. She then walked out the doors of glass, books and all.

  Had she bought them, paid for them somehow with the card? Not that it mattered: Jack had nothing. But these books could be extremely useful. . . .

  It wasn’t like he hadn’t done worse things already. So Jack picked up the three books, even the creepy stories about his family, grabbed his bag, and walked toward the man at the desk, who smiled at him.

  Then, at the last second, Jack made a run for it.

  Something screamed in his ears, but he didn’t stop, plowing through the doors as the man shouted behind him that he needed to check something. With the grating screaming noise in his ears, Jack took off down the hallway and right out the door he’d seen May leave by, and didn’t stop running until he reached some woods nearby.

  All night, he read about his own family, about the heroes and villains of his world, and about the way all the heroes always lived happily ever after. But the heroes of the books weren’t like Phillip, not for the most part. Usually they were just some kid, often not even a firstborn, who was smart enough to outwit whatever the story threw at him.

  If people in this world really did look up to people who used their brains . . . why was he leaving?

  The next morning, he crept up to the school, left all three books in front of the door leading inside, then took off again. At least he didn’t feel so bad about things now. And he had so many new ideas.

  Now all he needed to do was find the Wicked Queen’s house, which was somewhere on a Hough Street, whatever that was.

  The iron shoes would be a good Plan B.

  CHAPTER 31

  Phillip concentrated, his entire soul dedicated to the task before him. This would be the difference between life and death, between the lives of his subjects and the ruin of his kingdom.

  He held his work up to look at it critically, as every detail counted. “It is not very pretty,” he said, tilting his head to get a better angle.

  The guards around him stopped their sewing and gave the cord he had just sewn a look. Even the monkey looked up from his job to look at Phillip thoughtfully.

  “I’ve seen worse, Your Highness,” one said.

  “You’re doing a fine job, Your Highness,” said another.

  “’Tis unto a flower bloomin’ in dawn’s first breath, Your Highness,” said a third.

  Phillip shrugged. “I suppose it does not have to look good. How fare the rest of you?”

  The others held their cords up for inspection, and Phillip nodded, then glanced out the window at the hundreds of yards of cord that led from the window to the courtyard below, gathering in huge piles below where other guards wrapped the cord onto wheels, and townsfolk and guards alike rolled those wheels out of the castle, through town, and out into the countryside.

  “I’m back,” Penelope said, and Phillip jumped. He never did hear the girl come in.

  “How did your task go?” he asked her, noticing that she was covered in dirt and smelled like music.

  The princess smiled, petting the monkey on the head. “I convinc
ed some of them, and they’ll work on the others. It might take a few days, but I think they’ll be here.”

  That was a bit slapdash for him, given the stakes, but it was not as if he had any choice. “I would have preferred them here before the giants arrived, but I suppose we are on our own there. What about Lian? Has she returned?”

  Penelope shrugged. “I’ll have to see. I came straight here to see how the sewing’s going. You’ve done a lot!”

  “A prince does what one must,” Phillip said, turning from her back to sewing lengths of rope together to make an extremely thick, strong cord.

  Penelope looked at him for a minute, then sat down next to him. “You know, I wasn’t ever allowed to do this,” she said, watching Phillip’s needle threaded in and out. “Too many spindles involved. But the fairy queens used to find it very relaxing, they said. They’d often sit for hours, sewing, singing, telling stories . . .”

  “We have no time for singing or stories, unfortunately,” Phillip said.

  “I have a story!” one of the guards said.

  “No one wants to hear your invisible gnome story, especially not the prince!” said another.

  “I would actually like to hear it at a later time,” Phillip told the crestfallen guard. “For I myself had some trouble with an invisible gnome.”

  “Did he steal your pants too, Your Majesty?”

  “Did he, Phillip?” Penelope asked, her eyes opening a bit wider than usual. “I’m guessing yes, considering you’re blushing again.”

  Philip turned back to his sewing. “I do not see how that is relevant.”

  “The point is,” Penelope continued, “they found sewing an easy way to take their mind off their troubles.” She nudged his shoulder. “Not that you have any troubles, right? But you just stay here and keep at it. I’ll go find out if anyone’s heard from Lian, or if the sharks ate her.”

  Phillip glanced up at her, at her gentle smile, and could not help but smile back. The repetitive task of sewing had taken his mind off things, things he would rather not remember.

  Things like the look on May’s face when he had left her in the Wicked Queen’s clutches.

  Penelope quietly left the room, or so Phillip supposed, as when he looked again, she was gone.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” one of the guards said. “But why are the princess and that . . . other girl—”

  “Lian,” Phillip said absently.

  “The, uh, Eye, yes,” the guard said, his face clouding. “Not that it’s my place to suggest that we throw her out the nearest window, as it’s only a matter of time until she betrays us—”

  “She would not be the first to do so this week,” Phillip said quietly.

  “But shouldn’t those two be bringing our friends and allies here as soon as possible? Don’t we need all the help we can get here to take care of those giants?”

  The ground shook, just as it did every few seconds, as if in response. The giants weren’t far off now . . . maybe a day, probably less.

  “We will face more than the giants if we live through the attack,” Phillip told the guard, and all the guards. “There will be evil greater than any of us have ever seen, and it will come calling for our very heads. And when it comes, we will need all the help we can find.” He sighed. “Meanwhile, the giants cannot be faced with strength or numbers. Whatever we put up against them, they will overcome. It is their nature to overpower. But this . . .” He held up the cord. “This cord that we make . . . this has its own power. There is power in cleverness and wisdom, too. A lesson I would have done well to learn before now.”

  “So . . . say we survive . . .” the guard said.

  “A mighty big ‘if,’ there,” said another.

  “Have faith, my friends,” Phillip said. “Not because we are noble and good and worthy of victory, though I believe in this battle, we are. The noble, unfortunately, do not always win. No, victory goes to the side that outwits the other side. And I would be a poor prince if I did not try everything I could to save my people.” He smiled. “Even a bit of trickery.”

  A hand touched Phillip’s shoulder, and he looked up to see Jack’s father looking down on him with something resembling pride.

  “I won’t say what I’m thinking,” the man said, “most likely because you don’t want to hear it.”

  “You are correct,” Phillip told him. “I would not want to hear it.”

  “Jack would be pleasantly surprised by you right now, Phillip.”

  Phillip shook his head, then stood up, dropping the cord from his hands. “This will have to be enough. Everyone, gather what cord you have and join me in the courtyard.” He looked at Jack’s father, then shook his head. “Even you. I will need your . . . expertise.”

  “With what, exactly?” the man said, raising one eyebrow and smiling. He knew, but he wished to make Phillip say the words. If words were all that stood between Phillip’s kingdom and destruction, then words it would be.

  “I officially request the aid of one Jack the Giant Killer in the slaying of up to and including seven giants that are currently on their way toward my kingdom.”

  The man nodded, still smiling. “All you needed to do was ask.” He picked up a length of cord, then stopped once more. “Oh, and Phillip? This plan will work on six of them. Maybe. But not the big one. Not the one that killed your father. That one won’t fall for this like the others will.”

  This time, Phillip smiled. “If you outwitted him, how hard can he be?”

  And at that, Jack’s father roared with laughter.

  CHAPTER 32

  May, now complete with blue streak in her hair, stumbled out of her front door looking bleary-eyed in the morning light. What felt like hours later, a beautiful woman with dark, slightly gray-streaked hair left as well, getting into one of the metal wagons waiting in front of their house.

  And yes, they were wagons. Jack had realized that eventually. Embarrassingly eventually.

  The wagon backed up into the road, then groaned much like May had as it rolled its way toward town.

  Now was as good a time as any to steal the Queen’s wooden heart box.

  Dressed in his Eye armor once more, Jack sized up the house. It’d taken him long enough to find. Just knowing the name of the street hadn’t helped as much as he’d have thought. How many streets did Punk need? Giant’s Hand, where he’d grown up, had one . . . and not even that in some places.

  Even when he’d found the right street, he’d come across a worse problem. So many houses! And all looked exactly the same!

  Part of him wondered if he should just walk down the street, knocking on every door until he found the right one.

  A smarter part of him decided to use what little magic remained in his sword to sniff out the Wicked Queen like a bloodhound.

  And so here he was. He hadn’t ever broken into a home before—just castles, really—but how hard could it be? There was bound to be an open door or window, after all. No one had the money to put locks on every way in or out, and who locked their doors anyway?

  Apparently May and her grandmother, because both doors Jack found were locked tight. Not to mention the windows. All except one window left open on the second floor of the house (which in and of itself was insane . . . how much money did they have to be able to build an entire second story? Out of what looked like fake wood?! How could it even support itself?)

  Second floors meant higher climbs, and climbing was the last thing Jack really felt like doing right now. Fortunately, a convenient tree rose near enough to the open window that one might climb it, shimmy out on a branch, then jump for one’s life and maybe, if one was lucky, grasp the windowsill with the edge of one’s fingers.

  Jack, however, was not one to be lucky on any sort of regular basis.

  “I just climbed a stupid beanstalk!” he said to no one in particular. “TWICE, really, if you count the last half a year!”

  No one in particular responded, which didn’t entirely surprise him.
In fact, if someone had responded, Jack might have jumped in surprise, then suggested that maybe that person climb the tree, jump to the window, then come downstairs and let Jack in.

  Life was never easy.

  Jack stared up at the tree, ready to go. That lasted a minute or two, after which he actually got his hands onto the tree and began to climb. That lasted another minute or two before he realized that climbing trees in Punk somehow seemed more difficult. Trees back home always seemed to have convenient hand- and footholds, and one could scurry up them like a squirrel. Here, though, Jack scraped his way up, then slid back down (also scraping) no less than five times before realizing he might need to think this through a bit.

  Behind him in the yard, there was some sort of metal sculpture, rusted metal rods with chains hanging down from them, the chains holding some sort of odd-looking seat. He looked from the chained seats to the tree and back, and realized one of these might be just what he needed. Out came the sword, its remaining magic giving it just enough sharpness to slice through the chains, which was fortunate. If he’d had to cut through them without any magic, the Huntsman would be there and gone for a few weeks before he’d finish.

  Back the sword went into its scabbard, and back Jack went to the tree. He wrapped the seat around the tree and grasped an end of chain in each hand, then, holding the chains as tightly as he could, used them as support to anchor himself as he walked slowly up the tree.

  This, in a way, was magic too.

  Unfortunately, this kind of magic took forever, so he grabbed a branch that looked sturdy enough to support him as soon as he could, then used that branch to climb to the one leading to the open window. Inside he could see a familiar scene, and he pulled out the Story Book pages to compare.

  Walls white as clouds. An enormous bed covered with soft linens. A wooden desk with a now not-glowing square sitting on it.

  Yup. This was May’s bedroom.

  He got a chill out of nowhere and almost fell from the tree then and there. She may not have known who the unconscious person was on the ground beneath her tree, but May still would have laughed at him, he was sure.