Blythe wasn’t slaughtered, but he had to sit through almost twelve hours—or what felt like twelve hours—of hysterical scolding from Molly. He couldn’t really remember the details of what she’d said—no, shrieked—like the unholy child of a harpy and a banshee. His ears rang long after, of that he was certain, and the best his scorched brain could manage when it came to remembering Molly’s point was that he was Satan’s child who was sent to earth to lay waste to it after driving his siblings mad and then wearing their flesh for his traveling cloak.
After being soundly harangued into meek obedience, Blythe was sentenced to a week of vegetable-peeling and laundry duty. He was also expressly forbidden from visiting Jack Wicket through the duration of his punishment.
“Can I at least talk to friends at the gate?” he asked sullenly. “You don’t really expect me to live like a monk, do you?”
“I admit to regretting not sending you off to a monastery when I had the chance,” Molly replied evenly. She’d stopped her agitated pacing by now and stood before her drooping brother, arms crossed on her chest.
Blythe looked up, ignoring his ragged shoes, which he’d been contemplating the entire time he was being lectured. “When you had the chance?” he echoed. “When was that?”
“When you were born. A group of monks traveling on a holy pilgrimage passed through Upchurch, and I thought that to be a bad omen about you. Little did I know how right I was.”
Blythe scowled. “You’re cruel.”
Molly smirked as he grumped. “And you’re good at manipulating me by looking as tiny and helpless as you possibly can.”
It was actually a great deal harder than she thought, but Blythe said nothing about it. He did feel the strain of his efforts, though. On their arrival home, Molly had ordered him to sit his “saucy arse” down, indicating his bed, but he pulled out his old stool and plopped himself down on it. He’d chosen it, of course, because sitting on it made him look smaller and younger to whoever towered over him in a rage. He’d also taken care to shrink into himself some more while bowing his head and staring dolefully at his shoes.
After an eternity of holding that position, Blythe was beginning to panic at the thought that his body had locked itself up in that little crouching goblin position, as he now called it.
“I’m younger and sicklier than you,” he retorted. “Of course I’m going to be smaller.”
“Blythe, there are clothes that need washing. They’re waiting for you outside.”
Blythe sighed as he stood up. “All right, fine,” he said. When he was outside, standing in utter helplessness before the tub of clothes soaking in water, he shook his head. “All this trouble, and I never even got as far as halfway up that damned beanstalk.”
* * * *
He didn’t know how to check for thorough cleanliness, but Blythe figured if the clothes had been soaked in water, dunked in the same a few more times, and then wrung out before hanging, he should be safe. Then again, he also didn’t want to spend any more time on such a tedious chore considering how drenched he was. As he struggled with clothes that weighed five times more with that water in them, he cursed under his breath. Wet fabric kept slapping his face and head as he draped the damned things on the clothesline. He was only about a third through when he decided to rest for a moment. His arms and shoulders ached from handling the laundry, and his mood had long grown even more sour than before.
The sun was quite pleasant, at least, so he could try to dry himself a little before finishing up. He was convinced that he was in danger of coming down with the most dreadful cold if he kept this up.
“Psst! Blythe!”
He whirled around and was shocked at seeing Jack standing by the low stone fence that partly bordered the cottage. A tree stood just beyond the fence as well, offering Jack a shadowy retreat. Blythe spared the cottage a quick and cautious glance. Seeing Molly nowhere, he jogged over to where Jack stood.
“You’re back already?” he asked, wide-eyed.
Jack nodded, looking rather shocked, himself. “What an adventure!” he whispered hoarsely. “You should’ve been there!”
“You know I couldn’t.” Blythe’s spirits sank at the reminder of his failure, but at the same time, he could still vividly remember how nightmarish it was, being up so high, with nothing to save him should he lose his hold or his footing. He shuddered at that reminder. “Tell me what happened,” he added. “This one didn’t last you all day.”
“It was the same as yesterday, but this time, I knew my way around, so it wasn’t hard taking the chicken.”
Blythe stared at him. “Chicken,” he said. “You risked your life for a chicken.”
“No, no!” Jack frantically waved his hands, his eyes practically bulging out of their sockets. “It’s the kind that lays golden eggs!”
“No! Really?” When Jack answered with a vigorous nodding of his head, Blythe sniggered. “What I’d give to have golden eggs for breakfast. Can you even eat something that’s cooked but made of gold?”
“Or if it hatches, it’s a gold chick!” Jack hissed before dissolving in a fit of mad giggling and snorting. After another moment of shared silliness, their laughter died down, and he said, “Seriously, though—remember all those things we talked about? You know, how there’s much more to the world—”
“Or sky,” Blythe interrupted.
“—or sky than what meets the eye? You really should be up there, Blythe, seeing what I’ve been seeing. It’s incredible. Just amazing.”
Blythe clucked as he regarded Jack narrowly, his ambivalence stirring again. “You’re stealing treasure, though. How does that justify the danger?”
“Am I?” Jack replied, looking incredulous. “Lord, I call it justice! I told you a couple of man-eating ogres live up there, didn’t I? They’ve been eating Englishmen—or more like English boys—so I’m not particularly sympathetic.”
Blythe shook his head and chuckled. “How many more times do you expect to go up there, anyway?”
“However many times it takes for me to make off with their treasure before I’m caught.”
Blythe listened, horrified. “You’re mad! If they catch you, you’ll be that night’s supper!”
“Ha! Not if I can help it. I’m going back tomorrow morning. I wish you could come. You know, give it one more go if you can. At least you can say that you tried.”
“I already have.”
“One more time, then. Just one more time.”
Blythe sighed, pinching his mouth into a tight line. “No, Jack, I’m sorry. I’m being punished for attempting it today. After my morning route tomorrow, I’m expected back immediately, or Molly will double my sentence.”
Jack whistled low. “Lord, she’s cruel!”
“I told her so, but you know how adults are—always think they’re justified in being ghoulish to their younger brothers.”
“Well—try to come by on your way home, anyway, if only to see me off. And I want you to see my new chicken. It’s quite large and but squeezably soft.”
Blythe grimaced. “I can’t help but think that what you just said sounded a bit—wrong—somehow.”
“Now that you mentioned it, I think so, too. And I feel a bit dirty for saying it.” Jack sighed and moved away from the stone wall, raising a hand. “Try to come tomorrow!”
Blythe nodded and moved back. “I will!”
* * * *
There was something about a boy’s first love that compelled him to do, or attempt, one fool thing after another, utterly unmindful of warnings from overly emotional adults.
Blythe had plenty of time the previous night to mull over the error of his ways because Molly told him to. And he understood what it was, having done it and faced death along the way. At the same time, the lure of possibilities tugged at his mind, insistent and even rude, in a manner of speaking.
Blythe had to admit that he couldn’t ignore the temptation of independence that came with wealth. He once again pictured himself and his siblings living comfortably in a larger and warmer cottage that didn’t leak in five hundred different places or groan dangerously during a storm. Molly didn’t have to sell anything, and Bertie would have enough to buy himself a cottage and support a wife and children. Blythe could pick up where he left off on his education, and he could finally enjoy good books and have something clever to say in everyday conversation.
There was, above all, the matter regarding Edrik Vicary and all the time he could spend in the other boy’s company. He pictured all the things they could do or all the places they could travel to. He’d yet to meet Edrik’s father and other sisters, let alone spend time in their company, learning about their art. Edrik, at the moment, didn’t seem to show much interest in, or inclination toward, novel-writing, choosing instead to spend his time in learning and in being with Blythe.
Normal adolescent things, in brief.
And it was also a normal adolescent desire to want to have the resources necessary in order for Blythe to shower Edrik with endless attention and occasional gifts. He sighed as he burrowed under the covers in the cold darkness, his mind still whirling wildly as it went back and forth, back and forth.
By the time sleep claimed him, he’d decided to give the giant beanstalk one more chance. Perhaps this time around, he’d be able to muster enough courage to go all the way to the clouds. Surely it had to be nothing more than a matter of getting used climbing great heights.
* * * *
As luck would have it, it took him longer than usual to sell all the bread loaves that morning, so he was too late to see his friend off. When he arrived at the Wicket cottage, a few gawkers—a much, much smaller number than the last time, thank God—were being driven away by Mrs. Wicket, who chased them out with a broom and strings of curses so vile they made Blythe’s blood curdle.
“I couldn’t keep that little bastard away from this horrible thing,” she said once they were alone. She leaned tiredly against the broom, jabbing a finger in the beanstalk’s direction.
“You let him go, Mrs. Wicket?” That was a surprise.
She nodded, shrugging weakly. “I didn’t want to let him go, but he came home with a chicken that can lay golden eggs yesterday, and he was so convincing about all kinds of treasures that could be had still.”
“But he steals them!”
“Steals them? From whom? He never told me someone lives in that giant castle he visits.”
Blythe regarded her for a moment and found, to his dismay, her looking sincerely puzzled. If Jack were there, Blythe would’ve taken the broom and shoved the whole thing up his villainous arse for lying to his mother. Then again, Jack Wicket had been lying since he started breathing, which would render that imagined punishment impotent.
“Um—how long ago did he leave, ma’am?”
“Two hours at least,” Mrs. Wicket replied, casting a few nervous glances up the beanstalk. “I specifically told him to be back by noon, or else. He was in a bit of a hurry, it seemed—said he couldn’t wait for you and that he needed to leave earlier than usual.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. He was very keen, though, to go up there again. You know, I’m not sure if I heard him right, but I think he mentioned something about a magic harp he had his eye on.” She paused, shrugging and still looking confused.
Blythe looked at her, surprised. “What can he do with a magic harp?”
“I don’t know. Work magic, maybe? God knows what goes through that boy’s head. That’s what I get for not having him baptized like any regular Christian. Now look at him—that hollow body of his filled up with black essences from the fiery pit.”
Blythe couldn’t help but nod in agreement. “The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that he’s fueled by Satan’s farts like you said.”
“Your parents are lucky they had you even with all the ridiculous things you do every now and then. At least you’re not as hopeless as Jack. Now, dearie, would you like to have something to eat?” Mrs. Wicket paused, glancing around them cautiously. Then she dropped her voice to a near whisper. “We can afford to buy good food now, but we still have to be careful not to let on about the gold in the sack and the chicken with the gold eggs. Living our days always looking over our shoulders like fugitives is a small price to pay for unexpected wealth, I’m afraid.”
Blythe smiled at her and shook his head. “No, thank you, ma’am. I have to go back home and report back to my sister.”
“Such discipline,” Mrs. Wicket said, sighing. “You’re a remarkable boy, Blythe Midwinter, and I suspect you’ll get very far someday.”
“I seem to be stuck in a rut at the moment, but thank you. I hope so.”
Oh, Hell’s balls, there it was again—that nagging voice in his head, reminding him about the miracle of wealth, and his resolution grew. He glanced back at the beanstalk and hardened himself.
“Mm-hmm. I know what you did yesterday, young man,” Mrs. Wicket said, clucking and shaking a finger at him. “It was an uncharacteristically stupid thing you did. Little silly scrapes every so often I can understand, but trying to go with Jack? I knew nothing about your plans, you know, and that demonic boy of mine hid everything from me. I was ignorant about it until after I got home from a long day’s work, and your sister paid me a visit to tell me all. I promised her that I wouldn’t let you near that beanstalk if you were to appear today.”
Blythe shifted uncomfortably as he wracked his brain. How annoying to have to run into this roadblock now that he’d committed himself to this. If he delayed much longer, his courage would fail him altogether, and he’d have another day of nothing but regrets for his inaction.
“Very well,” he said once he’d settled on a plan. “I suppose you’re right, ma’am. I’ll go on home and stay put because, you know, I’m being punished for doing something stupid yesterday.”
Mrs. Wicket sighed heavily, nodding and smiling at him. “You do that, dearie. Trust me, this is for your own good. At least we can all be assured that, unlike Jack, you’ll learn something from this, and you’ll come back from your punishment a wiser boy than before.”
Blythe tried to look meek. “I hope so, too.”
“You’ve got a good deal more sense than my son,” Mrs. Wicket said. “I’ll be off, too, to buy myself a new gown. Lord, it’s been ages since I got myself someone’s cast-offs!” She shook her head as she pondered that fact. “I can afford to buy a new dress. Imagine that! I never thought—never expected—”
She abruptly broke off when her voice cracked with emotion. With a final wave goodbye, she entered the cottage with the broom, and Blythe ambled back to the road that led him home.
Instead of going straight to his cottage, though, Blythe turned off the path and went to the river. There he whiled away the time, watching the currents and thinking about the hopeful turn his life was about to take.
Once again, he pictured his family living comfortably, his education, and, of course, his time with Edrik. No longer would he feel so self-conscious and embarrassed at being seen in the company of a boy who was his superior in every way.
Money was the only way for him to bridge that gap, and the little profits his family made from honest efforts weren’t going to give him—or them—what was needed the most. And one more thing he needed the most was to reach that goal as soon as he could, with opportunity right there, within his grasp. How often did Fortune come around, after all, to offer simple human beings the chance to change their lives forever? The beanstalk could be gone for whatever reason tomorrow or the day after or the one after that. No one knew for sure, and he couldn’t afford to gamble away his chances.
“I need to get up there,” he muttered, “and I need to get up there today. I can’t wait anymore. I don’t have any excuses left.” Around him, the chirping birds and gentle breezes seemed to encourage his resolve with their cheerful noise.
He waited a few more moments before walking back, assuring himself that Mrs. Wicket would’ve left by then.