Justice seemed to have a rather bizarre way of defining itself. On one hand, it was more than obvious that all of England was now free of cloud-residing-ogre threats. That the monster was also fond of English blood and meat only seemed to ground home the reality of an entire country’s emancipation.
On the other hand, there was also the more than obvious risk of destroying a countryside with both a fallen giant beanstalk but also a fallen ogre, one that stood about thirty feet tall.
When the beanstalk came down hard, taking with it its horrid burden, it was nothing more than pure blind luck that it crashed in the open, barren heath, which wasn’t too far from the borders of Upchurch. A young shepherd, who’d been driving his flock just over a nearby hill, claimed that the crash was so loud and so sudden that he’d shat all over himself, and so did his poor, terrified sheep.
And that one lonely, neglected hill would forever be known as Terror Manure Hill, which would be haunted by petrified piles of sheep droppings.
The ogre, naturally, died on impact, thereby adding to the concerns as to its body’s proper disposal. The prospect of allowing it to decompose naturally wasn’t an option. Carrion crows would’ve helped, but it would still take them too long to reduce the ghastly mass of battered flesh to nothing but bones.
“It’ll take a great deal of money and resources we don’t have to deal with this matter, which, I’m sure, will pose a serious threat to the general health of Upchurch residents,” the mayor said, flailing wildly as he paced back and forth next to the mangled ogre carcass.
People of every station gathered around to gape first and then get sick afterward.
Blythe and Jack stood nearby, slouching and sullen, whispering and nudging each other. Both boys were in deep trouble now: Jack for trespassing and luring the ogre out, and Blythe for felling the beanstalk and heaping an unexpected health hazard upon the heads of innocent townspeople.
“Do you think it’ll be hard labor for us?” Jack whispered. He stood without his magic harp, of course, having the sense to run into the cottage and hide it before the mayor and others charged out into the open to see what had happened.
“I don’t know, but I suppose I can learn how to milk cows,” Blythe replied. “The skill might come in handy down the road.”
“I miss poor Sarah. I hope she’s being cared for.”
“You have gold,” Blythe hissed, now twice as sulky. “I don’t. And it’s your fault I never got a chance. If you didn’t wake that stupid ogre up, I’d be home now with my own treasure, planning my future.”
Jack let out an outraged sound. Before them the mayor continued to rail about the decline in family values and the rise of adolescent delinquency. “I told you it wasn’t me! The damned harp called out when I took it, and I had to run!”
“And you just had to steal a loudmouth harp.”
Jack didn’t answer right away. “It sings, and it’s very shiny.”
People continued to come and go, and a tiny group of one man and three women appeared with sketchbooks and pencils. Blythe shrank back when he recognized Cranston Vicary.
“Oh, lord.”
“Blythe?” a voice called out. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, lord.” Blythe gave Jack a quick nudge. “Stay with me, Jack. I need someone here in case I die of embarrassment.”
Jack only rolled his eyes, and Blythe turned to find Edrik stumbling over uneven ground toward him, an elderly gentleman only a few steps behind.
“Edrik,” Blythe said, grinning ruefully as relief and mortification warred inside him. “I’m all right, and so is my friend. Oh—I’ve never introduced you two before.”
And so he did, with the mayor now launching a tirade against a failed educational system for the poor. No one anywhere paid him any heed; the ogre’s gruesome corpse was considered by all present to be a thousand times more interesting and worth their while.
“And this is my father. Papa, this is Blythe Midwinter, whom I’ve told you about—”
“Several times, yes, with no pause for breath,” Mr. Vicary cut in as he awkwardly walked up to them, huffing a little. “Damn this gout!”
Edrik colored, grinning. “And this is Jack Wicket, whom I’ve just met.”
“No doubt you’ll be talking endlessly about him as well, my boy.”
“Lord, no,” Jack spluttered, reddening. “I’m not Blythe!”
Mr. Vicary shook their hands and offered his congratulations for their ingenuity in “freeing England from the ogre scourge even before it began”.
“Well, to be fair, we also added the threat of the plague,” Blythe said sheepishly. He jerked his head in the direction of the mayor, whose passionate soliloquy remained ignored.
“What, plague? What on earth is that about? We’ve got magicians, don’t we? Why aren’t we asking for their help? What use are they if all they offer us are silly market theatrical things?” Mr. Vicary retorted, scowling at the ogre’s body with his hands on his hips. “Let me talk to him.” Off he went, huffing and hollering for the mayor.
“You’ll have to tell me everything,” Edrik said. He paused, his gaze moving up and down Blythe, inspecting him closely enough to make Blythe redden and Jack mutter something about his teeth falling off from extreme rot. “Oh, sorry. Just trying to see if you were hurt.”
“I’m fine, Edrik, really.” Blythe let out an embarrassed laugh, which Edrik matched with one of his own. “And I promise to tell you everything you need to know.”
Edrik looked puzzled. “Not now?”
“No. I’m about to be slaughtered before being sent off to milk cows as punishment.”
When Edrik’s confusion deepened, Blythe pointed at the three figures hurrying up the low, uneven incline toward them: Mrs. Wicket, Molly, and Bertie.
“Well, Blythe Midwinter, it’s been nice knowing you,” Jack said, drooping. “I’ll see you in the afterlife if you believe in one.”
“I’ve a feeling that my afterlife will be more Purgatory than simple nothingness.”
Jack gave him another nudge and whispered, “I owe you a golden egg. My chicken laid a couple last night, and I want you to have one. You know, for being my best friend and sticking with me through all this. And for not getting your chance.”
Blythe regarded him in amazed silence for a moment, feeling himself choke at the sincerity in Jack’s voice and expression. “I don’t feel right taking it, Jack, but can you keep it safe for me? I might change my mind later.”
“I will.” Jack smiled and offered his hand, which Blythe shook.
When they pulled apart, Edrik took hold of Blythe’s hands in his, and he looked at Blythe steadily. “I want a full account after your punishment.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I really doubt if cows are a part of that.”
Blythe grinned before being kissed soundly; unfortunately, justice being a capricious little bugger, Edrik was forced to pull away just as Mrs. Wicket’s voice cut through the confusion around them.
“Jack Wicket! What the devil’s stinking arse are you doing, destroying the countryside with beanstalks and monsters? I’m tearing your balls off and throwing you into a blasted monastery if that’s the last thing I’ll do, you no-good devil’s dung pile!”
It was a hellish chorus with Molly’s hysterical screeching, which overlapped Mrs. Wicket’s. “Blythe Midwinter, I’m going to hang you up by your entrails!”
Bertie, for his part, appended a breathless, “Blimey!” He stopped, gaping at the dead ogre even as the women continued their charge toward the boys.
“Ah. I suppose now isn’t the best time to meet your family.”
“I’ll have to face this on my own,” Blythe said, turning to Edrik, who nodded.
“I’ll be here to scrape your body parts off the grass.” He kissed Blythe one more time before fully releasing him and rejoining his father, who was now deep in conversation with the mayor.
* * * *
Blythe wracked his brain for a certain story he swore he’d heard Mr. Ruffle tell him once upon a time, while Blythe stood and waited, shivering in the morning chill. What story was that again? He frowned as he scrubbed away at a particularly stubborn spot of ground-in dirt. Actually, it looked more like a bit of food that had turned into a particularly disgusting, lumpy birthmark on the floor of the hearth.
He’d been cleaning and scrubbing the cold fireplace for only God knew how long, but he was ordered not to stop until Molly decided it was clean enough.
Now what piece of insane gossip was that again? It had something to do with a girl who’d been roundly abused by her stepmother and someone else. Somehow, Blythe thought as he looked as his soot-covered hands and clothes, this girl’s story was somehow a good one to mull over at that moment, though for the life of him, Blythe couldn’t figure out why he made that connection.
He paused when his arms ached, sitting back and sighing, dragging a soiled arm across his brows. His stomach growled, and thank heaven for Molly’s momentary absence. Stumbling to his feet and grimacing at his sore leg muscles and throbbing knees, Blythe made a drunken zigzag to the table, where some bread and cheese sat.
“What a long day this will be,” he grumbled, scowling at the half-finished hearth while gnawing away at his bit of food.
He’d just finished sweeping the cottage. After hearth-cleaning duty, he was supposed to scrub the cottage floor as well. It could’ve been worse, he supposed. At least he didn’t need to do the laundry.
The execution-by-disemboweling-and-entrail-hanging was bad—at least for his ears. Molly somehow had mustered enough righteous rage to subject her cringing, grimacing little brother to a tirade that would make her Monthly Molly Monster counterpart green with envy.
“You could’ve died climbing that thing! I don’t care if you didn’t! You still put yourself in a situation where you could’ve!” was one his bubbling brain managed to remember. “And what would you do with stolen gold, eh? No, I don’t care how many Englishmen that monster had for pudding! Nobody in this family steals, do you hear me?” was a good one. “We might be poor, but we damn well earn our keep through hard, honest—why, in God’s name, am I screaming?” that was another good one, but Blythe wasn’t allowed to answer that unless he wished to have one more back-breaking chore added to his punishment.
Blythe wondered about Jack. Was his friend still alive? He’d stolen treasure from a monster, and while Blythe’s opinions continued to swing back and forth between support of Jack’s views and of Molly’s, he still couldn’t help but feel the sting of unfairness.
He gazed around him and took in familiar details again, resentment bubbling up inside him. Every piece of battered furniture, every inch of the interior that was shrouded in darkness because of the lack a good number of windows, every frayed and patched up article of clothing—all served as stark reminders of the daily hardship he and his siblings faced.
Is that all you see, dearest?
He blinked, his breath hitching, as a beloved and sorely missed voice cut through his dark, self-pitying thoughts. It was his mother’s voice, of course, still preserved and jealously protected in his memory. He hadn’t heard it chastise him in a while, and now it sound loudly and clearly. The lively cadence, the irrepressible humor, and the teasing manner with which Mrs. Midwinter used to pose her questions whenever her youngest child needed comfort and reassurance—they made Blythe sit up and take notice just as much now as they did when she was still alive.
He looked around the cottage again, taking his time this time, and at length started to see things. Not ghosts or phantasms, but clear pictures he’d learned to ignore in his foolish attempts at fixing the burden that came with one’s accident of birth.
Blythe spotted snatches of happier times—both while his parents were alive and after their deaths. Moments of insane joy that came not in spite of hardship but because of it. Stripped of all the glittering trappings that came with wealth, his family had great fun over simple things: jokes, silly accidents, gossip, bizarre and unexpected things that happened. There was nothing complicated about those scenes, and that was perhaps why Blythe could see them vividly in his mind still despite the cobwebs of time.
Those moments had helped them through long days of cold and want, when Blythe fell ill several times. Those saw the siblings through the loss of both parents. And those were seeing them through hard times that—if Blythe were to be honest with himself—weren’t as difficult now as before. He was, after all, contributing to their survival, helping Molly achieve her dream of success as a baker, which would lead to his own dreams as well.
Is that all you see, dearest?
Blythe smiled ruefully. “No, Mama,” he said.
An ogre’s treasure, however justifiable it might be in taking it, would have cheapened his parents’ legacy and his family’s dreams of a better future. He thought about the gold egg Jack had earlier offered to keep for him and decided he didn’t need it. No matter how he looked at things, he was always reminded that this great adventure up the beanstalk wasn’t meant for him. Whether or not he’d enjoy a turn of good luck through the strange, unpredictable workings of Fortune or through simple hard work, the issue was that those magic beans and all that came with them were never his to begin with. Let Jack deal with the consequences of his choices; that wasn’t a burden Blythe should carry, but at the very least, he could still learn from his mistakes and, hopefully, gain wisdom from it.
In a way he did, he supposed, sometime ago, while in Mr. Ruffle’s company. “Remember as well that a person’s worth can never be measured in gold,” the old gentleman had said. Blythe nodded, smiling at the memory.
Then go back to work.
He did. After finishing his snack, Blythe went back down on his hands and knees and scraped away at the sooty hearth.
* * * *
“So it looks like Upchurch now has a new guild of magicians, though beyond ridding the countryside of an ogre’s carcass, its purpose is still being determined,” Molly said, stirring the contents of the pot.
“Did they make the beanstalk disappear?” Blythe asked meekly. His sister’s mood was a great deal improved, but she was still punishing him for the rest of the week. At least she’d relented and shortened his sentence from a fortnight.
“They did, but Mrs. Wicket insisted on leaving the base alone. As a reminder to Jack, she said. And they let us gather as many green beans as we could before they took everything away.”
Molly had returned with a sack of green beans she’d picked from the beanstalk, reporting that people practically murdered each other in a frenzy of gathering beans from a magical plant. She didn’t believe that the green beans would yield anything special beyond additional nutrition in their meals. Unfortunately it also meant that they needed to eat as many of those things in as short a time as possible in order to avoid losing them to the ravages of time.
Blythe nodded and continued to snap the green beans in half, thrilled at the thought that he’d be seeing something other than carrots and potatoes in his food that evening. He paused for a moment as he regarded the vegetables.
“Molly, may I stop by Mrs. Wicket’s cottage on my way home from my bread route tomorrow?”
“Why?”
“The beanstalk’s base still has beans growing off it. I’d like to take some more as I’m sure it’ll be sprouting more of those things as long as it exists.”
Molly snorted. It sounded like one of Bertie’s horrific farts, but Blythe dared not comment on it. “I gathered enough beans to last us at least a week unless these things rot before their time. You’re free to gather more when we’re done with ours, Blythe.”
“What if Bertie and I like them so much that we finish them well before then?”
Molly looked repulsed. “How? By eating them raw?”
“It’s good for our health,” Blythe offered weakly.
“Uh-huh. I expect you to come straight home tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that until the end of your punishment. Do you understand? If it means escorting you from start to finish, I’ll do it.”
“No, thanks. I’m sure I can manage following your orders on my own.”
“I should hope so.”
Blythe sighed and nodded, grabbing another handful of green beans to snap into smaller pieces. What he’d give to see Jack being thrown into a monastery after castration, he thought, and he had to suppress an absurd fit of giggling.
“By the way, that boy you kissed?”
Blythe started and looked in shock at his sister, who was now flinging salt and possibly arsenic into the pot.
“What about him?”
“He looks like a good, decent, intelligent sort, like the kind who’d be an effective influence on you. I’ve yet to meet him, but from what I could tell, I approve.” Without looking at him, Molly stirred the pot and tasted its contents, wrinkling her nose.
Blythe slowly broke out into a silly, idiotic grin. Thank God, indeed. There was something he did right, at least.
THE END
ABOUT HAYDEN THORNE
I’ve lived most of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area though I wasn’t born there (or, indeed, the USA). I’m married with no kids and three cats, am a cycling nut, and my day job involves artwork, crazy coworkers who specialize in all kinds of media, and the occasional strange customer requests involving papier mache fish with sparkly scales.
I’m a writer of young adult fiction, specializing in contemporary fantasy, historical fantasy, and historical fiction genres. My books range from a superhero fantasy series to reworked folktales to Victorian ghost fiction.
My themes are coming-of-age, with very little focus on romance (most of the time) and more on individual growth and some adventure thrown in. More information can be found online at haydenthorne.net.
ABOUT QUEERTEEN PRESS
Queerteen Press is the young adult imprint of JMS Books LLC, a small electronic press specializing in gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender fiction, as well as popular and literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. While our preference is for stories with GLBT characters, we publish stories in any YA genre. Visit us at queerteen-press.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!