Beanstalk and Beyond

By Tony Padegimas

In a last ditch attempt to save his family from poverty, Jack, a chicken thief who would go to great lengths to avoid his chores, sets out to sell a cow. What he receives sets him down a path that takes him far beyond giants and golden eggs. In this refreshing take on the classic beanstalk tale, Jack outwits wizards, mingles with kings, and stares down the very forces of nature on his journey to find his destiny. Padegimas lends Jack a charming voice, peppered with plenty of humor, adventure, and a dash of magic. Beanstalk and Beyond will delight fantasy readers and readers of all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NewLink Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781934051696

Tony Padegimas

Tony Padegimas has been an obvious and unapologetic nerd all of his life. He is also a geek and a wonk and he knows the difference. Writing down ridiculous lies like this is the latest of more than 30 jobs he has held (mostly in freelance writing or technical theater). He lives in Phoenix with his wife of 28 years, two children and a rotating cast of domestic mammals. His two published hiking guides have made him, by his own reckoning, the second most famous Padegimas on the internet.

Book preview

The Great Rain

The dog guarding the chicken coop didn’t look all that mean from a distance. He lay in the grass as the blustering wind blew his black, shaggy fur in all directions. His huge tongue drooped out of his mouth like a wet rag.

I stepped from the bushes.

The dog stood to its full height—shoulders as tall as mine. His tongue snapped back inside a sharp growl. A lesser chicken thief might have slunk back into the woods at that point, but at twelve years old, I already considered myself a master.

I had plenty of time. I surveyed the farmer earlier in the morning driving cattle toward a distant field, as he had done the last time I stole one of his chickens. Since then, it seemed, he acquired this monster.

Thick clouds hid us both from what should have been the bright afternoon sunshine. Wind rattled the leaves throughout the forest. The dog filled his chest with air and released a bark so deep and so loud it seemed to silence the very storm around us.

I took a cautious step forward. The dog huffed, moving toward me. After a breath, I took another step.

The dog gave another rumbling growl and charged. The rope around his neck halted him inches from my throat.

I don’t believe the dog’s next bark blew my hair straight back from my face. The wind…yes. It must have been the wind. Yet, my smile widened until it filled half my face.

The dog’s growl filled more than half his face with fangs as long as my fingers. His black eyes stared straight into mine without having to angle up.

None of that worried me. I smiled at the rope securing the dog tight to a tree.

A few raindrops pelted us during our standoff. I moved to my right.

The dog followed.

The rain increased to a steady downpour. I fled to the shelter of the woods. A doomed chicken struggled within the bag I held.

All the dog could do was bark, for his leash had been wrapped around the tree like a line on a reel.

I welcomed the brief flurry of rain. It would discourage pursuit.

The Great Rain, however, continued without ceasing for the next week and a half.

The people of my soggy, marsh-laden, seaside country dubbed the event The Great Rain, and they meant an epic deluge. The sort that washes a whole landscape down the swollen river, and dumps the lot of it into the sea.

Cold water pummeled through my thin tunic. I fought the thickening mud sucking the leather slippers from my feet. Lightning lit up a charcoal sky and the unrelenting wall of water fell as far as I could see.

Pushing through the heavy cloth covering our doorway, my trousers caked in mud, hair dripping on my shoulders like an abused mop, my mother gave me a brief rare smile. My brothers snatched the half-drowned chicken from me. They would have to kill it—for I lacked the nerve.

After a week, The Great Rain had flattened the crops and forced us to exhaust whatever food we had stored. The chicken lasted us no more than a day and the taste of meat faded to memory.

Mother tapped thoughtfully upon the empty pot with her wooden spoon. Lord Rheghed stores food. I know this. He stores more than he would need for an army three times the size he has.

Good for him. said William, the oldest of my brothers, crossing his bulging arms. We did too. Now we’re out. It’s time to butcher the cow.

"It’s time to trade the cow, William." Mother whacked the pot with her spoon again for emphasis.

Will shrugged his big shoulders without bothering to uncross his arms. Trade? To whom? For what?

To Rheghed.

No. No, Mother, there is a month’s worth of meat standing right in our barn. He pointed in the direction of our barn with both hands. Meat, mind you, not the piddle of milk we get out of her. Why trade our last meal to a man who already has more than he can eat?

Because he doesn’t have a cow.

Nonsense! Said Thomas, my middle brother. He has at least six.

He has nine, I said. I saw them going up to the north pasture. I didn’t need to add I gained this information scouting my recent chicken raid.

Yes, said Mother. You told me that, Jack. And he’d keep them there for several days, wouldn’t he, Thomas? And William, which side of the river is that on?

William did not answer, but it was the far side of the river from either the castle or the village. No man or beast would be crossing that part of the river for some time.

"So he will want a cow. Mother concluded. And we have one for trade."

No! William stomped his foot. "We are not trading a certain meal for your wishful bartering. As the man of the house, I forbid it!"

Mother glared javelins at him and reached for her dreaded broomstick.

I mean… William took a step back. I refuse to do it…myself. On principle.

Fine. Mother said. You’re a fool when you pout anyway. Thomas—

Oh no. I did the last chore in the rain. Which was coaxing a piddle of milk from the cow. It’s Jack’s turn.

Mother shook her head. He’s too small and too foolish. It has to be you or…

I can do it! I heard my small, foolish voice say. I can sell the cow. I’ll make you proud. I dashed out the door before any other argument could be made.

The cow didn’t want to go for a stroll through the rain, but for a moment, I believed I could force her. Our cow wasn’t large, but she didn’t have to be. My family joked about me being made of wood—sticks for legs, twigs for arms, a thin plank for a torso and a wooden knob for a head. All of that pushed against the unmoving cow until I collapsed in the mud. My answer appeared right there in the mud—a turnip someone had overlooked.

The cow, like all rational creatures, did not care much for turnips, but concealed in a bucket with some soggy sticks, the turnip rattled like a carrot, for which she would march through open warfare.

By the time she discovered the ruse, we had wound down the muddy track to the base of the rocky hill that comprised most of our farm. Now we only had to cross the footbridge over the creek, which raged like a river. I walked toward the bridge and called her, but she just stood there, chewing on her muddy turnip.

A voice shouted my name. For a mad second, I thought it came from the cow, but then I saw the old woman standing where seconds before there had only been rain.

Tell me, Jack, why do you drag such a fine milking cow through such dreadful rain? She sloshed into the middle of the track. Water poured off the edges of her black cloak.

I’m taking her to…Do I know you?

Silver hair lined the edges of her black cowl. Bright blue eyes bored into me from within a face wrinkled as crumpled parchment.

You’ll find, young man, that I know just about everything and everybody around this part of the country.

I scraped mud from my sleeve as if that would make a difference. Then you already know what I’m doing with this cow, and I can be on my way.

She blocked me with her walking staff. Well, Jack, if you’re taking her to the village, you should know this bridge is about to collapse.

At least I think she said collapse. The cracking of great timbers drowned out her last word. I spun, slipped in the mud, regained my feet and sprinted to the top of the bank to see the footbridge tumble into the raging creek.

I trudged back to my cow.

Remaining where she stood, the old woman smiled. You see? I know just about everything.

I squatted down in the mud. What did it matter? I wore more mud than clothes anyway.

With a step toward me, she stooped down a bit. There, there, Jack. It’s not as hopeless as it seems. Fate has a way of opening one door just as she slams another shut.

I looked up at her, mystified at what her logic might be.

Her smile showed all of her wide, yellow teeth. I’m going to buy your cow, Jack.

I pulled myself out of the mud. Are you serious?

She turned her nose up and away. "I did not venture out into this downpour to play jokes. What is your price?"

Ah, um—twenty pieces of silver. I said, attempting a show of more confidence than I felt.

HAH! Ridiculous. I could buy three cows for that.

Not today. And not on this side of the bridge. My mother gave me strict instructions. Twenty silver and not one coin less. The actual price my mother instructed was a combination of flour and chickens, the details of which I’d already forgotten. I improvised now.

You amaze me. Well, Jack, as it happens, I have no silver. But I can offer something better. She produced a bag from somewhere in her dress of rags. Magic!

What?

Look here, come closer. Look. See? She held the bag out and pulled the top open. I had to step close enough to smell her so I could see inside. The beans within glowed in the dim light. By planting these beans, you could grow enough food overnight to feed your family through the darkest winter. What do you say to that? A bolt of distant lightning sparkled in her eyes.

I sighed. I say that I am wet, and you are mad, and I am taking my cow back home.

I stepped past her, grabbed the cow’s leash and pulled. The cow didn’t move. I pulled harder, and it took a step the opposite way, and mooed at me.

I’m not just saving you, Jack. I’m saving this cow—and the cow senses it.

"So you say. But by my reasoning, I think that if I go back home with the cow, I’ll only be beaten half to death. On the other hand, if I return with a bag full of beans…"

Magic beans! She had to shout above a rumble of thunder.

"They’re still beans."

The old woman sighed. "Let me make this easier for you. You see, Jack, I merely want this cow. But you—though you do not know it yet—need these beans. These beans are your last hope."

What makes you say that? I snatched the bag from her hands to have another peek inside.

"Oh, do try and pay attention. I know everything. I know you are on the edge of starvation. I know that even if you could get to the village, every door is closed, even at the keep. And above all, I know as certain as this rain is wet that this is the absolute best offer you will ever get for this cow."

Within the small, leather pouch, the beans glowed as if each one had their own little rainbow. I closed the bag. I opened it to look again—a bag full of glowing, rainbow beans.

In the distance, lightning found some tall tree, rendering it to little more than splinters. The thunder followed by the crashing of timber might have knocked me from my feet, had they not been anchored in thick, cold mud. A gust of wind drove the rain sideways into my face. I pulled one foot from the mud, and yanked on the cow’s lead. The cow, sunk close to her knees in the muck, let out a long plaintive moo. Water poured from the brim of my leather cap like a personal waterfall.

The beans still glowed through the partially closed pouch.

The old woman stepped forward and now stared down at me. What will it be, Jack?

Looking up into those eyes, the raindrops stopped falling in my face. They fell everywhere else, but in that moment they moved themselves out of the way of my face.

Then I saw the truth. Her face was not wet at all. The rain pelted her cowl, but rolled around to her shoulders to avoid dripping on her face. Raindrops changed flight in the air to avoid hitting her face directly. They avoided mine as well, on account of how close our faces were.

Stepping back, a drop hit me square in the eye. More followed but still her silver eyebrows stuck out dry from her brow.

That strange, tiny fact made my reckless decision all the more natural.

The whole bag, right?

Yes, dear. She beamed. The whole bag.

My mother stared at me, for what felt like hours after I finished my story. My jaw tightened as I panted and dripped in the middle of our tiny hut. Behind me, William, stopped working on the fire to glare at me. Beside him, Thomas turned bright red heading toward purple—trying not to laugh.

I looked back at my mother and met her backhand, which sent me stumbling across the room and into the wall.

You stupid, snot-nosed, lazy, useless piece of dung! Her eyes wheeled around in rage, searching for her broomstick. I sent you to market with a good milking cow, and you came back with BEANS!

"B-but, they’re magic beans." She found her broom and swung it at my head.

I ducked away.

"You’ve ruined us! Don’t you understand that? We’re going to starve in this cursed flood and it’s ALL YOUR FAULT!" Another swing— another miss.

But the beans—they’ll grow…

She ceased her attack long enough to grab the bag of beans from the table. These are worthless! We’ll starve before they ever think of sprouting. She hurled the bag through the cloth serving as our door.

But the old woman said…

The old woman swindled you—you puss-brained dolt! She stole my last cow from my worthless imbecile of a son! She punctuated with another futile swing at my head.

My brothers, as always during these incidents, howled with laughter.

My mother, though, continued her rampage. Better to have brought that cow back so that one of your brothers could go trade it properly! She screamed, swinging her broomstick at where I stood a second before. Better to come home with a pig, or a goat, or a chicken or anything that we could actually eat! Another swing missed my face, ruffling my hair. Better to have not come home at all— one less snotty mouth whining for food that I don’t have to feed it! I dodged this last swing, rolling out the door into the rain. COME BACK you…Oh, curse it all!

NONE OF THIS IS FUNNY! I heard her scream, at my brothers. I picked my way across the mud-bog that used to be our garden toward the decrepit, grey barn—the farm’s only other intact structure.

A steady drizzle of cold water poured into the tiny hayloft where I crouched. No actual hay lay up there—the barn had been built for better times. What little hay we had lay on the ground, rotting from moisture and riddled with rats. They scurried and squealed below me. Lightning illuminated dozens of tiny red eyes glaring at the uninvited guest above them.

The moment the dimmest ray of grey light peeked into the barn, I took to my feet, shivering from the cold, and feeling quite empty, and not only in the stomach. I hopped down, away from the rats, and out the door. I only made three slogs across the mud before I froze in wonder.

In front of the house there stood a beanstalk the size of an oak tree. A dozen massive beanstalks intertwined around each other, forming a single stalk so thick I couldn’t get my arms around it. In the surrounding mud lay bean-pods the size of serving dishes, and within I found beans the size of potatoes. In the time it took me to gather an armful, I swear the beanstalk visibly grew.

When I had my fill of beans, and washed them down with rain water, I crept back into the house, and settled into the empty pantry to sleep the hour until my brothers woke up, and then the next couple of hours before anyone looked for me.

The mid-morning grey hung heavy by the time I stumbled outside to find my mother standing in the rain, gawking at the beanstalk. It had doubled in height since dawn, growing clear into the low, grey clouds. Your mouth might fill with rainwater if you tipped your head back to see the top of it.

Your brothers have been collecting beans since dawn, She said, her eyes still fixed upon the soaking sky. I suppose, though, that you finally dragged yourself to your feet to gloat.

That depends. I pulled a muddy bean from the barrel they had filled. On what sort of apology I get. I ripped open the pod with some effort. These beans turned out to be magical. I dimly recall mentioning that last night…

You still disobeyed me.

You told me to get the best deal I could. And now, in the midst of flood and famine, it’s raining food on our house. How much better could I have done for a stupid old milk cow? I wanted nothing more than to bask in the rare and beautiful moment when I had the advantage of truth over my mother.

But you…that is…you tell so many wild stories. She crossed her arms.

"I know. But just like those other tales that you refuse to believe—it was all true. The only difference is that this time I can prove it."

Listen boy. I don’t apologize very often. Don’t spoil it by pushing your luck.

Very well, then. I gave a mock bow of acknowledgement. Apology accepted.

My brothers appeared with angry glares for me and armfuls of beans for the barrel. My mother broke the odd silence by commanding them to find firewood. Tonight, we’ll have bean soup. When they had trudged off, she took me by the arm and spoke to me in her deadly whisper. Listen to me, boy. I’m an old woman with nothing to show for my years of toil but three boys who are living and that’s about all. I’m about to tell you one of the few secrets I’ve learned about life, and if you make one snotty little comment before I’m finished, I will strangle you where you stand.

My face twisted into seriousness. I’m listening…

"Good. Now, peasants such as ourselves survive only by hard work, sharp wits or sheer luck. With all three in abundance, you might even prosper. Your brothers, bless them, work hard enough that they will always survive. And you, my lazy little slog, are sharp enough so that you will likely survive. Your brothers can only go as far as their wits will take them, and they will never be any brighter than they are right now. But you— you can still learn to work hard, for only your laziness limits your horizons. And you have good luck too, boy. Stunningly good luck— or else you would have come home with ordinary beans, and we’d all be at death’s door."

That’s touching, Mother— sort of. But why are you telling me all of this now?

Because this… She slapped the beanstalk, Whatever it is, will certainly change our lives forever. Whether that will be good or bad, I cannot say, but we will never go back to what we were yesterday. And with things as bad as they are now, I have to think that it’s going to get better. Anyway, I thought you should know where we stood before that happens. Now, I want you to climb up this thing as high as you can, and knock down all the bean pods you can reach. And when you’re done, I’ll fix the first real meal we’ve had in weeks. Off you go.

I’m not sure why I kept climbing other than that I enjoyed it, and I didn’t really want to go back down. This beanstalk was easier to climb than most trees, and I made swift progress, despite the rain.

I had to know how high it really went—if it really went above the clouds like it appeared from the ground. My house looked like a little box, my livid mother an ant, the countryside a soggy, lumpy, green quilt of fields. I kept climbing.

The handful of tiny buildings making up my village, half-submerged by the swollen river, shimmered below me. Above it on a hill, sat the old Roman fortress which had housed a parade of petty tyrants since the empire proper had abandoned it. Beyond it, the sea shimmered, as grey as the clouds above. Looking the other way, the forested hills crawled with witches, ogres, and faeries, if the stories the villagers told had any truth to them, which I doubted. When climbing a giant beanstalk though, one is tempted to believe them all.

The clouds hung like a low, fuzzy ceiling. I kept on until I climbed through wet mist thickening into dense fog. I could hardly see the stalk I climbed. The vapor soaked me, making it hard to breathe, much less see. I might as well have jumped in a river.

I picked my way upward by feel, until, to my surprise, my head broke through the top. I stared across the clouds at a whole new world. For a long moment I gaped at the sunlit cloudscape as if I had never been outside in my life. The sun seemed no closer, even this high, but I hadn’t seen it in days, and it took a while for my eyes to adjust. Gradually, I made out rolling hills of clouds covered with thick, fluffy, deep green moss, and enormous mushrooms of every color and shape. I threw my hat onto the cloud. When it did not sink, I followed it.

My feet landed with a dull splash, as if stepping into a shallow mud puddle. The top of the cloud rippled out from my feet, and I sank as if into wet sand, but it held my weight. I took three trial steps, then let go of the beanstalk and danced around it in pure, childish joy.

If nothing else, it wasn’t raining. In the distance, I noticed a silvery castle. Lacking any better direction, I headed out for it.

The Castle in the Clouds

Distance can be deceptive in the clouds. What I assumed to be a small tower rather nearby turned out to be a giant tower some distance away. The damp moss gave way a little with every step. So while it wasn’t really like walk -ing on sand, it was every bit as difficult.

Glittering insects buzzed around my head like tiny jewels with wings, and quick, silver worm-like creatures darted away from my feet. A warm, moist wind whirled about, occasionally prodding a hill to move aside, which in turn would reveal yet another wonder. After an hour, my eyes squinted and I frowned. All the wonder surrounding me simply got in my way. The naked sun marched across the pale sky, now turning the cloudscape yellow, then orange, and then red—as if the clouds themselves were on fire. The castle, still several hills beyond, dominated the horizon before me.

From this distance, I saw much of the castle lay in ruins. Only a single, massive tower remained intact. Dim yellow light came from the windows, high above the surface, and a wide ramp led to its only door.

A rather vocal portion of my mind insisted I should flee back to the ground. My legs countered with quivering exhaustion, and my stomach growled. With darkness falling as I watched, there was no telling if I could find the beanstalk again.

Besides, I had to know.

The full moon crept over the cloud hills—a great silver disk. It showed the door to be over three man-heights tall and wide, made of massive timbers bound together with iron. Black iron rings, big enough to crawl through, hung from the middle of the door, but they were far too high for me to reach.

Nothing for it—I knocked.

I hammered with my fists, but such pathetic efforts couldn’t be heard through the timber. After some searching, I found a loose brick of cool, silvery rock and pounded the door with that.

Just before my arms gave out, I heard a voice on the other side. Then the door creaked open.

The woman who answered stood as tall as two men, as wide as three, and older than all of them put together. She cast about for a moment, looking over my head, until I cleared my throat. She looked down on me with kind, grey eyes, a thin beard, and her smile revealing fangs.

Pardon me, kind lady. I slapped my hands together like a beggar. For I am a poor, lost, hungry orphan boy who…

My stars! She said, in a piercing, almost shrieking voice, Aren’t you just the most scrumptious little thing! She plucked me up with one hand and carried me into the tower.

I wanted to reply, but she buried my face in her enormous, pink smock. Of course we won’t let you starve, dearie. Come inside with me.

Although the tower had only a single room, it was the size of our farm. There must’ve been a ceiling, but I could not see it. Yet from that unseen height, great chandeliers hung and lit the tower with a steady, yellow glow. Dozens of marble columns, wide as great trees, rose from the dark, slate floor into the darkness beyond the chandeliers. Across all of this immense stonework countless tiny cracks spread like an even coat of spider webs.

The furniture hulked even greater than this monstrous woman might