Jack the Simpleton
A long time ago, there lived a youth named Jack who lived alone with his mother.
They were very poor; indeed they were the poorest in their village, for although Jack was big and strong and worked hard, he was too simple to keep his money. He would be underpaid; he would lose his wages; some trickster would beg for a loan, knowing that Jack would forget about it the next day.
The day finally came when they were entirely out of money, and Jack’s mother told him,
“Jack, we must sell the only thing we have left, our cow. Today you must take her to the market. Be sure that you get a good price for her. Come straight home, and don’t tarry with anyone on the road, or give anyone your money, for this is all we have to buy food with.”
Jack set out with the cow, and had an uneventful trip to the market. He was fortunate to find an honest butcher, who offered him a fair price for the cow. Following his mother’s instructions, he started straight back home. On his way through the woods, however, he turned a sharp corner in the path and found himself surrounded by a group of men who in loud voices bade him halt.
Jack was suprised, for it was well known that the woods were home to a great many bandits. It seemed strange to him that anyone would be in the woods by choice. He was equally surprised that they would express an interest in talking to him. No-one ever showed an interest in talking to him.
So he smiled at them and greeted them warmly.
The men were taken aback. They had expected him to run or to beg for his life… but he seemed completely unafraid.
The leader of the men looked Jack up and down and decided to have some fun with him. With an excess of courtesy, he asked Jack to give him all his money.
Jack looked down. He was embarrassed, and said that although he should like very much to lend them some money, he could not, because his mother had told him he should bring all of it straight home.
There was some sniggering and trading of glances among the men. Jack thought he heard someone at the back mention his mother.
Now I suspect things were about to go very ill for Jack, but, at that very moment, around the corner strode a merchant.
The merchant saw the men and immediately realized what was happening. In a heartbeat he drew his sword and, taking them quite by surprise, charged among them.
Jack’s new friends turned to flee, for they were cowards, and relished no part of a fight with a determined assailant. But when Jack saw this violent attacker rushing upon him and his friends, he knew instantly that they were being attacked by a bandit.
“Leave the ruffian to me!” he bellowed. Springing upon the merchant, Jack dealt him a single tremendous blow that left him senseless on the ground.
The men were impressed.
“Well!” exclaimed the leader. “What a fine fellow! As big and strong as an ox, and it seems that you’re not afraid of anything! We could certainly use someone of your mettle.”
He clapped a friendly hand on Jack’s shoulder, and continued in a kindly voice, “My friends and I guard this forest against evil men… such wicked, despicable men as you might never believe existed. They put on the clothes of proper citizens to hide their villany, but their hearts are black and corrupt. We seek them out where we can, and detain them. We strip them of all their belongings, so as to render them powerless to harm upright people.”
Jack listened, fascinated. It seemed to him that there could be no greater purpose or brotherhood that what was held in this small band. He was drawn by the leader’s kind and generous words.
“If you would consent to join us, I’m sure we could find a place in our band for someone of your strength and courage.”
That was how Jack became a bandit.
Jack the Bandit
Hired muscle is welcome in almost any bandit gang, and this one proved no exception. Jack found he had a previously undiscovered talent for thuggery; it didn’t take much thinking, it won him respect, and it provided an outlet for all the frustration he’d felt in the other parts of his life.
It’s possible that Jack might have spent the rest of his life as a bandit thug, winding up as a drunk, and eventually as a dead drunk, in a ditch behind a tavern somewhere. It’s possible, and in fact quite likely, except that one day… Jack found a sword.
He didn’t *mean* to find a sword. He only meant to unload all the bundles from the travellers’ baggage cart. He certainly didn’t expect one of the bundles to speak to him.
“Pick me up.” said the bundle.
“What?” said Jack. He looked down at the baggage.
“Are you stupid or something?” snapped the bundle. “Pick me up. You’re going to need me in just a little bit.”
Very slowly, Jack picked up the bundle. It was long and thin; someone had wrapped a blanket around something, and tied it up with a little piece of twine.
“Very good.” said the bundle said in condescending tones. “Now unwrap me, and be quick about it. I can’t help you if I’m all bundled up like this.”
He reached for the twine. It seemed to come apart of its own accord; the blanket slid away to reveal a sword.
“Was it you talking to me?” asked Jack. Swords didn’t usually talk to him, but then again, neither did bundles.
“Thunk.”
Jack was confused. What kind of an answer was “Thunk”? However, he didn’t have time to think about it; he was distracted by the arrow that had buried itself in the wagon beside him.
“Maybe you should put your head down.” said the sword. Jack put his head down.
Perhaps the greatest problem that any bandit faces is this: The more you want to steal something, the more someone else wants to keep it. A magic sword certainly qualifies as something worth taking, and the guards, springing from ambush, certainly thought it worth keeping.
But the guards had a problem: Jack was holding the sword. And although Jack was a moron quite out of his depth, the sword was a magic weapon and was perfectly at home in the situation.
For Jack, the next few moments were a blur. In fairness, the next few moments were a blur for the guards, too. And for the bandits.
At the feast that night, all the talk was of how he had dehorsed the captain of the guard, charged and scattered the bowmen, and turned catastrophe to triumph. The adulation caught him unawares, but he was greatly pleased at all the attention he was receiving.
The bandit leader had not made it back, but the bandits hardly cared. They had a new leader – a better one – one who they were sure would carry them to heights which, in their giddy greed, they could scarcely dream of. They all went to bed that night with visions of glory coursing through their drunken thoughts.
That was how Jack became the Bandit Leader.
Indeed, Jack himself could not dream of the heights to which he would attain. He didn’t have to. He had a sword, and it did all the dreaming (and the executing) for him. As the months and years passed, its visions came to be.
With every caravan captured, every village plundered and every township terrorized, yet another stone was laid in the foundation of his legacy.
Jack’s name came to be on the tongue of every thief and robber; he was despised by every magistrate and hated by every honest man. All feared him. Bad men of every kind flocked to him, drawn by visions of power and wealth, until he was no longer a bandit leader or even a bandit chief, but a Bandit King. His underlings had underlings who had underlings who had servants who had thugs who had thumb-breakers who had stone-throwing little boys who aspired some day to be underlings.
His gangs controlled villages and held entire towns in terror. A river of stolen gold flowed through the country and drained into the sea of his treasury. No army could capture him; no ambitious lieutenant could unseat him. Through all of it, the sword was at his side.
And the man himself?
None of the bandits dared speak of it, but each and every one of them saw it – Jack was changing. He was growing taller; his shoulders broader. He’d always been unusually big and strong – a hulking lad, but this… this growth was beyond that of any other man. Every day he wielded the sword, he grew in strength and power. Men saw his massive frame, and shuddered.
There was a gnawing inside of him. When he walked among his men, his presence brought no friendship, only fear. Once he’d been a close part of a small band. Now, leading a hundred times as many, he was alone.
In his dreams, he was haunted. He knew, but could never say aloud, what he had become. It tortured him. It never stopped.
One night, things came to a head.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked the sword one night. “You almost let that that one get past me.”
Jack looked down at the man he had just killed.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He stooped and wiped the sword clean on the corpse’s jerkin. It was made of the finest quality leather – soft and absorbent. He shook his head. The more ambitious the lieutenant, the better they dressed. By now he could spot challengers just by their foolish fashion sense.
“I know what a death wish looks like.” said the sword. “I’ve granted more than my share of them. You came close tonight.”
“I don’t want to die,” said Jack, “but there’s nothing worth living for.”
“I’m not sure of that.” said the sword. “I think I know what you need.”
“Look around you.” said Jack. “I have everything on earth. If there’s something I want… I just take it. There is nothing, Nothing! that I want that I don’t have. How could you possibly name something I lack?”
“What I’m thinking of doesn’t exist on Earth.” said the sword. “There is a castle,” it continued, “that floats in the sky. Within it lies the most marvellous treasure ever known.”
“Treasure, I have.” said Jack.
“No, no treasure like this.” replied the sword. “There is gold, to be sure, but more than that, there is a goose that lays eggs of gold. More than the goose, there is a harp. The harp speaks truth, and plays music more beautiful than any human ear has ever heard.”
“Well,” said Jack, “what can I lose?” With the toe of his boot, he prodded the body of his one-time friend.
“Another day, another duel.”
“It won’t be simple.” said the sword. “A giant lives in the castle. You will have to bring many men to defeat him.”
“Men, I have.” said Jack, “This castle…. you said it is in the sky?”
“It is,” said the sword, “but there is a way to reach it. You will need a ship to carry you and your men there. As you may guess, it cannot be an ordinary ship. However, there is one man who can build it for you. He is the greatest builder in the world, and can build a ship of any material you choose to name. If you ask him to build a ship of clouds, it will bear you to the castle.”
When Jack sought out the the master shipbuilder and told him of his wish, the shipwright just shook his head. “You don’t want such a ship.” said the builder. “Nothing good ever came of a ship like that.”
“Can you make it?” asked Jack.
“I’ll tell you what,” said the builder, “Let me build you a ship of diamond. It will be without compare; no noble’s mansion or King’s palace will ever boast such splendour as this ship.”
But Jack would not listen to him; he said that he wanted a ship of clouds and no other.
“Let me build you a ship of iron,” suggested the builder. “It will be impregnable; no ball or shot will breach its hull. In such a ship you could conquer all the seas.”
But Jack still would not listen and demanded once more the ship of clouds.
“Let me build you a ship of fish-scales,” offered the builder. “It will cut the water as though it were air; this ship will be faster than any known to man; it will sail the world seven times in the time another vessel sails a league.”
Still Jack stood firm, and when the builder saw that Jack would not be swayed, he hung his head sadly.
“Very well,” he said. “I will build the ship. But it will cost you everything you have. Come back in three months, and it shall be ready for you.”
While the builder worked on the ship, Jack made his preparations. He gathered all his gold and mustered all his men. He stock-piled weapons and supplies.
When three months had passed, Jack came to the dock with all his men, his wealth and his weapons. The ship was there, and so was the builder.
“You said it would cost me everything I have.” said Jack. “Here it is.”
He waved his hand to his assembled men. They hauled forth wagon after wagon; each one was filled with coin, bullion and precious stones.
The builder seemed unmoved by the mound of treasure.
“Take the ship.” he said. “But I think the price you’ve paid me is not the price that matters.”
Jack did not know what to say to that, so he quickly shouted to his men to load up the ship.
That was how Jack, the Bandit King, traveled to the Giant’s country.
Jack in the Giant’s Country
“Cast off all moorings!” cried Jack. Every bandit’s stomach was knotted tight: tight with excitement; tight with nerves; tight with anticipation of what lay beyond. When the ropes were cast off, they felt their stomachs flip! as the ship suddenly left the earth and began to soar into the sky. There was no rumble or grinding or crashing of waves – only the sudden leap of their hearts into their throats and the giddy rush of vertigo.
The ship seemed to steer itself; it rose up, and up, and up, until at last the lookout cried “Land!”, and the men saw the great cloud-country in the distance. The ship headed straight towards it, coming gently to rest at its edge.
Disembarking from the ship, Jack and his men set across the Giant’s country, searching for the Giant’s castle. They crossed many hills and vales along the way, but saw no living thing. Cloud-land though it was, it had an eerie calm. Nothing stirred – there was not even a breath of wind to rustle the leaves.
They marched in silence until at last they reached their destination.
The Giant’s castle stood apart from the rest of the land. It was built upon a large cloud and its moat was the empty sky. Its walls were massive. Only a single drawbridge connected it to the mainland, yet… the drawbridge was down and the castle gate was open.
All through his journey, Jack had been plagued with doubt as to how he would assail the Giant, but seeing his opportunity, he raised his sword high above his head and signaled the charge.
Brandishing their weapons and giving out blood-curdling cries, the bandits flooded across the drawbridge and into the castle. They had dined on promises of glory all through their long journey and now! Now they were ready for blood and plunder.
Through the gates they rushed, under the entryway and into the castle courtyard. Once inside, however, they halted in confusion. Where was the enemy to kill? The courtyard was bare. No livestock, no people. Not even wagons to burn or stores to pillage. The castle was deserted.
The only noise they heard was the fall of their own boots on the cobblestones; the only voices were their own.
The place was a graveyard, and they all fell silent.
And then, standing in the stillness of the barren courtyard, they heard a creak, and then a clatter, and then a Clang! The great cullis gate to the castle entrance crashed down behind them. They heard the grinding of mighty gears, and turned to see the drawbridge slowly raising. They were trapped.
Then came the laughter. It echoed from all around, magnified through empty chambers, resounding through the courtyard. A mocking laugh; full of hatred, anger and distain.
Terror seized the bandits. They dropped their weapons and ran. To a man they scattered, and each could think of nothing except that he must get away. It did not matter where – he must be anywhere but there. The laughter in each man’s ears told him to run; it told him he must flee; it told him that his death was at hand.
Jack ran, too. He had never been afraid in his life, but fear gripped him now, and so he put his head down and ran, not knowing or caring where. A door! He darted in. Barrels! He ducked behind them, and huddled down, hardly daring to breathe.
Jack did not know how long he hid there. At intervals he would hear a scream or a cry ring out… and quickly cease. His men, hiding as he was, were being hunted down and killed, one by one.
When would it be his turn?
It was then that Jack remembered his sword. To his surprise he had not dropped it in the courtyard; he had carried it with him, but all this time it had not spoken a word.
“Tell me! What do I do?” Jack whimpered.
“Do?” scoffed the sword. “You don’t do anything. It’s over. All your men are dead and soon you’ll be dead.”
“No… ” pleaded Jack, “No! Can’t you see any escape, any way out?”
“I’ll tell you what I see. I see bones and ashes.” said the sword, “I see the bones of your countrymen scattered among the ashes of their homes.”
When the sword said this, Jack realized that he had brought the cloud-ship to the Giant’s kingdom, and that once he had killed Jack and his men, the Giant would sail down and pillage the earth until it until it was completely bare.
“Can’t you defeat him?” cried Jack. “You have to help me.”
“No.” said the sword. “I will not rise up against him, for he is my master, and I will never do him harm. It was he who sent me down to earth, that I might bring him back the flesh of men. He will feast on you and your brothers to his heart’s content.”
Jack understood at last that the sword had tricked and betrayed him. He could not bear it; in despair, he seized the blade at either end and brought the flat of it crashing down across his knee. Once! Twice! Three times he struck! At the third blow the blade snapped; the sword gave forth a piercing cry, a horrible, screeching wail… and spoke no more.
Jack sat alone in the silence. The screams outside had stopped, and for some time he heard nothing. And then… footsteps. The heavy thudding of the giant’s feet, coming towards his door. He heard the door creak as it swung open.
Wild with anguish, he sprang up and rushed upon the giant to grapple with him.
The Giant never fought men; he only ever killed them. They cowered from him, they hid. They snivelled. He only ever needed reach out and crush them in his hands,. Yet now he was forced to fight, and though he put forth all his strength, he could not gain an advantage over Jack. They were near equals in size and strength, but of the two of them, only Jack fought as a man with nothing to lose.
All throughout the castle they wrestled, each trying all the holds and throws they knew, fighting each other, fighting exhaustion.
Seeing he could not defeat Jack, the Giant at last cried out, “If you will depart from here, I will give you all my treasure!”
At this, Jack knew that he had the upper hand, and it gave him new strength. Seizing the Giant by the waist, he put forth a mighty heave, casting the Giant over the parapet of the castle, down through the empty moat and to his death below.
Then, faint with exhaustion, he collapsed and fell asleep.
.
.
When Jack awoke, everything around him was deathly still. He felt more dead than alive – every muscle in his body was bruised and sore. Moreover, he was famished.
Jack stumbled through the castle, looking for something to eat. Eventually he found the kitchen, and although the very act of swallowing was agony to his bruised body, he managed to force down a few mouthfuls of food before collapsing again to sleep.
This went on for some time – waking, eating a little, and sleeping, never staying long in the waking nightmare of the Giant’s deserted castle. During this period Jack knew neither day or night. When he slept, his sleep was feverish and tormented.
In time his strength returned, and he was able to explore the castle. He found and buried the bodies of his men. None had survived. He also found the giant’s treasure – the gold, the goose and the harp. They were treasures greater than the sword had described.
His quest was over. And yet… he felt that his goal had not been attained.
“Now what shall I do?” thought Jack. What could he do? Go back to the life from which he had fled? He could not. He was now fabulously wealthy, it was true. Yet his legacy there was one of hatred and abomination, void of companionship. All his hopes of an earthly life had died with his men.
In addition, he had thought that with the destruction of the magic sword, he might perhaps lose his unnatural size and return to his previous form, but this was not the case. If anything, he was still growing. There was no chance of living on earth unrecognized. There was nothing there for him.
And so, with no other choice presenting itself, he stayed where he was. He ate the giant’s food and slept in the giant’s bed. To spend the empty hours, he counted the gold and fed the goose and listened to the harp.
One day while fetching water from the castle well, Jack caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bucket. His hair was wild; his beard was wild. His face was harsh and violent.
Jack put down the bucket. He held his huge head in huge hands and began to cry – sobbing huge, gasping sobs.
He had become the Giant.
Jack the Giant
Since the time he had left the earth, Jack had not thought about what the master shipbuilder had said. But now the words would not leave him.
“It will cost you everything you have.”
They were bitter now; mocking words.
Jack sat in his castle. He counted his gold, and played his harp, and told his goose to lay eggs. The gold glittered and the music was beautiful and the eggs piled up to the ceiling.
And he wallowed in misery. It coursed through him; it poured out of him as he beat his fists against the walls, as he raged through the castle, as he screamed out his anguish and his sorrow. His cries echoed back to him and were torment in his own ears. They rang out across his vast empty, dead land, where they also died, for there was no one else there to hear them.
In his madness he sought out the store-room where he had once cowered. He brought out the pieces of the Giant’s sword and laid them on the table of his great hall.
Every night he looked upon the shattered sword. Each night he swore that whatever the cost, he would remake it. But then the harp would play for him, and he would become calm again. Each night he left the broken shards upon the table, unforged.
One night it was too much for him. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he left. He loaded the gold, and the goose, and the harp, and sailed away in the cloud-ship.
There was no moon that night; no one below could see the lonely cloud, so like a ship, that pitched and rolled across the inky depths of the night sky.
Jack didn’t know where he was going. There was no place on earth where he could put down. And yet he sailed low, scraping the tips of trees, desperate for any contact with anything real, anything warm, anything human.
It was not for him, he knew. It could never be his. And yet he so desperately wanted – needed – to get close to it.
He stopped when he heard the wailing.
It sounded inhuman – so torn and raw. It knew no restraint, no solace – it was pure, unbounded anguish.
At first Jack thought it was his own, unbidden, voice – he’d sung that song himself so often – and so he clamped his jaw tight shut. But no! It was a woman’s voice, and, peering through the darkness, he could just make out the shape of the cottage from which it came.
Jack wasn’t thinking anymore. He wasn’t worrying about being discovered. His hand, unguided, seized the tiller and brought the ship to the cottage, nestling it gently upon the thatching of the roof.
And then… Jack reached for the harp and began to play. The music was heavenly; the sweet and tender notes hung in the air, swelling and fading, lingering and harmonizing with every chord of sorrow in the wail.
In the darkness, the woman wailed, and Jack, unseen, also wailed, and played a song of sorrow on the harp. But as he played, the music changed. It grew a softer melody, and then… the wailing also changed. It became human, it turned to weeping.
It grew into a voice, a crying out, “My son, My son, My son.”
All through the night he sat, and played, and played, and played. As dawn began to break, he put his hand once more upon the tiller. Silently, invisibly, the cloud-ship rose up into the sky, and bore him back to the castle.
At last Jack had found something that was real.
From that night on, Jack spent as little time in the castle as possible. He slept there, during the day. At night, he went sailing.
Whenever he saw a house that was poorer than the rest, Jack would bid his goose to lay. He would sneak down with the golden eggs and some gold, leaving it behind before ghosting back into the safety of the sky.
Whenever he heard mourning, or distress, or turmoil, he would dock his ship and play his harp.
Some nights he rested above taverns, drawing out the sting of anger and drunken stupor, making sure that all returned home safe to their families.
Some nights, as with the first night, there would be a death. He would play solace.
Each night, his song changed to match the story below.
Each night, he played the things he wished for.
It gave him a measure of joy, of relief, to give comfort to others.
But a Giant he remained.
In all this, there was something building inside Jack, and though he felt it, he did not know what it was; he could not put words to it. It was deep within him, pushing, burning, calling to him as he sailed across the night skies. Ever close to people, he was ever a world away.
And then one night, it came to him. He knew what it was. He must go back. He knew it, and though he told himself a thousand times that it could never be, that he could not, the knowledge that he must was unyielding.
Worse still, he knew that he could not go back only to hide from people in some secluded cave. He had to face them. He had to stand before them as he was – as the Bandit King, as the Giant. The thought horrified him, terrified him. He swore he would never do it; he swore that he would die before he let anyone see his hideous form. But it was all a farce, a bluster to sooth his ragged nerves. He knew what he was going to do, because he knew what he must do. There was no other way.
He set down in a lonely field during the dead of night. He had the harp slung over his shoulder and the goose under his arm as he disembarked from the cloud-ship.
“I don’t think I’ll need you any more, my friend.” he said, turning back to look at his ship. He wasn’t sure how he was going to destroy it – he had brought matches, although now he was loath to light one. But it was as if the ship had heard his words, for, lo! It was breaking up into pieces on its own, disappearing before his eyes. He stood and watched as the ship slowly dissolved into mist, wafting softly away on the night breeze.
Jack turned around again and began to walk. He was taking his final journey.
It was noon when he reached the capital, but the guard at the gate was already drunk, otherwise he might never have gained entry. The guard took the cries outside the gate for a hubbub over a spilled cart or the like; by the time the Giant strode past him, it was too late for him to bar the doors or even draw his sword.
The streets emptied before him as Jack went through the city. Before long the tide of panic had swept far ahead of him; the streets he walked were completely empty. But he could see tiny cracks in window shutters, slivers of light in door-frames; he knew he was being watched. Far behind him he could hear the clatter of hooves: guards, following him at a distance.
He made his way to the city square. It was empty. He stopped by a fountain. The goose was grateful for a chance to have a drink and bathe its feet. He reached into his pocket and threw it some crumbs. His initial terror at being on the earth had faded to a numbness. People had reacted exactly as he had thought. He was every bit the monster he imagined himself to be.
“Well,” said Jack, “there’s nothing for it now, is there? I wonder when they’ll kill me. I don’t imagine it will be too long, now.”
He sat down to wait.
What Jack hadn’t counted on was bureaucracy. To a man, the guards were terrified. They were willing to take every excuse not to confront him. The official channels channeled and notifications were sent, authorizations authorized and orders ordered. Around three o’clock, Jack heard a rumble in the distance. He squinted far down one of the alleys leading into the square – was that a catapult?
No, it was a ballista, but he was sure the bowmen that were busy trying to stay hidden on the roofs around the square were happy for the backup, nonetheless.
It was around six o’clock when the delegation approached. It had a trumpeter and a lot of soldiers, but none of them came very close. He was surrounded, they said. He should give up.
“Very well,” said Jack. “Take me to the magistrate.”
The Judge demanded to know why he had come to the city. Jack told him. Everything. He told the whole story, slowly and carefully. When he had finished, the judge didn’t say anything except, “Lock him up.”
They put him, and his goose, and his harp in a cell that was far too small. It was cold and it was damp. He took one look at the cot and knew that it would never take his weight, so he laid himself down on the stone floor. Even there he could not stretch out to full length. He listened to the whispers and the scurrying of the rats around him. He smiled. Rats! His old castle never had rats. He breathed deeply and took in the rich, deep scent of sewage. Real sewage.
He didn’t know what would happen to him now, but it didn’t matter anymore.
He was back.
That night, he slept better than he ever had in his life.
Jack woke to hear the jailor shouting something incomprehensible. He was awake, but he felt… confused. Slow. It was as if someone had wrapped great swathes of gauze around his brain. Guards were rushing into his cell, shouting at him, yelling out demanding questions.
“Who are you?” they yelled.
“Hello.” he said. “I’m Jack. Don’t you remember me?”
“Where’s the giant?”
Jack looked down at his hands. They were big, but they were strapping-lad big, not monstrous.
“I think he’s gone.” he said. “At least… I hope he is.”
When the Judge was told the Giant wasn’t there, and they only had a peasant boy, he didn’t know what to do, and said as much. Jack had tried to tell his story again, but he’d had a great many problems in doing so. For some reason, the pieces wouldn’t quite fit together. He was confused, uncertain, although he did his best to impress upon the Judge that he *was* the giant, or that… he had been. No, wait… He was the bandit, wasn’t he? Or was the bandit the giant?
The Judge was sure of only one thing. The boy in front of him was quite stupid.
“I’ve judged for many, many years.” said the Judge. “I’ve set some men free and I’ve sent others to their deaths. I daresay I wasn’t always right in my decisions, but I never shied from making them and I can live with that.”
“But I can’t judge this boy for the crimes of a giant and of a bandit king.”
The Judge looked at the Captain of the Guard.
“Could you execute this boy, knowing there was a Giant in the cell last night?” he asked.
The Captain of the Guard had a lean, hard face, but it was looking straight at his boots, avoiding the Judge’s gaze.
“We can’t let the crimes of a notorious brigand go unpunished,” said the Judge, “but ultimately it is the people who have been wronged, and I think they need to see this.”
They brought Jack into the city square – Jack, and the harp, and the goose. They took him to where a large platform had been erected. Jack was taken up on it, where he was told to stand just to one side of the judge’s chair.
There were many people gathered there. People from the city, people from the countryside. They had gathered at the news that the King of the Bandits (a giant, they had heard) had been taken. They had come to see justice, for there was not one among them who had not been wronged by his villainy.
An angry buzz went through them at the sight of Jack. They wanted a giant; many of them had seen one yesterday.
The judge called for silence; eventually, he got it. The crowd pressed close around the stand. They were kept back by the guards, who held a firm perimeter. The judge told the story that Jack had told him; he recounted the events of the night before and of that morning. Then he looked at Jack.
“Is there anything you want to say, lad?” he asked.
The large crowd frightened Jack. It was full of strange faces – angry faces – mean faces. They were staring right at him, and he started to panic. He looked around desperately for something that wasn’t hostile – and he saw the harp.
Jack grabbed it; he put his head down and closed his eyes and began to play. He wanted to run away; he wanted to hide, so he tried to hide in the music. He played and played. Music poured out of the harp – all the songs that Jack had played before. He played the story of his misery in the Giant’s castle. He played the songs of all his travels, and when he had played them all, he stopped.
He was calm now. He put the harp down, raised his head, opened his eyes. Every face was turned towards him, transfixed. They weren’t making any noise. No rustling, no whispering, no murmuring. Jack didn’t say anything. He just stood and looked at them.
“Does anyone have a grievance they wish to bring forward?” asked the magistrate.
A low murmur traveled through the crowd. There was a rustle, and a shift, and eventually a parting as a woman emerged from out of it.
“I heard that song the night my Jimmy died.” she said. She lifted her eyes up to meet Jack’s. “My little boy.” And then she walked out of the square.
A man came forward – a burly, swarthy man. “I was just about to put my blade right through Bob Swindall’s teeth – Hey, Bob? when that tune stayed my hand.” He gave a nod to Jack and left.
More came forward – one by one they left a story and went home. When the square was finally empty, night was already falling. The judge looked at the guards. They were leaning wearily on their spears. He looked at Jack.
“I guess you’d better go.” he said. “Do you need a place to stay tonight?”
Jack shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
The guards left Jack outside the city gates and wished him well, before returning inside the city. For a while Jack just stood there, breathing the night air, alone on the road with his goose and his harp.
The goose reached up expectantly and nibbled the tips of Jack’s fingers.
“Let’s go home.” said Jack.