(Short Story - extract)

 

 

Jack was an odd boy and like an odd

boy, he also belonged to an odd family,

odd sister and oddling parents. The

villagers tolerated him because

one thing Jack was good at was

killing things. At first, he'd

killed the giant that terrorised the

village. He’d also felled the

great beanstalk, despite the

environmental impacts, killed the

golden goose when she’d stopped

laying, insisting she was ‘good eating.’

And poisoned the giant’s dog, pet

parrot and even chased what

remained of his normal sized herd of

sheep, across the fields. Fortunately for

the sheep, they ran further than Jack could be bothered to chase. They called him 'Red,' after that, saying he had a lust for blood and a dark heart. And to that he thought, What ungrateful buggers.

          As the years passed and Jack outlived most of his family, only his sister remained. She’d never married and lived alone in the deepwood and as Jack saw her as no more than a nuisance, he left her alone. And so the years trundled along, he added wolves to his kill list, hundreds of chickens, cows, pigs, but nothing fierce. He outlived three wives, lost two babies to illness. And still he sat and waited for something to relieve his blood lust. Something to hunt, to fight and to kill. The years rolled, and peace settled in the valley and still the ache of emptiness rumbled in his belly. He cut wood and sold it to the villagers, and that eased him a little. He could never admit to his growing despair, but as he cursed, waking to another day, his heart leapt at the sound of a scream outside. He jumped and rubbed his lower back, not as he was, aches and pains a daily annoyance. He was sixty-eight or at least he believed he was, without his sister’s opinion, it was a mere guess.

          ‘Who's there? This is private property.‘ He yelled. But he couldn’t hide the glee from his voice. He lifted the latch and stepped out into the frosty air. Peering into the farm yard there was no one. No animals or creaturely life. He couldn’t keep them anymore. Their eyes accused him of things. No movement, not even the stirring of wind. Yet the scream had been real enough. Maybe it was the woodshed, decaying as it was, at night what remained of the tin roof creaked, metal against wood.

          He lived on the edge of the village, away from other folk, content with that, even though he’d had the chance over the years to leave the family farm. Besides, how could he move when he had all that gold buried beneath the old chicken coup? There was frost along the fence line surrounding the coup and the small outhouse nearby, glistening, and for a moment it appeared to twinkle, then pulse. He blinked. It pulsed again and this time he thought he might be losing his mind.

          ‘Giant Killer?’

         He turned, peering through the open door of the house and seeing a figure in front of the fire. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing? Get out of my…How did you get in?’

          ‘Come here, Jack.'

         And Jack did, feeling compelled and when he entered, he noted although the man was the right shape, he was in every other way, inhuman. The skin on his face part wood, part leaves and bracken, all entirely green. Piercing green eyes that blazed like emeralds. His clothes, his hands, his walking stick, all the same shade.

          ‘You’re not real.’

         ‘You kill a giant, keep a goose that lays golden eggs and I’m not real?’

        And when Jack’s mouth moved but nothing came out, the man took the only stool by the fire and sighed as he lowered himself, adjusting his long cloak. He turned his attention to the flames.

          ‘You are going to do something for me, Jack. You are going to kill for me.’