Here are two things you need to know about Jack’s sleeping habits:
He’s a drooler. An epic drooler. You could wring out his pillowcase in the morning and fill several buckets with spit. Why you would want buckets of spit, I don’t know, but I’m not here to judge your hobbies. At least you don’t light things on fire.
He’s a wriggler. Some people sleep as still as stone and as silent as death. Those people are really terrifying, and you should always poke them to wake them up and make sure they’re still breathing. It’s their own fault for being creepy. Some people move around a little, snoring and snuffling and otherwise politely letting you know they’re still alive. And some people, like Jack, sleep like they are being electrocuted.
So, over the course of his nap, the beans were flung from his hand. They landed near his face, where the drool was already puddling. The beans sucked up the spit, because beans are stupid and do not understand that water is good but spit is disgusting. And then they began to grow.
And grow.
And grow.
that the top of the thick, twisting stalk disappeared into the clouds above.
Jack awoke, shivering. He was cold because (a) he was sleeping in a puddle of his own drool and (b) because the stalk had grown so thick that he was now in the shade instead of the sun.
“Oh, pee porridge,” Jack cursed with a frown. His beans had not turned out how he had expected. And with no receipt, he couldn’t return them. (It might not have mattered anyway, because the gardener could have claimed the beans were not returned in the same condition they were given and refused a refund. You should always get the return policy in writing and read the small print.)
He had no money, no beans, and no cow. He couldn’t very well go back to his stepmother like this. And he couldn’t leave the kingdom, not with that wall of vines all around it. There was no castle to go to for work anymore, even if they would have taken him again (they wouldn’t have). He’d never go back to Jill with her stupid red cloak and her even stupider habit of pushing people into wells.
He looked up.
to where the stalk pierced the clouds. He had always wondered what it would be like to sleep on a cloud. He imagined it would be light and fluffy, warm and wonderful. Jack could never pass up an opportunity for a nap, even when he had just woken up from one. So he began to climb.
It’s a very long climb, so while he’s climbing, let’s take a look around the kingdom. There, a small fire burning. Hi, Cinderella! Hi, Prince Charring! They’re just the cutest couple, aren’t they?
There, a small girl with golden curls carefully following tracks in the forest. Goldilocks doesn’t want us spooking her prey, though, so we’ll move on.
There, the tail end of a very long, slithery body slipping into some undergrowth. Let’s not stay here.
There, a ragged red hood over ragged red eyes. “Brains?” Red Riding Hood says, looking up at us. Moving right along again, much faster!
There, a big bag that was supposed to be left in the middle of a sunny meadow. What is it doing in the depths of the darkest part of the forest? And why is the huntsman sleeping so quiet and still with two red marks on the side of his neck? Maybe I should—
Oh, look! Jack made it to the top. The clouds stretched out all around him. Jack took a deep breath, then jumped from the stalk toward the clouds.
Jack laughed, bouncing up and down. The clouds were springy beneath him, like walking on a giant trampoline made of cotton candy. Jack bent down and scooped up a handful of cloud, licking it. It even tasted like cotton candy! I guess no one ever told Jack that clouds are just cold water vapor. Science ruins everything for us, doesn’t it?
But, not knowing science, Jack didn’t have to obey its rules. He flipped and jumped and bounced across the clouds. I’m so jealous of him, I’d like to pour a big bowl of pease porridge on his head. But he wouldn’t stay still long enough for us to do that.
He saw a house nearby. He ran toward it … and then ran some more and then some more. He realized the house hadn’t been close—it was so enormously huge and hugely enormous that he thought it was a normal-size house close by, rather than a giant-size house far away.
By the time Jack got to it, he was exhausted. Cloud bouncing is fun at first, but it’s actually an even more strenuous workout than all those tower stairs. (If Jack had any sense, he would have created an exercise program of cloud bouncing and been set for life. But then again, Jack wasn’t good at thinking long-term.)
All he could think of was getting something to eat and finding somewhere to take a nap. (I have to agree with Jack for once. Those are my own top priorities at any given time.) He tried the door, but the handle was several Jacks high, and he was the only Jack there. Looking around, he found a giant-size mouse hole in the foundation. But a giant-size mouse hole also doubles as a normal-size boy hole. Jack crawled into it.
Halfway through the long, dark hole, Jack had a horrible thought: If the house was giant-size, and the mice were giant-size … what size would spiders be? With a scream (I don’t know if it was him screaming or you, but I don’t blame anyone), he threw himself out of the hole and into a kitchen. The fireplace alone was bigger than any house Jack had lived in. Cinderella and Prince Charring would have cried with joy at seeing it. The table was two stories high. A broom the size of a sequoia tree leaned in the corner.
Jack set off to explore.
Maybe that isn’t wise, Jack. Because gigantic houses with gigantic furniture and gigantic brooms and gigantic knives hanging on the wall don’t simply appear. They exist because someone—or something—has need of such giganticness.
But Jack, as always, ignored me. He tried climbing up the table leg to see if there was any food up there, but he couldn’t manage it. Far across the floor, such a great distance away he had to squint, he saw some jars and burlap bags.
His stomach rumbled the whole five minutes it took to walk there. The jars were too large to open, but he managed to tear a hole in one of the bags. Round things bigger than his head tumbled out. He was buried in an avalanche of green. By the time he worked himself free, he was covered in peas. But at least he wasn’t covered in pee! And now he knew the difference.
The first thing he did was try to stick one of the peas up his nose. How many times do I have to tell you what a terrible idea that is?! Fortunately, because the pea was as big as his head, this was impossible. He nibbled on it for a bit, but dried peas aren’t very yummy. So he went from bag to bag, cutting them open and nibbling on whatever fell out; mostly huge vegetables, none of which he liked. One bag was filled with bread crumbs. Jack normally loved bread, but this loaf was weirdly dry and tasted like a cemetery smells. He didn’t eat much of it. Another bag had sugar crystals as big as his hands. He licked one, sitting against the bag and putting his dirty shoes up.
Let’s take a moment to make a list of the ways in which Jack is not being a good houseguest.
He didn’t wipe his feet or take off his shoes before coming in.
He didn’t bring a gift for his host.
He showed up without any advance notice or even being invited.
He didn’t know there were three meanings for the word stalk. One was a type of plant that grew out of the ground and, in some magical cases, straight up into the sky. The second was to harass someone and trespass on their property, causing damage both physical and psychological. Jack really should have known this definition, since that’s basically what he was doing. The third was to pursue and stealthily hunt prey. Jack will become very familiar with this part of the definition by the end of the book.
So any of those reasons makes him a bad houseguest, but the fourth most of all. No one likes a beanstalker.
Still unapologetic for his actions, Jack was full to bursting after eating so many things. But his stomach was rumbling again. And the rumbling was getting louder and louder. It started to sound like—singing? Why was his stomach singing? And why did his stomach have such a deep, deep voice?
/> The door slammed open. The noise was like an earthquake. It brought Jack to his knees. Then another earthquake—cloudquake?—struck. Then another, and another. That’s when Jack saw the boots that were bigger than if you gathered up everything Jack didn’t know about vegetables and put it into a sack. (It would have to be a very big sack, too.)
Jack screamed, covering his ears. He burrowed under one of the sacks, letting the weight of the contents and material dampen some of the noise. See, Jack, you should never break into strangers’ homes. Unless you have golden hair and golden locks and are highly skilled at tracking and trapping zombies. But even Goldilocks would have thought twice before taking on a giant!
What could Jack do? He couldn’t make a run for it! There was a football-field length between him and the mouse hole. He would never make it out before the giant saw him.
If only he had kept the cow. He missed that stupid, gassy cow. He would do anything to have her back. He would milk her, and feed her, and make butter sculptures of her. He would find her the best pastures. Maybe someday they would settle down and start a family. (Not together, of course, because while the cow was attractive for a cow, she wasn’t Jack’s type. But they could each find someone of their own species to marry, and his kids and her calves could grow up together, best friends, probably equally smelly.)
Now he didn’t have a cow, and he probably didn’t have a future, either.
Jack trembled. The items in the bag were hard, digging into his back. He wriggled around, pulling one out. It was a golden coin as big as his head. With this much gold, he could buy his cow back! He could buy all the cows in the world! He could be the Grand Cow Master, Owner of All the Cows, and he would never take them for granted again!
Or he could buy cooler things than cows. That’s probably what he’d do. If he ever got out of here alive.
Gee, this giant sure did talk slow. Jack had had enough time now to calm down. He wasn’t even panicked anymore. It was really uncomfortable, smashed here under all this gold. He wished the giant would finish whatever he was saying and then leave.
Was the giant saying, “I smell?” Jack sniffed the air. Yes, that was accurate. Jack wriggled around until he was more comfortable. Yawning, he closed his eyes. He napped through the rest of what the giant was calling, the rumbles almost comforting. Like a big, terrifying massage.
Jack woke up, stretching, trying to work out some of the kinks in his neck. Sleeping under a huge sack of gold wasn’t the worst place he had ever taken a nap, but it wasn’t the best.
He started to wriggle out, but
Oh great. The giant wasn’t done yet. Jack banged his head against the gold coin in frustration.
Jack couldn’t take much more of this. Not only was it like having a thunderstorm in his head, it was also taking way too long. Jack was bored. And he really, really had to pee. There were no mattresses around, either. Or a toilet. He sometimes used toilets, too.
Honestly, Jack, you got yourself into this mess. It serves you right to have to sit here and listen to this for the next several hours. I don’t feel sorry for you.
Fine, no, I can’t stand it anymore, either. Run for it, Jack!
Certain he was about to be squashed like a pea, Jack darted out from under the sack. He raced under the table. A giant hand swooped down in slow motion. The wind from it knocked Jack flat on his back. But he scrambled away from the fingers, each as big as he was, just in time.
He could see the mouse hole now, but the giant was dragging the table away! Jack wouldn’t have any cover then. The sound of the table scraping against the floor was terrible. Jack ran as fast as he could.
He didn’t need to worry too much. What the giant had in size, he lacked in speed. A foot slammed down where Jack had been seconds before, easily missing him. Jack darted to one side. Then to the other. Every boot smash was an earthquake, every hand grab a hurricane. Jack was buffeted to and fro. But he was getting closer and closer to his escape!
Jack screeched to a halt. The giant crouched down in front of the wall, blocking Jack’s escape! The giant put his face against the floor. He fixed one eyeball on Jack. The eyeball was half as tall as Jack, and far rounder. (Which is good—it would be weird to have an eyeball that was person-shaped. Then it would be less of an eyeball and more of an eyecylinder.)
Jack had no other way to get out. The door was closed. The windows were two stories up. All Jack had was the huge gold coin, still clutched against his chest.
Jack debated his options. He needed this coin! But he needed to stay alive more than that. The giant’s hand was coming down from above.
“Argh!” Jack shouted, throwing the coin like a Frisbee. It cut through the air, smashing against the giant’s eye. The giant blinked, flinching away. Jack darted through the new opening. He was in the mouse hole! He was safe!
A rush of wind pushed at his back. He tumbled through the mouse hole, not even pausing to imagine giant spiders this time. (I won’t, either, or else I won’t be able to sleep tonight.) The giant had his mouth to the hole and was still shouting.
Jack somersaulted out of the hole. He hit the clouds running. In the distance was his beanstalk, his way home.
At the beanstalk, gasping for breath, Jack paused. He had waited this long to get the whole message. He hated to go down without hearing the end of it. The giant would grind his bones to make what?
“Bread?” Jack said, flinging his arms up. “You’ll grind my bones to make bread? That’s disgusting! Who would ever want to eat bread made out of bones? It would taste like—” Jack put a hand over his mouth, horrified. He knew exactly what it would taste like, because he had eaten some.
Oh dear. Look the other way, please. You don’t want to watch this next part.
Jack threw up all over those fluffy white clouds as you wisely looked across the horizon. There were a lot of houses up here, not just one. It looked like a whole cloud land, full of giants. You had better get going, Jack.
“I know, I know,” he muttered, his stomach sore and empty now. He had a long climb down ahead of him. He had no gold. He had no cow. He didn’t even have any magic beans anymore.
And that, my friends, is why you always ask for a receipt. And also why you don’t break into giants’ homes or eat food that doesn’t have an ingredient label. But mostly the first one.
On further thought, perhaps I should have stayed and examined what, exactly, was going on with that empty sack and that unmoving huntsman. The queen had been very specific about how he was supposed to leave the sack with Snow White in the middle of a sunny meadow. But there it was, in the middle of the deepest, darkest woods. Maybe we should go back and take a look.
Nah! I’m sure everything is totally fine.
Let’s go visit this old woman who lives in a shoe. All her kids smell like dirty socks, she doesn’t feed them much, and she whips them before bed. It’s hilarious—you’re going to love it.
No? You … want to go into the deepest, darkest woods? But nothing good ever happens there!
Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
On this day, in the deepest, darkest part of the woods, seven dwarves were trudging home. Their cloaks were pulled tightly over their faces, and they squinted against what few dim rays of sunlight managed to fight their way through the thick cover of trees.
The forest here was old: gnarled and knotted, mossed and rotted. It smelled like decay. Even the birds singing in the tree were off-key, their tweeting more like funeral dirges than cheerful birdsong. Even though it was daytime, the cold never quite left. On the brightest summer afternoon, the air down here was damp and chill. It seemed to tug with clammy fingers. (Are you really sure you want to be here? I know a lot of other stories! We can visit them, instead!)
Snow White threw open the windows of the seven dwarves’ cottage, singing her own funeral tune with all the joy her little unbeating heart could contain. Oh my! I had forgotten how beautiful she was! How sweet and good! How much I loved staring into her black,
black eyes. I don’t want to be anywhere else but here.
Snow White was happy. Now that she wasn’t trapped in that wretched castle, she could do as she pleased! First, she had enjoyed such a nice meal with that big stupid huntsman. Then she had found seven little dwarves who simply loved her to death. It had been so long since anyone adored her! Her stepmother certainly hadn’t. That horrible woman had never done anything to make Snow White happy. And now she had seven little friends who lived to do whatever she asked of them!
It was perfect.
For now.
Soon, though, Snow White would move on. Because she was so happy and she made the seven dwarves so happy. She needed to spread that happiness to the next village, and the next! But even that would not be enough. She would only truly be happy when every single person in the kingdom—and then the world—knew and loved her.
She licked her bloodred lips. Oh, yes. Everyone would love her. Don’t you love her? Yes, you do. Look deep into those bottomless black eyes. Snow White will make everyone love her, and when they love her, they’ll all be happy! Thank you, Snow White, for being so generous!
Her mesmerizing voice had called the seven dwarves back. She smiled, showing each tiny, sharp tooth. “Good afternoon,” she trilled happily. “How are my favorite dwarves?”
The first dwarf took off his hood. He was ashen and pale, with dark circles under his eyes. “Actually,” he said, his voice gravelly and tortured, “we’re not dwarves. Remember? We’re just very hirsute children.” (Hirsute is a fun word! It means covered with excessive hair. An easy way to remember is that if you look like you are wearing a hair suit, you are very hirsute. There’s nothing wrong with being hirsute. It makes you softer and warmer than everyone else. Unfortunately for these seven boys, it also made Snow White confuse them for dwarves.)