The Thief and the Beanstalk

The two men observed the great house as it gleamed under the full moon. They were hidden in the inky undergrowth at the forest edge. Finch was by far the bigger of the pair, handsome and powerfully built, with a neatly trimmed mustache and a little triangle of a beard. His companion was a dirty gnome of a man called Squint.

There were twelve altogether in Finch’s band of thieves. Finch was careful about whom he enlisted. He preferred his men strong, fast, and deadly with weapons. Slightly built Squint was the exception, but there was a reason. Feeble as his body was, his acute eyesight had proven valuable to the band on many occasions. Finch was counting on Squint now to help him see a way into Old Man Jack’s house.

House? Fortress is a better word for this place, thought Finch. It was not nearly as big as some of the impressive castles he had seen here and there in his wanderings, or the one he had been driven from years before. But in this remote area, it was the largest structure for many miles around.

Yet the purpose of its architecture was not to be big; the intent was to be impenetrable. There was only one entrance, a massive wood and iron door that looked sturdy enough to defy a battering ram. There were windows high and low, but they offered little promise. The low ones were narrow slits, crossed by heavy bars. The upper windows were wider but far out of reach, nearly forty feet off the ground.

The house was built on a gently rising hill. The slope and the flat fields around it were kept clear of bushes and trees, making it difficult to approach unseen. At all times, a sentry patrolled the top of the walls, slowly pacing the square perimeter.

All of this worried Finch, but encouraged him at the same time. That means there’s something inside worth protecting, he thought.

“So you really believe that story, about the giant and the beanstalk?” asked Squint, glancing sideways at his leader. Squint was nervous, and Finch knew why. Breaking into strongholds was not the band’s usual way; waylaying hapless travelers was more to its liking.

“Of course I don’t believe it,” snapped Finch. “But what does it matter anyway? I don’t care where his wealth came from. I just want it to be mine.”

Squint turned his peering eyes back to Jack’s house, but went on talking. “It could be true, though, couldn’t it? Think about it. Jack was just a lad when it happened – if it happened. Now he might be the oldest man in these parts. So everyone who might have seen it happen is dead, and only the story is left. And you know how stories are: They get told, stranger to stranger, father to son, and they change a bit every time they’re passed along. Before long you don’t know what’s real and what’s rubbish.”

Finch had no patience for this speculation. The wealth inside those white stone walls was a siren calling to him. “Listen, Squint. This Jack is just a crazy old bird with nothing better to do than make up stories about himself that only fools like you believe. Now I’ve got a story for you: He’s rich. We’re not. The end. So shut up and find me a way inside.”

“I think I already have,” said Squint. “But we have to get closer.”

Finch nodded. He reached to the ground and picked up a lantern that was covered with metal doors to conceal its glow. Finch kept it close to his belly and turned his back to Jack’s house, to shield the light from the sentry. Then he opened and closed one of the hinged doors three times.

At the wood’s edge a few hundred yards to the north, two more of Finch’s men saw the signal. They began to make noise, shaking branches and mimicking the sounds of forest animals. The disturbance had the desired effect, as the sentry went over to that side of the castle wall.

“Let’s go,” said Finch. With Finch leading the way, the two cutthroats broke from the cover of the trees and headed for the fortress. The moonlight illuminated them as they ran, but the distracted sentry did not see them and they safely reached the darkness at the foot of the white stone walls. Squint’s breathing was labored from the sprint. But Finch had the predatory strength of a wolf, and the exertion did not affect him at all.

“Now tell me – when the time comes, how do we get in?” said Finch.

“I thought… these might… be the answer. Now I’m not… so certain,” wheezed Squint, struggling to catch his breath. With a gnarly finger, he pointed at the ivy that snaked up to the highest reaches of the wall.

“These vines? No man could ever climb them, you dolt! Look how flimsy they are!” Finch gave a hard yank on one of the vines, and it peeled from the wall with a sound like ripping fabric.

“Yes, yes. I can see that, now that we’re close,” said Squint. “They couldn’t support a grown man. But what if we got a kid to climb up there and unlock the big door for us? That’s the answer, isn’t it?” Squint narrowed his eyes and looked at Finch, waiting with an expectant grin.

Finch worked his jaw side to side and tugged the short hairs of his beard, thinking it over. He gave one of the sturdier vines a gentler tug. It clung fast to the walls, where its tiny threadlike fingers penetrated the cracks and seams of the stone.

“Yes. That is the answer,” he said. “All we need is a little thief to do some climbing.” He smiled. With his hands to the stone, he could practically feel Jack’s treasure through the walls.