Magic

         "And last but not least, milady.” The King’s messenger pulled out a sword, placing it in her hands. It was a very plain sword; a practical sword. Only the glitter in the steel gave away what it truly was: magic.

         The sword clattered as she dropped it unto the oak table pocked with scars from the use of five generations. It landed next to the shield and a helmet from which a dragon’s tooth jutted. She stared at the weapon, while the messenger continued with his fancy words, which declared her husband a hero. He would be immortalized with the King’s ancestors. The long red feather that marked him as a King’s messenger bobbed like a cockerel jutting his stuff.

         “Where he should have been was here.” She said, cutting the messenger off.

         Here, she thought, instead of fighting giants. Her husband claimed he needed to go save the kingdom. But she knew the truth. Giants came only when magic was around.

         Magic was a wild thing that touched you teasingly, filled you with its presence than abandoned you when it got bored. But there were a select few, like her husband, that magic enveloped. They couldn’t escape it. They never wanted to. Magic searched for them and they would always go out to meet it.

          “He died bravely.” The messenger said gently, concerned by the lack of tears.

         “Get out.”

         She slammed the door behind him, a heavy door made from the oak tree that had once stood where the house was standing now. It was devoid of carvings, a plain practical door made by the labor of her ancestors who’d worked hard to make the farm successful, hard and without magic.

         The aged floor warned her as tiny feet crept in. She turned just in time to see her son, Jack, plop the huge helmet on his head. It sank below his chin. He was just beginning to reach blindly for the sword.

         Oh, no, she thought hurrying over, snatching the blade away. The boy cried out as she yanked the helmet off his head by the horn. She grabbed all the pieces of armor, juggling them with the helmet and sword as she hurried into her bedroom. She yanked open a vault built into the floor, an addition her Father made when thieves were a common plague.  She dumped the armor and blade down its throat. Her son would never touch her husband’s heritage. He would live the way her family had for generations: hardworking farmers.

         The bedroom door opened making a grinding sound like bone rubbing on bone. He stood there staring intensely at the open vault. She slammed it shut and slid the lock in place. Only when the lock clicked did the boy’s gaze breakaway.

She caught him the next day staring at the vault. She screamed at him, chasing him away with a stick. When he returned the day after, she used it on him.  He stopped after that.

         As he grew, she taught him all she knew about the farm: how to plant crops and harvest them, how to raise chickens, everything. The lad did as he was told but his eyes were dull as he took on the tasks of the farm. The land followed his enthusiasm, fighting them every step of the way. Crops rotted. A fox devoured the chickens. Everything wasted away. She fought it, attacking it with the savagery of a badger. The boy remained impassive as everything crumbled.

         Hunger slinked into their home. They would starve very soon if nothing was done. All that was left was the cow, the last calf from the sturdy cow she had received from her parents on her wedding day.  She spent the night rubbing its coarse forehead, the fur scratchy like sackcloth. In the morning she handed the rope to her son.

         “Fetch a good price for her or we’ll starve.”

         He took the rope languidly and set off. She went into the house to wait.

         He burst in, glowing as he danced around the table. Caught up by the fire in his eyes, she demanded to know what he got.

         “How much? Gold? Silver? You didn’t get a jewel did you?” She said this last part with concern. Jewels could mean stolen property.

          “Better, better and better.” He shouted. “Look.”

         He whipped out a turquoise bag with a strange gold emblem on it. Pouring out the contents, three beans fell out, their skins glossy and bright.

         “He said they were magic.” His eyes glittered as they stared at the beans.

         “You idiot! You stupid, stupid idiot!” She grabbed the beans in a fist. “You traded my cow, my precious cow for this? Magic?”

         She hurled the beans out the window then turned on him when he let out a protest.

         “Get out.” She screamed.

          He knew better than to stay, yet she saw the hesitancy, the quick dart of the eyes to the open window. She marched over, slamming the shutters as he escaped to the loft where he slept. That night she stayed by the door, listening for any noise of him sneaking down.

         She woke up thinking it was still night as the room was so dark. But a silvery crack edged her door. She opened it. Fear wrapped its coils around her heart. Near the window, a green trunk bigger than three ancient oaks tied together stretched into the sky and disappeared in the clouds. The trunk sparkled. Several leaves lay torn near the roots.

She dashed back in, racing to the loft. But she didn’t go farther than her own room. The vault in the floor lay open. A knife lay near the broken lock. The sword was gone.

         Shrieking, she raced back to the monstrous plant. She grabbed at the leaves and the vines bulging like arteries. But everything slipped from her fingers. It would not grant her passage.

         She waited three days, her eyes fixed on the green trunk, glaring. On the third day it began quivering then shaking as if a hand had taken it. Jack shot down quick as a spider, despite the bulging bags flung over his shoulders and a harp. He tossed the bags aside as if they were filled with rags and dashed over to the wood pile grabbing an axe. He began chopping away at the vine but the axe bounced off. Flinging it away, he grabbed the sword from his side. With two slices the plant fell. A howl shred the air as the trunk fell. The earth shuddered. Jack stepped back, looking satisfied. The look faded, however, when he turned to her. Her eyes took him in, a harp strapped to his back, humming on its own and the sword still in his hand.

He grabbed one of the bags, tearing it open. Gold coins and jewels spilled out.

         “Look, we can get food, clothing, anything we want. And this is especially for you.” He said, hurriedly pulling the harp off his back, as if to prevent her from speaking. He strummed the strings. Music sweet and gentle flowed, touching the land bringing fertility back. “It will bring the farm back to life.”

         “How did you get it?” She finally asked him.

         He spun a tale of a castle filled with stolen treasures, magical stolen treasures and a giant. How he spent three nights hidden by the cook. As he talked he got more and more excited, making gestures and mimicking movements to go along with his tale. He ended with the giant chasing him down the vine, so he had to cut it. When he finished he waited, waited for her to praise him. Tell him he had saved them and the farm. She just stared at him, eyeing the excited flush, the faint smile he was trying to suppress, the hunger for more glittering in his eyes.  She turned away, slamming the door behind her, and bolted it.

         Later she opened it. The money and harp rested near the door. The stump had shriveled to rot. The sword was gone and so was her son.