The Curse: the Real Story of Jack & the Beanstalk

By Mike Bruce

You know the story. Jack and his mother struggle to survive in their forest home without a whole lot of good prospects for the future . . . except for the cow. The original tale left out a few rather important details. It seems there were a good number of deep dark family secrets that stayed buried in the forest for many
generations. It's time to tell . . . . . . the Real Story of Jack & the Beanstalk!!
With the help of family, friends and other mysterious acquaintances, including the Goose Who Lays the Golden Eggs and the Magic Harp, Jack and his sister Analeih must uncover the secrets of 'The Curse'. Many lives depend on it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228809746

Mike Bruce

Mike Bruce is an up and coming Canadian author. He wrote this novel with the help of his two creative and inspiring children. Jack & Elana grew up surrounded by nature here in rural Ontario. We enjoy sharing good stories while seeking out fun and adventure in the lakes and forests that are constantly summoning us to come and visit.

Book preview

The CASTLE

Jack

My name is Jack Baker. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. Too much is happening, and my eight year old brain hasn’t caught up yet. Today my life has changed. I just discovered (and uncovered) my great great grandfather’s name. Jack. It turns out he was a killer. Giant killer. Cloud Giant to be exact. Who would keep this unbelievably strange story locked away in a mouldy old trunk buried in our cellar.

Cellar is a bit of a stretch. I better go back in time to explain. My private tunnel is hard to find. It starts from inside the ‘Castle’, my favourite of many outdoor forts behind our ‘COTTAGE’. My home is one of a kind. I’ve heard many theories about how this sprawling ramshackle mishmash of a dwelling place came to be, way out here in this forest they call ‘The Wilde’.

I’ve always called my home the COTTAGE. So have all of our forest friends for as long as I can remember. I live here with my mother (I call her mom), my big sister Analeih (I call her Anna) and our cow Sally. The Pickleberry Stream runs by the front of the COTTAGE, and there are some seriously big spruce trees out back. They seem to like that spot. The soil is drier away from the stream and their roots spread out to find the water.

I discovered the Castle while exploring under a canopy of branches of the tallest tree in a stand of white spruces growing against the back wall of the COTTAGE. Anna and I call it the ‘Big Tree’. The boughs drape out along the ground from the base of the trunk. When I pushed underneath, I found a dry, shady and quite roomy refuge. I instantly adopted this great hide-away as my Castle, and began renovating.

I worked on hollowing out the thick layer of dry spruce needles and sand to almost double the space beneath the branches. The sand got pushed up against the edges and the extra needles made a nice cushy covering on the floor. I could lay back and listen to the sounds of the forest, safe and sound in my perfect hiding place. Many wondrous weeks of digging and exploring followed, when I could find the time to be alone.

Mornings at sunrise if the weather is cooperating, my mother and sister walk the forest paths to one of the nearby cottages in The Wilde, where they work at various grassroot jobs with our neighbours. Our forest cooperative barters in goods and services. Each family has their specialty. My mother’s is baking at our woodburning hearth. She’s a member of the Baker’s Guild. Whether she’s honouring my father’s family name, I may never know. It’s hard to get straight answers from my mom. But she’s really talented at making tasty stuff.

While mom and Anna are gone on their excursions, my task is to collect wood for the fireplace. Any excess can be traded. Mother expects the hearth to be hot when she returns, so I always get right to gathering wood. Hardwood burns best and lasts longer. Plenty for our place and a stack outside for barter. I have become very efficient at collecting, cutting and splitting wood. I finish my chores quickly so I have more time for my avocations. Found that word in one of our books. We have a few of those. That’s how I taught myself to read, with just a bit of help from Anna and mom. One of my favourite avocations.

But the thing I really love is digging. That’s why I often end up in my special spot after my chores are done. I love the feel of the cool sand as I dig. And I can’t remember digging on a day when I haven’t uncovered at least one treasure. Over the years, I’ve found beautiful things to keep in my treasure box. Stones of all colours, some with tiny shimmering crystals. A few larger crystals. One as big as my fist. Shards and small nuggets of metal. Pieces of wood that nature or some other magical force has worn smooth into imaginary creatures and fantastical shapes. A bone way too big to fit in the box. My treasures.

I started digging my tunnel into the sand on the far side of the Castle last summer at the beginning of the Cosmic Moon. A strange feeling had come over me that I should do something special before the lunar year came to an end. Most of the forest folk call it The Day Out Of Time, just before the Magnetic Moon starts up the lunar cycle again.

As mid-summer approached, the excavations on my tunnel slowed down as I ran into what seemed like an impassable tangle of thick spruce roots. I decided to finish off the year by tackling this problem with the help of my handy hatchet.

My hatchet is almost big enough to be called an axe. Fred Smythe, our closest neighbour gave it to me on my birthday last year, a special Planetary Moon present. That was pretty special. We don’t usually celebrate those days too much in this neck of the woods. Anna is ten. She was born under the Solar Moon, one moon before mine. And I’m one of the planets! Pretty cool!

At first, I hadn’t realized the incredible craftsmanship required to forge my hatchet. I might have suspected. The ‘Smythe Myth’ is that Fred’s family comes from elven bloodlines. The oven in his blacksmith shop is rumoured to be of elven steel. Fred does seem to have some seriously magic touch working with iron. And . . . his ears are kind of pointy.

This past winter, while we were visiting the Smythes during the deep freeze of the Resonant Moon, Fred showed me inside his Forge. The oven was made from the same blue steel he had used for my hatchet. It was embossed with unusual runes that seemed to dance in the hot iron as Fred fired up the oven. I imagined some kind of magical aura emanating from the metal as it began to glow. Fred was working on a large axe head. He showed me how my hatchet had been superheated until it glowed red with a faint shimmering of white hot metal. Fred used his tongs to extract the blob of metal and began to hammer it with his handsledge to form the blade. He kept the steel hot while he honed the blade to a razor sharp edge. Fred told me my hatchet would keep that fine edge for my entire life if I took care of it.

Mom was unusually ecstatic that I had acquired such a finely crafted tool as a birthday gift. She said it might help me become a Master Woodcutter. It has a very elven appearance to it. Don’t you think, Fred?

Fred nodded sagely. Mom never ceases to surprise me.

That last night of the lunar year, I could barely make out the waning sliver of the Cosmic Moon as it rose above the horizon, but I didn’t stay long to watch. I was intent on getting back to my Castle to work on the tunnel. My hatchet cut through some of the small spruce roots like butter. I didn’t want to damage the tree too much, so I worked slowly, winding between the larger roots as I dug down, only cutting away enough of the smaller rootlets to form a narrow passageway that my skinny body could squeeze through. The tunnel wove in and around the colossal tree roots for more than two of my body lengths. My long term plan was to keep tunneling until I ran into something unexpected . . .

‘JA-A-ACK . . .’

I could barely hear mom’s voice. Bedtime. My shortterm plan was to keep my Castle and my tunnel a secret.

DAY OUT OF TIME

Jack

time keeps rolling

never slowing never stalling never still

ever changing

i guess it always has and always will

The Day Out Of Time is a day that I usually enjoy. The last day of the lunar year before the Magnetic Moon begins the next cycle. Another complete journey around the sun for our planet. But on the Day Out Of Time last summer, my mind was . . . somewhere else . . .

The lunar calendar is used in The Wilde as a natural measure of the passage of time. We forest folk honour the Day Out Of Time with a mid-summer celebration. Favourite activities include eating, planting trees, forest herbs and other green things, starting mushroom colonies and flower plantations, playing games, running around outside, more eating and just plain having fun with our friends.

Last summer, it was the Miller family’s turn to host the Day Out Of Time festival. We always love tripping up to their cottage by Thunder Falls. That morning, the Smythes started the procession as the sun was rising. We Bakers joined them by the stream in front of our COTTAGE. We called to the Masons to cross the ford from their place on the far side of the Pickle River. We all arrived together and joined the Millers on the Big Rock overlooking Thunder Falls for our annual Day Out Of Time breakfast. We could see the wooden millwheel attached to their home and extending into the waterfall.

Thunder Creek brings the good mountain stream water through the Cloudy Hills and cascading down to the Pickle River, where it flows toward Lake Mogawahkee on the western edge of The Wilde. The millwheel is driven by the force of the falling water. A set of heavy iron gears was constructed by the Smythes to turn a huge millstone inside the Millers’ kitchen area.

Most days, even through the winter moons, members of the Miller family wander into the forest to forage for anything that can be ground into flour at their mill. Walnuts, butternuts, acorns, chestnuts . . . there was lots to choose from. More, if they wandered further afield. Peas, beans, sunflower seeds, cattails and grains, like oats, rye and barley.

The Millers’ cottage has always been my mother’s favourite place to visit. Mom likes to use a variety of flours for her baking. Madge Miller and her share a simple barter system. Flour for bread. Bread for more flour. Mom always brings many loaves of her homemade bread for the Day Out Of Time festival. None of them ever go home with us. Whatever bread doesn’t get consumed stays with the hosts.

On the Day Out Of Time last summer, there was so much fun stuff going on. The food, the laughter, the feasting and singing around the huge evening bonfire above Thunder Falls. The very end of the lunar year.

But . . . as my best friend Mort Miller told me, it was like my mind was . . . somewhere else . . . I looked up at the night sky as we lay beside the fire that night. He was right.

The HOLE

Jack

they move with the slow knowing rhythm . . . far below

they follow the dark swirling currents . . . where they go . . .

they go down

I was falling. Someone called out to me, but I couldn’t hear over the noise. It was dark, but I could see stars above me. Then I hit the water. It was suddenly quiet. I could hear a faint voice.

‘JA-A-ACK . . . COME TO ME . . .’ like a whisper.

I couldn’t breathe but there was no panic. I saw a light getting brighter and brighter. I took a slow breath. Air! I gasped in a deep lungful of sweet air! My eyes were wide open. I was standing so close to the waterfall that I could feel the spray of mist on my cheek. The sun was rising over the rocks. Wow . . . a nightmare! I took another deep breath and looked around.

Everybody had slept out on the Big Rock. There were blankets and sleeping bodies all around the embers of the fire. I must have walked in my sleep to the edge of the waterfall. I was now very wide awake. Probably from a state of shock.

I was still spooked. I couldn’t get the sound of that voice out of my head. Soon, people would be waking up, and I was not in the mood for sharing or socializing. Strangely, I wasn’t feeling at all hungry. All I could think about was my tunnel. And the voice. I knew I couldn’t just walk back to the COTTAGE without telling anybody. I decided to wake up mom, and tell her I wasn’t feeling well. I was not hopeful at all that my plan would work.

Mom? I had only touched her lightly on the shoulder, but her eyes opened immediately, looking right at me. I feel sick. It was hard to lie to my mother’s stare. Can I walk home and lie down on my bed?

She gave me a long look. A gentle smile crept into her eyes. Alright Jack. You’re eight years old now. That’s special. Happy Magnetic Moon. Nothing about missing the New Year breakfast. No questions about my health. I had a sense that mom knew exactly what I was up to. The memory of the nightmare flooded my mind. I was on the verge of crying.

Thanks, mom. My eyes teared up.

Another smile. Could you give Sally some oats with her hay for her New Year breakfast?

Sure. No problem. I almost felt neglected.

I’ll see you back there for lunch.

Very strange. It had seemed like my mother had wanted me to leave that morning. I remember wondering at the time if the voice in my nightmare might have been hers.

As I approached the COTTAGE, Sally started mooing from her shed. Johnny (I don’t like talking about my father too much) had attached the shed to the side of our home before Anna and I were born. There was a sliding hatch on the wall beside our cooking area that opened so the cow pails could be filled without going outside. Sally looked insulted that she wasn’t being fed by Anna, our resident cow whisperer, but she munched right into her large scoop of oats.

I raced out the door, around back to the Big Tree and practically dove into my castle and down to my tunnel. I was glad to find my hatchet there. It made the work much easier. Digging, trimming roots, down through the sandy earth to where I thought the foundation of our COTTAGE should be. By that time, I knew I was getting hungry, but the strange dream voice kept drifting into my mind.

‘JA-A-ACK . . . COME TO ME . . .’

I had convinced myself that I was going to find . . . something unexpected . . . if I just kept digging. I tunneled another three feet before the ground started getting tougher to dig. Not as sandy. I used my hatchet to chop into the hard earth until it hit something solid. I took a few more swipes and the blade sunk in. I knew that texture well. It was wood. Dead wood. After clearing away more sand and dirt, it was apparent that I had run into a huge tree trunk lying flat across the base of our dwelling place. Perfect! I decided to dig underneath. The dead tree could form the roof of my tunnel for a short distance. It didn’t take long. The trunk was as thick and wide as my outstretched arms could reach, but the tunnel suddenly opened up as I cut through the heavy earth to the far side.

Woah! I was looking at a large cavern! Four more monstrous trees of the same size as the one I had just tunneled under had somehow been laid across this giant depression in the ground! A few thin rays of sunlight were peeking around the edges to help me understand what I was seeing for the first time. I was underneath the COTTAGE. This was a mystery I had to solve. Who, or what could have managed such an engineering wonder here in the deep forest?

‘JA-A-CK . . . COME TO ME . . .’

I was scared. It was the voice from my nightmare that didn’t want to leave my thoughts this morning. Inside my head. Definitely not just a dream or my imagination.

‘KEEP DIGGING . . . FIND SOMETHING . . . UNEXPECTED . . .’

I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop myself. I felt compelled to move away from my tunnel toward the centre of this big hole right under my COTTAGE. As I got away from the edge, I could stand up and walk downhill.

‘JA-A-ACK . . . DIG . . . COME DOWN TO ME . . .’

I couldn’t draw myself away. It felt like I was being controlled . . . to follow the voice’s suggestions.

‘DIG . . . DOWN . . .’

My hands seemed to know the place to start digging and the direction to move through the dry sand.

‘SOMETHING UNEXPECTED . . .’

I could feel a small solid object at my fingertips. I lifted it easily. It was a tiny intricately forged piece of metal. I recognized the colour and sheen. Blue steel. It appeared to be some kind of key. The object almost slipped from my fingers. When I squeezed, I could feel it pulling like a magnet. As I wondered what could be drawing it away, I heard a more familar voice drifting through the air. I would recognize that sound anywhere.

Sa-a-ally! It was my sister calling to her cow in her sing-song voice that she uses whenever she walks the forest trails. I acted quickly, just like I’d rehearsed. I made a fist around the key, if that’s what it was, and headed for the tunnel. My hand suddenly became very heavy. I held on tight, then tucked the object away in my pocket.

I could hear other voices as I came out and around the side of the COTTAGE. I took a deep breath and prepared myself to be civil on the first official day of the New Year.

The COTTAGE

Anna

once three friends, sweet in sadness

now part of their past

in the end, full of gladness

went from class to class

gentle giant

Y ou are a really good singer, Analeih!

Mort was trying to cheer me up. Usually, he was keen to follow my brother’s lead in their ongoing campaign to pester me. But Jack had gone home early this morning and Mort was trying to be nice as we approached our COTTAGE.

Thanks, Mort.

"Is that a sad or happy song you were singing?

Today? Sad.

It kinda ends happy though, doesn’t it?

Yeah, right. That’s not happening so far, is it? First of all, we’re all in the peasant class living here in the forest. No one’s getting rich in a hurry. Plus, my two best friends abandon me to go fishing on the very first day of the year. Really? Fishing? Then they say I can’t come. That they’ll share the fish with me at brunch. What is this? Some kind of New Year fishing club?

Analeih. Great. My mother’s scolding voice. Josie and Morgyn will only be gone for an hour or so. And they’re not just fishing. Louis asked them to help him with something at the Quarry. Why don’t you go and wish Sally a Happy New Year?

Okay mom. It was New Year Day, and I didn’t want to argue. Sa-a-ally!

The Millers had suggested extending our traditional New Year breakfast into a brunch so that Jack could be included. Mom loved the idea! Entertaining with food from her own kitchen! The Miller family were all coming. Madge, Marty, gramma Myrtle, baby Mikaela and Jack’s best friend, Mort. Those Millers really had a thing for Ms. The Smythes (minus Josie for now) were also dropping in on their way home. Fred and Sadie were the blacksmiths of The Wilde.

Jack was not inside resting like I’d thought he would be. Mort ran to meet him as he came around the side of Sally’s shed.

Hey brother! I thought you were sick!

Yeah . . . not so much. Don’t tell mom.

Okay. But you owe me. I’m going to wish Sally a Happy New Year. Did you feed her?

Yep, but I’m sure she’ll love getting some extra treats from you. Did Josie go home?

No. She’s fishing with Morgyn. They might be here later with the fish.

Fishing? O ~ kay.

Mort looked pretty excited that this first day of the New Year was becoming such an occasion. I asked him to fill Jack in on the details while I hurried off to visit Sally.

Hey Jack. We barely had any breakfast this morning after we found you were gone. We decided to change the routine and share a big brunch here with you!

O ~ kay. Thanks Mort. So . . . that would be you, Anna, mom . . . and maybe Josie, Morgyn and some fish later?

Probably everybody, once they all get here! Uh, Jack? You alright?

I’ll be okay. Wait here. I have to go and put something away inside.

*     *     *

I could tell there was something wrong. But Jack wasn’t about to tell me. I gave Sally her bucket of oats and a couple of apples that were sitting on the kitchen counter, then headed back outside to figure out what was going on with my brother. I met him as he came in at our one usable doorway.

Jack. You are acting weird. I was met with a stare. We came all the way back here because mom said you weren’t feeling well. But you’re not even sick, are you?

I didn’t know you cared.

I care that you’re acting even weirder than usual. And what’s with the sand all over you?

I don’t know Anna. Maybe I’ll tell you when I do. I have to go now and put something away.

And with that, everybody started arriving. Mom started pre-paring brunch with the help of Sadie, Madge and gramma Miller. I set the table, babysat Mikaela and hung out with the adults while I waited for Josie and Morgyn to appear. Jack went back outside to collect Mort so they could hang out together.

My mother’s name is Lily. She once told me that generations of our family have lived here since my great gramma Jacqui built it after the birth of her only child, grampa J.J.. Mom doesn’t go into great detail when she speaks of the past. Like who helped a single mom with a newborn baby build this monster home in the middle of the wilderness. Whether my great gramma is still alive. Why grampa died so young. Anything at all about the first Jack.

I decided to try again. Mom? Why has our family been so stuck on different variations of the ‘Jack’ theme for so long?

Your father’s name is Johnny. That was a change.

I call my father Johnny when I do speak of him. He hasn’t exactly done a whole lot of fathering around here. I certainly don’t remember him. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. Johnny left on the day Jack was born, abandoning mom and two-year old me to fend for ourselves. That’s my take on it anyway. Pretty much shared by my brother.

And gramma Jeanni didn’t call grampa by his Jack name. She called him J.J..

What’s that stand for?

Jack Jack. One of mom’s rare chuckles.

Funny! Everyone else in the room thought so too. It’s not like there’s any shortage of stories for my mother to tell. Maybe the memories are just too painful.

I have to admit I was feeling jealous. There are many reasons why Josie is my best friend. And on this first day of the New Year, she was with Morgyn, doing something secret. There’s no way I could believe they were fishing. Josie has been over to our place enough times that she’s pretty well part of the family. She practically lived here for half a moon when the Smythe, Mason and Miller clans moved in at the end of the winter season just before Josie and I turned five. At the time, Morgyn was only four and a half and already talking up a storm. Her mother had died pretty close to the time Morgyn was born. She lived with her father Louis, the Master Mason of the forest.

One of the stories mom does like to tell is the one about her kitchen renovations. She had invited everybody over for a work holiday to help upgrade the part of our house where we spent most of our time. Preparing food, eating food and just hanging out. Mom had insisted that it was too dysfunctional to be called a kitchen. It had been a long cold winter with the old stove straining to keep the chill off. Mom wanted to do more baking. Since Johnny had left, she’d been struggling to keep us warm and fed.

Morgyn’s dad coordinated the masonry, collecting river rocks and slabs of slate from his Quarry. The Smythes forged a new firebox. No surprise that mom, Madge and gramma Miller were in charge of the food. The table I was now setting for brunch had been built by Marty Miller. It now looked over a very functional kitchen. Mom’s hearth now dominated the centre of the room. Her pride and joy. The river rocks had been mortared around the outside of the firebox which sat on a large slab of slate. The stovepipe went straight up through the high ceiling. Another piece of slate formed the top of the stove. Fred had crafted a cast iron door that hinged down so that bread could slide in and out easily.

The smell of freshly baked bread was making people hungry as they gathered round the table. Just as the bread came out of the oven, Josie, Morgyn and her dad showed up. With no fish.

Hello best friends. Fish weren’t biting?

Nope. Sorry, no fish for brunch today, folks. That was Morgyn.

Josie was grinning at me.

So . . . what were you all doing for half the morning?

Oh . . . something. Analeih, you’re not jealous, are you? teased Morgyn.

Josie giggled.

Funny. Jealous that I’m not part of your . . . secret fishing club? Are you ever going to tell me what’s really going on?

Maybe. What do you think, Josie?

Maybe. Josie was really enjoying the show.

Yeah. Maybe we’ll let the cat out of the bag on your . . . I don’t know . . . birthday? As usual, Morgyn was dripping with sarcasm.

My birthday!? That’s not ‘till springtime!

Mom interrupted. Okay girls. Do you think we can eat now? While the bread is still hot? Anna, can you lead us in a nice grace that fits the occasion?

I love singing, just about any time. I love eating my mom’s homebaked bread just dripping with butter. But I’m not a big fan of secrets. And I hate waiting . . . for anything.

The JOURNAL

Johnny

Evening. My name is Johnny Baker. I’m not much for writing, but this is important. Life and death important. Here’s the bare bones. This Journal is my only traveling companion. I’m bound to keep it, even though I hate it with a passion. The notes that I’m adding are for my wife and two children. In the event that I don’t see them again. But I’m betting on life.

This quest has been tricky. Not impossible, but difficult. Time is running short. Ten moons. I’m making my way back to Spruceville to discuss options with my main advisor. My mother, Jeanni. Here’s a summary of the years preceding.

I don’t really agree, but there’s a reason why our family never makes a big deal about not celebrating birthdays except for the really special ones. My father died the day he turned twenty. I was two. My daughter Analeih and I share that same birthday. Spring Equinox. I didn’t understand then, and no one was able to explain to me for a long time why my dad’s life had ended so suddenly. The very next day, mother took me on a long journey to The Plateau, homeland of the High Elves. We didn’t return to The Wilde until I was eight.

When I turned nine, I started hearing a voice in my head. It led me to a secret door in the floor under my mother’s bed that opened into a large space under our COTTAGE. Mother was upset that I had discovered it. She said it was a dangerous place, and not to go there again. I was conflicted. The voice began to control my thoughts and sometimes my actions. I didn’t go back to the secret door for years, but the voice tormented my sleep. I was going crazy.

On my 15th birthday, I couldn’t resist any longer. I followed the pull of the voice to the massive hole beneath our house, and found its source. A key, buried in the sand. Mother was alarmed at my discovery. She told me I had tapped into Darke Elf magic. That my great grandfather Jack had been cursed by that magic. That my grandmother Jacqui had been a carrier of this terrible Curse. That my father had died from it. And that I was a carrier.

But the key had control over me. I went back down to the hole under the COTTAGE. I know with a strange certainty that it wanted me to find something. Then it got complicated.

I want to make it quite clear here in print that I am not a deadbeat dad. As I found out more about The Curse and the insidious control that the key has had on my family for generations, I began to fall further under its relentless influence.

During my growing years, I took many journeys with my mother to and from the High Plateau. That’s where I met Lily. We became good friends. When we became a couple, mother warned me not to have children. Somehow it happened anyway. But Lily was a High Elf. And powerful. We were living at the COTTAGE on the day she found out she was pregnant. Mother insisted that