The Story of Stingy Jack & How he Tricked the Devil ~by Rose Anderson

Halloween is coming up and it's my favorite holiday. I love this time of year. I love the colors, the frosty crisp smell in the air, the holiday traditions, all of it. Even my hair has taken on its autumn pelage and gone darker. I don’t know if it’s a redhead thing, a trick of light, or just a peculiar trait for a peculiar person, but people comment on it every year and have done so my entire life. It’s as predictable as the changing seasons.

Perhaps you've heard me mention that I've been writing a series for years. As it stands, the unnamed work I call my magnum opus (MO for short) is five books long and approximately 5k words in toto. For today's post I'm sharing a snippet from the MO about a family gathering. I haven't determined whether this bit will be in the series. My characters have a way of sharing much more than I need them to share. The following was inspired by a folktale.  I hope you enjoy.


The main players~
Six year old twins Mac and Aggie
Family elder Maddock
Connor (the twins father) and his brother Liam
Liam's best friend and cousin Aidan (known for deviling their elders)


The Story of Stingy Jack and How he Tricked the Devil ~

Mac and Aggie settled onto their father's lap with their popcorn balls. Aggie took a bite. It was difficult biting without front teeth, but the six-year-old’s incisors did their best. She gave her elder cousin a snaggle-toothed grin and asked, “What story are you telling tonight, Maddock?” 

Maddock hadn’t decided until the moment the little sprite smiled. He leaned close. “I’m thinking I'll tell ye the story of Stingy Jack. What do ye think, Connor?”

Connor laughed. Aggie looked up at him, a question bright in her green eyes. “Do you know this story, Dad? Is it a funny one?”

He winked at Maddock and gave his daughter a hug. “Wait and see.”

Maddock chuckled, and began, “So once there was a blacksmith named Jack. Everyone from miles around called him Jack, ye see, for this was in the days when no one used last names…”

Across the fire, Aidan nudged Liam. “Wasn't Jack was a farmer?”

An accomplished storyteller, Maddock used the moment to his advantage. He met the eyes of the children around the fire, and said, “True, Jack was a farmer too. An' a good one at that because he could shoe his own oxen. Now Jack had a wonderful sense of humor an' he loved playing tricks. He found it great fun to bore a hole in someone's water bucket or paint a white stripe down the back of a neighbor’s black house cat.”

The children laughed.

“But Jack never harmed a soul. He was a very careful man -- careful with his beasts, careful with his craft, and careful with his coin. Some say too careful with his coin. While Jack wasn’t a stingy man in his business, he was a stingy man at the pub. Well, one evening when the animals were bedded down and the coals of his forge banked well, Jack grew thirsty an' thinking a pint might do him good, he headed straight to the pub. But who do ye think he met there?”

Several children asked at once, “Who, Maddock?”

Maddock paused then suddenly blurted, “The devil himself!”

Liam nudged Aidan. “Didn’t the devil meet Jack on the road?”

Maddock coughed. “Aye, well, the devil gets around, no? So, Jack sat himself down at a table an' had several pints of stout ale. Desiring another, he opened his purse but there was only enough coin for the drinks he’d already had. Now the devil saw all the empty glasses an' watched Jack turn out his pockets looking for more coins. He thought he’d be an easy soul to take for his own, ye see. Pulling up a bench, the devil sat beside Jack. So busy was Jack, he didn’t realize who sat beside him. The devil said, "Ye look troubled laddie. Can I help ye?"

Jack replied, "I had a long and thirsty day. I worked the iron and I worked my fields. Now I’m too tired to go home for more money, but it’s thirsty I am."

The devil stroked his pointy beard and said, "I’d like to help ye laddie, but I dinna help unless there’s something in it for me."

Jack finally noticed of the pointy beard. He looked at the floor and saw the cloven hoofs. Though he pretended to be confused and befuddled by drink, Jack knew who the devil he was talking to!”

Chuckles and giggles went around the fire at the play on words.

“Now, Jack was in the mood to play one of his tricks. He knew this creature could turn himself into any form he wished an' he thought a moment before saying, "I’d sell my soul for one more coin with which to buy another pint."

Well, no finer words could be spoken to a devil out hunting souls. He said, "Ah, there is something I can do for you after all, laddie. I’ll turn myself into a coin so you can buy your last drink, then I’ll change myself back an' your soul will come with me to Hell."

Jack scratched his nose, then he scratched his chin, then he picked up his empty glass and drained the last drop from it. He licked his lips looking wistfully at the jug the barmaid carried. Then, meeting the devil’s eyes, he said, "I’m in the mood for a good bargain such as that!"

"In a flash, the devil changed himself into a gold coin. And just as fast, Jack grabbed it up an' stuffed it into his wallet!”

Aggie was wide-eyed. “Couldn’t the devil get out again?”

Maddock chuckled, “Oh no, ye see inside that wallet was a copper sator square.”

Aggie turned to her father. “I don’t know what a sator square is, Dad.”

“It’s a very old luck charm, honey.”

Maddock nodded, “Aye, and it bound the devil inside Jack’s wallet for ten whole years.”

Aidan whispered to Liam, “Didn’t Jack trick the devil up a tree?”

Narrowing his eyes at the pair, Maddock continued, “At the end of ten years Jack opened the wallet an' said, "Tell me ye won’t be taking my soul to Hell will ye. Make your vow, devil. Tis the only way I’ll be releasing ye."

The devil laughed, "Damn my eyes, you’re good. Yes, ye have my word on it!"

With that Jack released him. So years and years passed and eventually Jack grew to be an old man. One day the devil appeared an' said to him, "I’ve been a watchin’ you since the day you released me Jack. So ye love playing tricks, do ye?"

Jack chuckled, "Aye. As long as they bring harm to none, I do." He’d always loved a good prank, ye see, but was always careful not to hurt another in the process. That’s a good way to be no?”

The children nodded.

“Well, do ye believe it, the old devil laughed! "I like tricks myself", says he. "If I canna make ye stay with me, at least come for a visit. We can discuss the fine art of trickery an' maybe I’ll get some new ideas."

Jack thought a moment. He was an old man with nothing better to do. He no longer worked the forge an' farm. That hard work now belonged to his strong sons an' grandsons. As long as he didn’t have to stay in Hell, he might enjoy listening to the devils exploits now an' again. Especially in the fall when his old bones ached an' the heat would feel good. He said, "Alright. If I don’t have to stay, I’ll visit ye."

Reaching into his pocket, the devil pulled out an ember that would never burn out. He handed it to Jack who promptly dropped it on the ground.

Blowing on his singed fingers, Jack tipped his head to the ember an' asked, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Alive or dead, your soul canna see to find its way unless I bring ye myself. Carry this with you an' for one night each year you’ll be able to find your way to my world an' back."

"Fair enough." Jack told him. Taking an old turnip from the field, he carved out the center an' then whimsy took him an' he carved out eyes, a nose, an' a mouth. He carefully placed the ember inside where it made the little lantern’s face glow.

“Jack o ‘lanterns!” Aggie shouted and, looking quite the part, gave Maddock her snaggle-toothed smile.

“Aye, an' every year you’ll see Jack walking at night with his smiling lantern lighting his way to Hell.”

 >>۞<<
 

Heart Of Stone on Amazon

 >>۞<<

Rose Anderson is an award-winning author and dilettante who loves great conversation and delights in discovering interesting things to weave into stories. Rose also writes across genres under the pen name Madeline Archer. She lives with her family and small menagerie amid oak groves and prairie in the rolling glacial hills of the upper Midwest.

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A Little Gossip by Rose Anderson

Authors will tell you that some books write themselves while other stories take every last brain cell to finish. In my writing process there have been times where I've determined a story will turn out one way then it goes careening off in another direction. Where does this big shift come from? Mostly from sidebar conversations with my characters.

Every so often a secondary character will just pop into my head-- like that neighbor who wants to talk over the backyard fence when all you want to do is rake your leaves. Conversations like this take place at the craziest times too, like when I'm in a theater watching a movie or when I have a house full of guests. Fictional characters can be very rude that way. Ill-timed though they may be, I'll occasionally discover my bit characters know far more about the story than I do and bring an insider's perspective that I hadn't even considered.

I had a drop-in encounter like that when I was working on The Changeling (the story that launched a new pen name for sweeter stories). I stood washing dishes at the kitchen sink but my imagination stood in the Scottish Lowlands. I found myself at the doorstep of a centuries-old mansion just outside the town of Selkirk. When I write historical stories, each has its own distinct architecture and landscape so I recognized the mansion as Carterhaugh. The year was 1891. 

Because I love escapism as only good imagery provides, I write the sounds, smells, textures, and sights into my stories. I raised the heavy bronze door knocker in anticipation and made my presence known. Of course it sounded exactly how you'd imagine it would sound on a heavy oak door.

This door was opened by a slight woman of no more than five feet tall. By her crisp black dress and the hefty chatelaine of keys, I knew at once this was Mrs. Frew the housekeeper. She's worked here since she was twelve years old and was well into her 70's now. Her eyes sparkled with her smile when she said, “Ah Mistress Madeline! We’ve been expectin’ ye. Come in. Come in.”

My pen name was spoken with the polite and practiced tone of a woman long-employed at the top of the household hierarchy. I followed her down a hallway to an older portion of the manor where she led me into her private rooms. The charming sitting room had a cheery fire and was decorated with late-Victorian flounces and small China figurines. This space of her own was a perk for the housekeeper who oversaw the service staff, a duty she shared with the head butler Monroe.

“Please, sit doon,” she told me gesturing to the small floral-patterned settee with its finely embroidered pillows. The small basket of embroidery sitting beside her chair suggested she’d done them herself. A young woman lightly rapped at the opened door. I recognized her as chatty Winnet. The maid smiled at me and gave a slight dip of a courtesy. I could tell she’d like nothing better than to sit with us and share the household news for I’d written her exactly so.

“Ah there ye are, girl. Set it there.” Her last words came with a nod toward the small table before me. Winnet set her full tray down then curtseyed once more and was gone. Mrs. Frew saw to my tea and then her own before saying, “It’s so guid of ye t’ come, dear. I’d imagine ye have many questions and t’ tell ye the truth so do I. Perhaps we each can offer answers. ”

I said, “Perhaps we can, but first I’d like to say how well you’re looking today, Mrs. Frew. I know you’ve been feeling under the weather.”

“Och, never mind me. Mistress Madeline. Our healer Janet Roxburgh takes guid care of me. The lass has a talent for mixing healing herbs, ye know. She sees to me several times each week and all is well So what is it ye want to know?"

Her Scottish accent was exactly as I imagined while writing her--softer, more refined. I told her how happy I was she was feeling better. Then I asked how young laird Lenox was fairing at Carterhaugh.

“Oh, the young laird is a guid man, as guid as his uncle Laird Charles was, god rest his dear soul.”

Lenox was a good man. All my heroes were. At this point in the story, he had no idea he was a half-fae changeling. Being privy to the inside details as I was, I also knew Mrs. Frew had an inkling of Lenox’ true nature. Testing how willing she was to speak of it, I went straight to the point.

“Mrs. Frew, may I ask, do you notice anything unusual about Lenox?”

“Unusual?”

I nodded.

“Ye mean beyond that he’s an outsider to these parts?”

Not wanting to lead the conversation beyond my question, I nodded again.

She gave me an appraising look as if testing how trustworthy I was with sensitive information. That was a solid trait in many large households like this. The servant staff may very well talk among themselves, but they seldom shared such opinions on their lairds and ladies with outsiders. I saw when her decision lit her eyes. She said simply, “He reminds me of my cousin.”

“Oh?”

She told how her auntie had born a son much too soon and far too sickly to survive. She was only a girl at the time but explained how she had gone with her uncle when he placed the wee laddie upon a faery hill in the hopes the fae would take him away and make him well with their magic, adding, “My uncle Robbie explained that once taken, the poor sickly babe would never return. Leaving him was the only hope, ye see. An’ sure enough, come mornin’ the sickly babe was gone and a hale and hearty changeling was in his place. A changeling is a mixed-raced babe, dear, in case ye don’t know. The laddie had slightly pointed ears, but not so pointed as to be taken as a full-blooded fae.”

I asked if this was a common thing, leaving babies like that.

“Oh aye, it was common in the Highlands when I was a girl. It’s the only chance the sickly babes have, ye see. My auntie happily raised her changeling as her own, for it meant the fae had her son and were doing the same. Owen, she’d named them both.” Glynnis smiled remembering.

I hadn't set out for any of the other characters to have actual experience with a changeling. This was a very curious addition to the story and I liked it. I urged her to share more, “And you say Lenox reminds you of baby Owen?”

“Aye, his lairdship has a similar presence.”

"Please explain."

“Weel, manys the time I’d hold wee Owen and he’d set me to tingling from head to toe. It’s a sensation one never forgets, dear. That very same tingle comes from the touch of headmaster Eppa and from his daughter Janet every time she comes to treat me with her herbs. The tingling sensation also came from the hand of the new Laird of Carterhaugh.”

I’d written Mrs. Frew to be quite an astute woman. She certainly was.

“Mistress Madeline, if I may, do keep this opinion of mine to yerself, hmm? I don’t think our young laird knows what he is just yet. It would be a jarring revelation, no?”

No he didn’t know just yet, but he’d have to know eventually. His life was in danger. I reached over and gave her slight knobby fingers a squeeze of assurance. “His secret is safe with me, Mrs. Frew. Thank you for sharing your insights.”

She smiled and reaching for the plate of scones, said, “Mrs. Nevin, our cook, makes delicious scones. Do have one, dear. Now if ye don’t mind, I have a few questions myself...”

>>۞<<

The Changeling is a spin on the Scottish ballad of Tam Lin.
Listen to the ballad here.

Read all the Tam Lin versions through time

Blurb ~
Half-fae Lenox Pendry is surrounded by secrets and none are his to keep. Torn from his mother’s arms as a newborn and raised a changeling, Lenox grows to adulthood unaware of what and who he is and oblivious to the danger unfolding as his birthday draws near. Unwittingly sent to the Scottish Lowlands out of harm’s way, he meets a beautiful healer named Janet Roxburgh. The townspeople believe her to be a witch. It would appear Janet has a few secrets of her own.

BUY on AMAZON
"Madeline delivers a well thought out beautiful story with a plot that unfolds before your eye, it's very cleverly written. The characters you meet along the way are believable and the reader can relate to them."
~A Reader

>>۞<<

Stop by my blog for interesting topics all month long

http://calliopeswritingtablet.com/

Rose Anderson is a multi-published award-winning author and dilettante who loves great conversation and delights in interesting things to weave into stories. Rose also writes across genres under the pen name Madeline Archer. She lives with her family and small menagerie amid oak groves and prairie in the rolling glacial hills of the upper Midwest.

The Changeling by Madeline Archer comes from the sweeter side of Rose’s imagination and is rated PG. Find Rose Anderson's scorching novels wherever love stories are sold

Sample Rose Anderson's Scorching First Chapters 

Tea with Finola & Martin by Rose Anderson

Experience tells me the literary characters created in my imagination evolve into people of substance. I walk into their world and they share with me all the details of their lives, details I never realized while writing them. I’m always surprised to discover these insights for they too have life’s baggage and skeletons in their closets. That makes sense. Things like this make us the people we are. Funny thing, I feel these emotions when they reveal them, as if those insights are actually a view inside my own soul. Hmm… I suppose they are. I wrote them!

I had such an encounter recently when I found myself 111 years in the past …

Tea with Finola and Martin

I was standing beside an ancient tree on the Harvard campus, absorbed in the magic of being transported 111 years back in time, when a lovely old woman came up to me. She had snow-white hair and expressive green eyes, her appearance indefinably reminiscent of an Irish actor I’d seen once. I recognized her instantly as Finola Maguire and said hello.

She was all smiles and spoke with a faint Irish lilt when she said, “Ah, Rose, I’ve been waitin’ for ye to come to call. Come inside an’ I’ll put the kettle on for tea.”

She placed her hands on the ancient tree and I heard her indistinct whisper. Suddenly, a small glittering cottage appeared right before my eyes. I followed her inside and she asked me to sit. The house was cozy, no more than two or three rooms, as far as I could tell. She took off her coat and hung it on a hook by the door, then went to tend her teakettle. To my surprise, a brass button shot out of an old boot near the hearth to clatter across the floor.

Seeing it, Mrs. Maguire peered into the boot, and said, “Martin, stop sortin’ yer treasures. Look who’s come for a visit. It’s Rose herself!”

A second later, a packrat emerged. I greeted him and he chittered happily. I caught Mrs. Maguire’s eye hoping she’d translate. After all, she was a witch and he was her familiar spirit.

She said, “Martin says he’s so glad you’ve come and wonders if ye’d care to look at his collection. He’s very proud of it, ye know. Go on an’ take a look, dear. it’s sure to make ye smile. I’ll only be a minute with our tea.”

Delighted, I turned my attention to the packrat. The little sprite dipped in and out of his boot with a great many buttons, keys, and other things that he’d found lost on the ground. I told him how impressed I was and could tell it pleased him by the happy ridges that appeared just above his eyes. He was about to show me the collection in the other full boot in the corner across the room, when we were called to take our tea.

Mrs. Maguire filled my cup first and then saw to her own. For Martin, she poured a splash of milk in a saucer, then buttered a corner of a biscuit for him. His tail pointed to the jam jar and she spread blackberry jam over his butter then handed it over. He took the piece in his deft little paws and launched right into it.

Apparently his not waiting for us was a lapse in manners, in her opinion, for she tsked. Motioning to the plate of scrumptious-looking biscuits, she told me, “Oh do help yerself, dear. We don’t stand on ceremony, do we Martin?”

He looked at me and shook his head. His whiskers were purple with jam and crumbs stuck to his nose. I found him adorable.

I helped myself to the biscuits. They were delicious and tasted exactly like biscuits my grandmother used to make. But of course they would. We writers often use what we know when we write our scenes. I judiciously asked about her grandson. I pretty much knew the outcome of this story, but they didn’t just yet.

“Oh Rose,” she said, “for more than two hundred years I’ve searched high an’ low for others to help me with me daughter Abigayle’s charm. There are no other witch folk.”

She went on to say she recently spent two weeks traveling to Salem for the rents, then on to Boston for the banking, and then back home again. While she was in Boston, she placed inscrutable ads in the local newspapers, things only other witch folk would understand. Not a soul had yet replied. She dabbed her glistening eyes with her napkin, and said, “I’ve come to suspect the others of my kind were either all murdered during the witch hunts, or they abandoned the Auld ways to save themselves.”

Martin chittered and I suspected he wanted her to explain the Auld ways to me. This proved to be the case when she asked him the best way to distill this vast concept to a non-witch like myself. Whiskers dripping with milk, he chittered on and on. She listened and occasionally nodded. Finally, to me she said, “Ye know Martin is an ancient creature, Rose, far older than we. What he knows comes from long ago when people lived closer to nature. Back then, there were some with an affinity for the energies of all life. These were my people, Rose. The energies are auld, as old as time itself—a life force if ye will, an’ it exists in every livin’ thing. Folks with this affinity understand that life comes in two halves of the whole.”

Martin, now grooming himself after his meal, stopped and chittered once more.

“Oh that’s a good explanation, Martin.” To me, she said, “Ye don’t see a stag without seein’ a doe, nor a hen without a rooster. An’ ye don’t see a woman without seein’ a man. It’s the same for everythin’, Rose. Even the flowers an’ trees have both sides within them. My kind understands the glorious Mind who made it all, an’ we know the Mind walks among creation as both the god an’ goddess. An’ because we understand this, we are allowed to call upon the energies of nature for magic.”

I couldn’t help but ask why the witches of Salem couldn’t call upon these energies to help put an end to the persecutions.

“Oh bless ye, dear. If only we could have done so. There were so few of us to stand against the fear and intolerance, ye see. Long ago, when everyone followed the Auld ways, it would have been a small matter to turn an ill wish into good. It takes the belief of many to turn dark thoughts to light ones. But somethin’ happened when a few people learned they could wield power by incitin’ fear in others. The fearful ones turned away from the Auld ways, an’ in time they simply forgot.”

I couldn’t help but compare the intolerance of the past to current events in my own time. Intolerance was an ugly thing no matter when. I told them as much.

Martin chimed in. She nodded and relayed his words, “He says ye always must believe the world can be better, for that’s exactly how it becomes so. Ye must believe, dear. Believe and hope.”

I understood what they meant. Positive thinking often made the seemingly impossible possible. My thoughts turning to the nearly impossible situation her grandson was in, I asked about Neila.

“Oh, she’s a dear, sweet-natured lass. An’ so terribly shy. The poor dear gets all tongue-tied when it comes to talkin’ with people so she keeps to herself. I have her makin’ her sketches across the way in that empty building. She’s practicin’ her conversation while she works.”

How sly of her. I told her so.

Her cheeks pinkened. She smiled back at me and said, “Hope is a good thing, dear.”

Martin chittered. There was no need to translate. I understood.

One new pen name, two new love stories.
Both available for pre-order this week!

 
http://www.amazon.com/Entice-Me-Luscious-Love-Stories-ebook/dp/B015YEHP9U/ 

The Changeling
A spin on the Scottish ballad of Tam Lin

Blurb ~
Half-fae Lenox Pendry is surrounded by secrets and none are his to keep. Torn from his mother’s arms as a newborn and raised a changeling, Lenox grows to adulthood unaware of what and who he is and oblivious to the danger unfolding as his birthday draws near. Unsuspectingly sent to the Scottish Lowlands out of harm’s way, he meets a beautiful healer named Janet Roxburgh. The townspeople believe her to be a witch. It would appear Janet has a few secrets of her own.

http://www.amazon.com/Paranormal-Romance-Changeling-Sweet-Novel-ebook/dp/B015QBO3VO/

>>۞<<

Stop by my blog for interesting topics all month longhttp://calliopeswritingtablet.com/

http://madelinearcher.blogspot.com/

Rose Anderson is a multi-published award-winning author and dilettante who loves great conversation and delights in interesting things to weave into stories. Rose also writes across genres under the pen name Madeline Archer. She lives with her family and small menagerie amid oak groves and prairie in the rolling glacial hills of the upper Midwest.

Find Rose's scorching novels wherever love stories are sold
Sample the First Chapters