Stingy Jack

Happy Saturday readers, writers, and BryonySeries fans.

In honor of October and autumn fun, here's a short story excerpt from the third installment of Before the Blood.

It's the late nineteenth century in a fishing village in northern Michigan. The gathering is an all-age harvest party at Fisher Farm. The perspective is third person, from a sheltered nine-year-old's point of view, who's at the party with her aunt and uncle.

The storyteller is Owen Munson, the village leader. He just won a bottle of "Grandpa" Clyde Fisher's moonshine for winning a pumpkin carving contest.

If you'd like to know more of the Irish lore behind this piece of fiction, visit https://www.irishcentral.com/roots/history/jack-o-lantern-turnips-ireland

            Gradually, the men arranged the pumpkins, now grotesquely carved and lit with candles, around the bonfire, which now burned lower, less brightly.

            "Owen, come git yore prize!"

            Mesmerized, Bryony watched the flickering eyes of the cadaverous lanterns.

            "Now, you young'un's know the legend of the Stingy Jack?" Mr. Munson asked.

            The reply was a chorus of. "Noooo!"

            Immersed in the mystery of the night, Bryony could only watch Mr. Munson and shake her head.

            A sly expression crossed his face, and he took a swig from his well-earned bottle.

            "Well, it just so happens Stingy Jack's legend begins with a bottle just like this."

            Mr. Munson held it up for all to see.

           "Now everyone knows," Mr. Munson dropped his voice, "that the devil makes the best moonshine around." He raised his eyes and the bottle. "No slam, Clyde!"

            "None, taken!"

            "So Stingy Jack longed for some of the devil's brew, but he didn't want to ante up for it. 'Course, he wouldn't share that information with you-know-who. So he washed his face and combed his hair and knocked on the door of hell and told the devil he wanted to buy his best spirits."

            "'Why, come in, Jack,' the devil says, setting down his pitchfork and opening the furnace door wide. 'I've got just the thing.'"

            "So Jack goes inside, drinks up the sample, and says, 'Oh, ho, devil, you have to get up early in the morning to trick Old Jack. I said I wanted to buy your best spirits.' And Jack threw down the glass."

            Mr. Munson's eyes swept over the crowd. "Now what do you  s'pose happened to poor Jack?"

            No one answered. Bryony's mouth hung loose, and she shrank lower on her hay bale..

            "Well, the devil says, 'Why, Jack, you are a clever man. I only save the best spirits for the most worthy of drinkers.' And the devil brought in a fresh glass for Jack to taste.'

            "Jacks drinks it up, smacks his lips, and again throws down the glass. 'Mr. Satan,' Jack said, 'I'm beginning to think the tales about your moonshine are false. If you don't have anything better'n this, I'll be on my way.'

            "But as Jack turns to leave, the devil grabs him by the throat. 'Now, Jack,' the devil says, 'I'll have no dissatisfied customers, especially when they are as discerning as you. Wait here."

            Mr. Munson took a gulp and swiped his mouth on his shoulder.

            "So Jack waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits. After a long, long wait, the devil trots in with a glass of the clearest brew Jack ever did see. Jack, delighted the devil finally brought forth the goods, savored that drink, sip by itty bitty sip, until he was done."

            Mr. Munson paused, grinning as wickedly as a Hoberdy lantern.

            "'Did you enjoy it?' the devil asked. "I've had better,' Jack said and turned to the door, only to find the door had disappeared into the flames, as had the walls and everything else except for him and Satan.

            "'It's time to settle your debt, Jack,' the devil softly said.

            "This frightened Jack, but he still was keen on outwitting the devil. 'Lookee here, Satan,' Jack said. 'I've somehow misplaced my wallet. If you just let me run home, I'll be back lickety-split with your money.'

            "'I'm afraid it's not that simple, Jack,' the devil replied.

            Mr. Munson took a gulp of Old Man Fisher's moonshine and a step toward the audience.

            "'You see, Jack, anyone who's tasted my prized spirits can no longer enter heaven, but because you tried swindling me, you ain't fit for hell, either.'"

            Mr. Munson moved closer to the hay hales.

            "This frightened Jack. He wished he never heard of the devil or his moonshine."

            Mr. Munson leaned close to the front row.

            "'There's only one way to pay for this, Jack. I'm gonna have to take..."

            He grabbed Freddie Betts' throat, and Freddie slid right off his bale and out of Mr. Munson's clutches.

            "Your soul! MUAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!"

              Freddie sprinted to the outhouse. With a snarl and a chuckle, Mr. Munson brought the bottle to his lips, leaned down, and scanned the faces before him.

            "Now that the devil had poor Jack's soul, he needed a place to stick it. So he sliced the top off a juicy pumpkin, gouged out some eye holes, and a nose hole, and a mouth hole so Jack could see the world he lost, stuffed Jack's soul in, and popped back the top."

           An invisible force lured Bryony's gaze to the rows of Hoberdy lanterns, their lost souls cavorting in hellfire and damnation.