Jack

  “You want an apple?” I took it, though I wasn’t hungry. “You need a place to sleep? You can stay in my bread bin. It’s not much, but we got all we need.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not staying. I’m going to go look for my papa.”

  “You be careful, now. They say some of those giants can be real ogres.”

  “I will. Thanks for the apple.”

  I left Horace and walked slowly back to the barn where Tom was milking a cow.

  “Come on,” said Tom. “I’ve already milked four.”

  I took a bucket and picked a cow to milk.

  Across from where we sat, Martha and the rest of the kitchen servants were busy preparing the royal breakfast trays. They set out bowls of porridge and tea and toast, but one tray stood out among the rest. Firstly, the tray and all the dishes were made of pure gold, right down to the sugar spoon, and secondly, it had about a hundred poached eggs, fifty slabs of bacon, and a mountain of fruit. Finally, Martha unlocked a cupboard and brought out a glass bowl filled with gold flakes. She sprinkled the gold all over the food, like one might dust sugar over a cake.

  “Is that the giant king’s breakfast?” I asked.

  Tom nodded. “Can you imagine being so rich you can eat gold?”

  I couldn’t.

  “And guess what his name is?” said Tom. “King Barf!” He burst out laughing.

  Martha cleared her throat, suddenly towering over us. “His Royal Majesty’s name is King Bartholomew Archibald Reginald Fife, Tom dear, and you had better watch your tongue. The king is not merciful to those who cross him, no matter how small. Why, just last week a chambermaid told me she saw the king throw an elf straight into the fire!”

  I gulped. I had a terrible vision of Papa being thrown into flames. “Does the king keep elves, then?” I asked.

  “Why, I suppose so, yes, though for what purpose I’m sure I don’t know. His Majesty gave me all my elf helpers—all except you and Tim—but all elves are given by His Majesty’s command.”

  Ding! A bell rang.

  “Oh my! And now the king demands his breakfast!” Martha sprinkled the king’s breakfast with one more spoonful of gold before it was whisked away.

  Could King Barf have Papa? Either way, Martha said he was the one in charge of where they all went. That meant he had to have seen Papa at some time and sent him somewhere. It clearly wasn’t the kitchen.

  “Heads up!” said Tom. He squirted some milk right in my eye. “Bull’s-eye!”

  Milk was dripping down my face, but I went right back to work, pretending I didn’t care. Then, when he wasn’t expecting it, I squirted Tom in the ear, and suddenly we were in a milking duel and not so much milk got into the buckets.

  Abandoning his cow altogether, Tom picked up a giant fork. “Let’s joust like knights!” he said, raising the fork like a lance.

  I scoured the barn until I found a fork leaning against a bale of hay. I struggled to lift it. It was heavy!

  “Charge!” Tom cried, and raced toward me.

  “I will vanquish thee, villain!” I lumbered forward in an awkward trot. Our forks clanged together as we passed. Tom knocked me over and nearly stabbed me in the gut. I tumbled to the ground.

  “Are you okay?” asked Tom.

  I grinned. “Let’s do it again!”

  We clashed the forks again and again, until my mind wandered to the times when Papa and I used to play swords. He’d play the villain or the giant, and I’d be the hero. We had these amazing death scenes where I’d stab him and he’d grunt and choke and fall down on the ground and twitch and lie still. I’d wait for a few moments, and then I’d creep up on him and whisper, “Papa?” but he’d stay silent, and then I’d poke him a little. He wouldn’t move. Finally I would bend down and check for his breathing or a heartbeat, and that was when he’d growl and grab me and throw me up in the air. Then he’d tickle me until I laughed so hard, my stomach hurt. Thinking of this made my chest hurt.

  I put down my fork-lance. The sunlight had moved above the windows now, which meant it was probably close to midday. I looked around at the lunch preparations. A giant maid was shaking salt and pepper into a pot of bubbling soup. Another was placing bread and cheese on a tray, and Martha had just taken a pudding out of the oven and set it on the table to cool.

  I needed to find Papa, and finding the king was my best chance. I’d meet him face-to-face—or face-to-foot. I’d demand he give me Papa. Or else!

  “Tom, is there a way to get to the other table? The one where Martha is?”

  “Sure, we just need a spoon.”

  “A spoon?”

  “You’d be surprised how much you can do with a giant spoon.” Tom disappeared and then came back a minute later, dragging a soup spoon. He set it down and rubbed his hands together. “Stand on the end there.”

  “How is a spoon supposed to get me across the table? Does it fly?”

  Tom smiled. “Something like that. Get on!”

  I tentatively stepped onto the end of the spoon’s handle, not sure what to expect.

  “Terrific. Now wait a minute.” Tom climbed up some bales of hay and onto the roof of the barn. He shouted down at me. “Bend your knees! One! Two—”

  I suddenly realized what he was doing. “Tom, I don’t—” But it was too late.

  “Three!” Tom jumped off the barn and landed on the other end of the spoon. I catapulted into the air.

  “Snakes and toooooooads!” I soared over the table, arms and legs flailing, and landed on top of a mountain of potatoes. I tumbled down in a potato avalanche.

  Tom swung across the kitchen to join me on a rope tied to one of the chandeliers. “That was amazing! You should have seen how high you flew.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me about the rope?” I grumbled.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Tom seemed perplexed. “No elf has ever traveled by catapult before! You should feel honored.”

  I cracked a smile. I had to admit it was fun. I also had to admit that I liked Tom quite a bit. Maybe he didn’t understand what it was like to lose your papa, but he was exactly the friend I’d always wished for back home, someone who liked big adventure and a little mischief.

  Tom found another spoon and was dragging it into place beneath a giant block of cheese.

  “Come on! It’s my turn! You can jump from the cheese.”

  “Okay.” I had time to send Tom up into the air once. If I shot him somewhere across the room, he wouldn’t be able to stop me from sneaking off on the king’s lunch tray. I climbed the cheese, which made a great squelching sound every time I stuck my hands in or pulled them out. When I reached the top, I was covered in sticky, stinky cheese. I hoped Martha wouldn’t find me, or she’d give me another bath.

  Tom was on the end of the spoon, knees bent and ready.

  “Count to three!” shouted Tom, grinning like he was about to get his greatest wish.

  “One, two, three!” I jumped and landed on the end of the spoon. Tom went flying.

  “Wheeeeeee!” he shouted with glee.

  And I, being gooey and slick with cheese, slipped off the spoon and stumbled to the edge of the table. I flailed my arms and nearly fell, but luckily caught myself on Tom’s rope. Safe.

  Ding! The bell rang.

  “Lunch!” Martha sang.

  The kitchen broke into chaos. A maid swept right in my path and caught her arm on the rope, so I swung wildly across the table. I jumped on a loaf of bread and bounced a few times on the spongy surface before I flew off and—splat!—landed in something warm and wet and squishy. I licked the crumbs around my mouth. Whatever I had landed in, it was tasty.

  “Don’t forget the king’s pudding!” Martha picked up the dish.

  The king’s pudding…

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Martha! I’m here! It’s me Jack—I mean Tim! I’m in the pudding!” I yelled and waved my arms, but she could neither hear nor see me—the kitchen was too loud. She quickly passed the dish off to a servant, and
I was whisked away.

  I tried to get out of the pudding, but it was like swimming through thick, gooey mud—impossible.

  The servant walked briskly down dimly lit corridors, turned a corner, and entered an enormous dining hall with sky-high arched ceilings, giant-sized paintings of lords and ladies, and an endless table covered with golden plates and goblets, steaming food, and lighted candles as tall as trees.

  The servant set the pudding down right in front of a giant. His face was pudgy and pink, with dark beady eyes and a sneering mouth. His upturned nose gave him the distinct look of a pig. He was dressed entirely in gold—gold robes, gold chains, gold rings, and two gold crowns upon his head, one stacked on top of the other.

  There was no mistaking it. This was the giant king. King Barf. And I was in his lunch.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fee, Fie, Fo, Fum!

  The king lifted a golden spoon and crashed it into the pudding, narrowly missing me. A moment later the spoon plunged down right next to my ear. King Barf ate with speed and greed, scooping up more as soon as he had shoveled the last glob into his mouth. I dodged one bite and then another, and as the pudding dish cleared, I made my way toward the edge.

  Just when I thought I was out of danger, the spoon scooped beneath my feet and scraped me against the edge of the dish. Suddenly I was barreling toward the king’s mouth—a huge cave lined with yellowish boulders. I was going to be eaten by a giant.

  The spoon tipped. I slid down onto a squishy, slimy tongue.

  The mouth-cave closed, and everything went black.

  King Barf’s tongue squished me to the roof of his mouth. Luckily, the king chewed with his mouth open, so every bite I got just enough light to dodge his teeth. Unluckily, his mouth didn’t open wide enough for me to escape without being sliced in half on the way out.

  I slid to the back of the throat and kicked out my legs. The tongue swelled up in defense and squished me hard, but I yanked and twisted and punched. The king gagged and coughed once, twice, and with a great gust of foul breath shot me out of his mouth.

  I soared past the pudding and right over a candlestick, narrowly missing the flame, and landed—plop!—in a hot green pond. Some of the liquid splashed into my mouth. Blech! Green bean soup! I swam to the shore of the tureen, seeking shelter in the crevice where the ladle rested. I’d nearly been eaten! But it looked like I’d escaped, miraculously, with no giant teeth marks.

  The king coughed and hacked some more. “This pudding is full of gristle,” he spat in a cold, nasal voice. “Servant! Take this disgusting mush away!” A servant picked up the dish and walked quickly out of the room, but before he disappeared, I saw him dig his hands into the pudding and stuff some into his mouth. No food goes to waste in a famine.

  The king took another dish and went on with shoveling food into his mouth. Crumbs and juice dribbled down to the table.

  Cluck, cluck.

  Snakes and toads, there was a giant chicken on the table! A live hen, pecking at King Barf’s scraps. She was attached to the king’s wrist by a gold chain, and the king stroked her feathers while he ate.

  Across from the king sat a giant woman—the queen, I believed. She had fair skin, bright-blue eyes, golden hair, and ruby-red lips. She was very beautiful, except every now and then her tongue flicked out like a frog’s.

  In her lap the queen held a giant baby. The prince, I guessed, not more than a year old with chubby cheeks, two shiny sharp teeth, and a fountain of drool dripping down onto the queen’s plate.

  “Fee! Fee! Fo!” the giant baby said as he pounded on the table.

  The king glowered at the baby as though he smelled something foul. “Must you bring that troll to supper, woman?”

  “My name is not ‘woman,’ ” she said defiantly. “It’s Queen Opal, and this is not a troll. He’s your son and heir and has more right to be at the table than that animal.”

  The king petted the hen. “My Treasure shall stay with me always and everywhere I go, isn’t that so, Magician?”

  The king addressed another giant who sat between the king and queen. He had carroty orange hair that stuck up in all directions, and eyes that looked permanently mystified. “Oh, yes, Your Goldness,” said the magician. “Nothing is so important as your Treasure.”

  “Yes, you are my only delight, my Treasure,” the king cooed, and then he shouted, “Lay!”

  Suddenly the hen went rigid. She trembled a little, gave a loud squawk, and laid an egg. The king seized the egg and held it up to the candlelight. It was not an ordinary egg—neither brown nor white, not even blue or speckled. It was gold. That hen just laid a golden egg.

  The magician clapped his hands fast three times. “Oh very good, Your Goldness! It is such clever magic, is it not?”

  “Thank you, Magician,” said the king. “It is clever magic, though it would be even cleverer if you could make more. Ever since the queen stopped spinning golden straw, my gold supply is running dangerously low.”

  The queen’s eyes grew wide with fear. She flicked out her tongue.

  The magician sat up straight in his chair, like a soldier at attention. “I’m trying ever so hard, Your Goldness. Yesterday I nearly succeeded in turning a scullery maid’s hair to gold. I was certain I had it right. I’ll never understand why it caught fire….”

  The king waved his hand dismissively. “It’s of little consequence to me if you set someone’s hair on fire. I only wish you could make another golden hen. Or a golden goose or something. I do fear Treasure is wearing out, just like the queen, and then what will I do?”

  The magician sighed mournfully. “Indeed, I did try to make a golden goose, but the first froze into a statue, and the second laid eggs of coal, not gold, so I gave that one to the blacksmith for his fires, only I don’t think he appreciated it, because he chopped its head off right away and cooked it for supper.”

  The king clutched his hen close to his chest. “Don’t let that brute near my Treasure!”

  Bok, bok! said the hen.

  “Fee, fee!” laughed the baby, and pounded on the table while globs of drool ran down his chin.

  “Oh, take that slimy thing away,” barked the king. He turned to the queen. “And what is that horrid dress you’re wearing? Haven’t you any golden gown?”

  Queen Opal shuddered. “I…I don’t like to wear gold. It irritates my skin.”

  “How can you not like gold?” said the king. “I can’t stand to wear anything but gold. It’s the coziest thing in the world, isn’t it, Treasure? Lay!”

  The hen seized up, trembled, and expelled another golden egg.

  “That hen would serve better for a supper,” said the queen. “Your subjects have hardly any food at all, so I hear.”

  “What are you talking about?” said the king. “We have plenty of food. It comes in by the wagonload nearly every day!”

  “From the elf lands Below!” shouted the queen. “And how long can it possibly last? It’s all so tiny. How many elf villages are there?”

  “How should I know?” said the king. “Ask your brothers. They’re the ones who go down to that filthy place.”

  “Frederick and Bruno?”

  My ears perked up at this. Frederick and Bruno. They must be the brutes who had taken Papa.

  “Yes,” said the king. “They’ve finally proven useful to me, unlike you and your treacherous father. You’re lucky you didn’t suffer his fate after I found out you could no longer spin straw into gold.”

  The queen flicked out her tongue. “You can’t exile me! Not when I have Archie!” She clutched her baby to her chest.

  “Well, be thankful your brothers are working to pay off the debt. They’re in the armory now, I believe, preparing for another raid.”

  “But the elf food is so tiny,” said the queen, picking up a potato between her fingers. “How long can it possibly feed us?”

  “What does it matter? When we run out, we get more! There’s always more.”

  “But…what abo
ut the elves? Isn’t that stealing?” asked the queen. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll get angry?”

  Yes, it was stealing. And yes, I was angry!

  “What can they possibly do? They’re no bigger than my finger.”

  “Sometimes small things have a way of surprising you,” said the queen.

  “Fie! Fum!” sang the baby.

  The king stabbed his fork into a hunk of meat and stuffed it into his mouth. He spoke while he chewed. “That village was under my kingdom and therefore under my rule. All the food, all the animals, all the land, even the elves—they’re all mine, even if they are pitifully small.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem fair,” said the queen. “How would you like it if a giant came down from the sky and stole all your gold?”

  The king choked and coughed. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m too powerful to be defeated. I’d chop off their head!”

  “If you’re so powerful, why can’t you grow food? Or make it with magic? Can’t you have your magician make more food?”

  The magician perked up. “Yes, yes! Of course I could! I’ll turn this fork into a carrot!”

  “Not my gold!” cried the king. “Pick something else—that thing there!” He pointed to the baby prince, who was gnawing on a piece of bread.

  “Oh, goody, goody!” said the magician, reaching for the baby.

  The queen slapped him away. “Not my Archie, you monster! Turn yourself into food!”

  The magician screwed up his face. “I suppose I could. I never thought of that. You’re very clever, Your Majesty. Yes, I think it could work.” He held his hand very close to his face. He went cross-eyed as he mumbled some words very quickly under his breath.

  His fingers began to stretch and grow.

  They got longer and more pointed. They turned a little green, then white and orange, until finally all five fingers on his left hand were long, pointy carrots. The greens sprouted over his knuckles and bunched at his wrist like a frilly cuff.

  “Finger food!” said the magician. He bit the end off his pinky finger. “How convenient. No need to worry, Your Majesty. If we run out of food, we can simply eat ourselves!”