The legend of Stingy Jack

An original short story, by Grant Hamilton. Based on the folk tale.

Read it, after the jump.

The Legend of Stingy Jack

Long ago, before your grandparents’ grandparents were even babies, back in the days when people didn’t much leave their towns or villages for most of their lives, and when the woods and empty fields that surrounded their homes were lonely, frightening places, there lived a man named Stingy Jack.

Of course, no one actually named him Stingy, not to his face. But there weren’t too many who spoke to his face much at all.

While villagers lived in the village, and farmers lived in the fields, Stingy Jack had a ramshackle old place deep in the dark woods, where few people ever went. Even hunters who stumbled across it got chills, and turned away.

He had a wee vegetable patch in the back, overgrown with thistles and weeds, and he kept a skeletal old goat tied up with rope. When he needed something else, he’d march to the village, where townsfolk would look down and cross the street to avoid him. Stingy Jack would snatch something from the shelf of some poor shopkeeper, and grudgingly offer up a coin to pay for it.

Now, the unlucky shopkeeper would always marvel, later, at the fact that Stingy Jack’s coins were universally bright, and shiny, and polished. They were  obviously well cared-for, which nobody could understand, since Stingy Jack himself lived in a hovel (said those who had seen it) and always wore rags that were near to falling apart.

But the shiny coins that he pulled from his wallet were always good, and the shopkeepers could never fully prove that when Stingy Jack paid for one thing, three or four other things seemed to disappear from the store as well.

Until, that is, one harvest eve, when Stingy Jack made a pilgrimage to the village and entered the blacksmith’s shop. The smithy had done a good deal of work this harvest, and his shop was filled with metal tools and trinkets.

Stingy Jack picked up a long, nasty metal spike, and offered a small coin to the blacksmith in payment. As always, it was a coin that looked new from the mint, crisply round, and bright and shiny. But the blacksmith was used to looking at bright shiny embers, and hot, glowing metal, so perhaps his eyes weren’t taken quite so much with the coin as other shopkeepers in the village. For even as the blacksmith took the coin from Stingy Jack’s begrudging hand, he glanced over to see a well-made silver cross disappearing into Jack’s other pocket.

“Aha! Thief!” cried the blacksmith, and Stingy Jack leapt up to flee.

Though it burned Stingy Jack to leave his coin behind, he knew he had been caught red-handed, and he burst through the door and out to the street, brandishing the spike menacingly, with the valuable silver cross hanging low in his pocket.

Attracted by the cries of the blacksmith, a dozen or more villagers were crowding around, and Stingy Jack knew that he had to flee. He raced through the village square and out into the fields beyond, with townsfolk pursuing him, hot on his heels.

He knew his only chance was to disappear into the woods — woods that they found fearful, and woods that he knew all the secret paths and groves.

But even as the sun set behind him, and he managed to dash through the trees, the pursuing townsfolk were close behind. He couldn’t lose them.

They were gaining on him, closer and closer; he could hear dogs barking, and see the glimmer of torches being lit.

Then he rounded a tree and stopped short. And old man, withered and gray, stood in his path. Stingy Jack could smell the smoke was all around him, and he trembled to think of what justice the townsfolk might dole out.

“Get out of my way,” he threatened the old man. “Get off my path!” But the figure in front of him lifted up his head, staring down Stingy Jack, and Stingy Jack knew, with a glance into the dark eyes, that he was face to face with the Devil himself.

“No, I think we’ll be walking this path together,” said the Devil, and Stingy Jack felt a shiver run down his spine, though his heels and deep into the cold ground.

“They’ll have their way with your body,” said the Devil, and a howl went up from the dogs of the townsfolk. “But your soul is coming with me.” And the Devil turned to take a fork that Stingy Jack knew hadn’t been there before.

“Stop!” cried Stingy Jack. “I know my soul belongs to Hell, and my body belongs to the dogs and men back there. But would you give up the chance to bedevil those that chase me? Why don’t you leave me the chance to befoul their lives one last time before you take me to my punishment.”

And the Devil, intrigued, allowed that a final trick would be in order. For in truth, the pleasant villagers were not easy pickings for the master of Hell, and he hadn’t much hope of capturing their souls.

“They give chase because I stole,” Stingy Jack said to the Devil. “And I left my coin behind. But I know that the Devil can assume any form. Make yourself appear to be a gold coin big enough to more than pay for my thefts. I’ll hand it over to those that chase me, and they’ll have to accept it. But when you later disappear, they’ll soon turn to fighting amongst themselves.”

“Agreed,” said the Devil, and in a flash of dark light, he became a dull, heavy coin, reddish-gold in the twilight. When Stingy Jack picked it up, it bore a deep warmth that nevertheless sent another chill down his spine.

As the villagers closed in, Stingy Jack didn’t hesitate. He plunged the coin deep into his pocket and pressed it close against the stolen cross.

Instantly, he could feel the Devil’s fury, but he held the cross tight against the evil coin.

“Release me!” demanded the Devil, furious at Stingy Jack’s betrayal. But Stingy Jack held fast, knowing that the cross kept the Devil powerless.

“I’ll release you under three conditions,” said Stingy Jack.

The Devil thrashed, but he knew that Stingy Jack had trapped him.

“What three?” he asked.

“Send the villagers home, make them forget that I ever stole,” said Jack. “That’s the first.” And the Devil agreed.

“A vault of riches,” added Jack. “A strongbox filled with gold and silver, enough to last me the rest of my life.” And the Devil agreed.

“And ten years,” said Stingy Jack. “You’ll not come after my soul for ten more years.” For Stingy Jack was sure that, with enough money, and with the forgetfulness of the villagers assured, ten years would be enough time to reform his own soul, and escape the Devil’s clutches forever.

“Ten years,” agreed the Devil. And so Stingy Jack released him from the cross in his pocket.

Instantly, the sounds of the pursuing villagers faded, and Jack found a chest overflowing with coins at his feet.

“Ten years,” repeated the Devil. “Mark me well — I’ll see you in ten years, Stingy Jack.”

Now Stingy Jack, alone in the forest with his new riches, was pleased, and thought that he had outfoxed the Devil. But as anyone knows, money doesn’t always make one good, and Stingy Jack found himself spending more and more time, alone in his ramshackle hut in the woods, counting coins and polishing them to be as shiny as could be.

His trips into town became even less frequent, and he begrudged handing over any of the Devil’s riches to the townsfolk, and he seemed to see them staring at him, looking out of the sides of their eyes as if they didn’t trust him, but didn’t quite remember why.

So one year became two, and two years became five. And five years became ten. And Stingy Jack was just as miserly as he ever had been, and just as miserable. And he was just as much an evil sinner. For though he didn’t steal, neither was he kind or neighbourly.

And as the sun went down one harvest eve, Stingy Jack found himself walking through the dark. The smoke from from harvest fires filled his nose and as he turned round a corner, he came face-to-face with a withered old man, and he knew instantly who it was.

“Ah, it’s you,” Stingy Jack said to the Devil.

“It’s been ten years,” the Devil said. “I’ve come to collect my due.”

And Stingy Jack hung his head, resigned to his fate, when inspiration struck.

“I’m an old man,” said Stingy Jack. “And I’m ready to face my fate. But if you wouldn’t mind granting me one small favour first.”

The Devil was wary, having been tricked before. But all Stingy Jack said he wanted was a single apple, so he wouldn’t have to go to Hell on an empty stomach.

And the Devil laughed, having a special love of apples, himself, and said he’d be happy to fetch starving Stingy Jack an apple from a tree. But as the Devil climbed up, Stingy Jack kept calling “Higher! The next one. The one that’s red!” until the Devil was near the very top of the tree, swaying in the breeze.

As the Devil reached out to finally pluck the highest apple, Stingy Jack reached into his pocket, and he pulled out the cross that he’d stolen ten years ago, and he planted it in the dirt at the base of the tree.

For a second time, Stingy Jack had trapped the Devil, and the Devil gnashed his teeth in fury, but couldn’t climb down past the cross.

“Leave me be!” shouted Stingy Jack. “I will free you only if you promise and pledge to never take my soul. Never!”

The Devil was furious angry, but powerless to refuse.

“Never, Stingy Jack, never will I take your soul — not even if you beg.”

This delighted old Jack, and he pulled the cross from the ground at the base of the tree, bowing with a flourish as the Devil climbed down and glared at him.

Then the Devil went his way, and Stingy Jack went home to his piles of silver and gold and his miserly life.

But, of course, the day soon came where Stingy Jack was on his deathbed. No one came to visit, but Stingy Jack didn’t care. He was still counting coins when he coughed his last, and his soul departed.

If you could see Stingy Jack’s soul, you’d see the last smile of his life, an ugly old grimace, self-satisfied as it cracked across his face.

Stingy Jack’s soul mounted all the way to Heaven, secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t belong to Hell. But the gates of Heaven remained closed fast, no matter how much he knocked or wailed.

And after months of trying, he gave up, and descended all the way to the doors of Hell. There, the Devil met him with a smile.

“Heaven won’t have me,” cried Stingy Jack. “And there’s nowhere else to be. You have my soul after all.” And he wept.

But the Devil laughed. “Oh no, Jack!” he said. “I’ll not take your soul. A promise is forever!”

Stingy Jack howled. “But where shall I go? Neither Heaven nor Hell will have me!”

The Devil cackled. “No punishment, no reward.”

As Jack turned, miserable, knowing that his soul was condemned to walk the earth forever, alone, the Devil called out.

“Take this!” the Devil shouted, tossing Jack an ember from Hell, which would never burn out. “It will light your way.”

The fires from the ember were too hot for Stingy Jack’s soul, so he went back to his shack in the woods, and he dug up a turnip from the weedy, overgrown patch, and he carved it into a lantern to hold the ember.

Some say that he wanders his woods to this day. Others, that he wanders the whole world.

But all agree that, in the dark or in the mist, especially on All Hallow’s Eve, if you’re very unlucky, you can feel the chill of Stingy Jack’s soul, the icy grip of his ghostly fingers tapping your shoulders.

But turn as you might, no candle or light can reveal him. He can only be seen in the fiery glow of his Hellish ember, flickering out from his carved turnip lantern.

The End

——–

(I wrote this myself, but the folktale is real. I drew on the information in this Wikipedia article, this Noareinna page, and this History.com page. Note that Wikipedia also refers to the legend on its “Jack-O’-lantern” page, where it also asserts that a Jack-O’-Lantern is not the wandering soul of miserable old Stingy Jack, but instead a term for a night watchman, with a lantern. Or a will-o-the-wisp. But I think we all know what is much more plausible.)