This story is not original to me; I read one version of it when I was a small kid, and have read several others since. But over time I have taken it and made it my own, telling it to kids year after year, and now I've finally written down "my" version of the tale of Jack o'the Lantern. Enjoy!!
THE STORY OF JACK O’THE LANTERN
Adapted
from an old English
Folk Tale
By
Lewis B. Smith
Once upon a time, long ago, in a time
we call the Middle Ages, and in the merry old realm of England, there lived a
man whose name was Jack. He may or may
not have been the wickedest man in England, but all who knew him certainly felt
that he was such. Jack beat his wife,
beat his children so often and so severely that they all ran away as soon as
they could walk, and for fun on Friday or Saturday nights he would go down to
the local tavern and challenge random strangers to fights, and then beat them
to unconsciousness. Jack was a tinker
and carpenter by trade; no one liked doing business with him because he overcharged
for his services and often did shoddy labor.
But any time another craftsman set up shop anywhere within twenty miles
of him, Jack would pay the unfortunate carpenter a visit, beat them bloody, and
set fire to their shop. In short, Jack
was a mean, angry, nasty bully who was feared by all and loved by none.
Late one night – in fact, it was All
Hallows Eve – Jack was on his way home after a long night of drinking and
fighting at the local tavern. He was feeling
quite satisfied with himself; he had encountered no less than three travelers
passing through, picked a fight with each of them one at a time, and beaten them
bloody without sustaining any serious injury.
He was, in fact, so happy he’d decided to spare his wife her weekly
beating, assuming his supper was still hot when he got home.
Jack was nearing a very dark, nasty
hollow in the forest, a place most travelers refused to pass through after
dark, since it was reputed to be haunted by both bandits and the spirits of
their slain victims. Jack, however, feared
neither man nor spirit, for he knew there was nothing in that forest meaner or
tougher than him.
But, as he passed through on this
particular night, Jack heard a sound off to one side of the path that drew his
undivided attention. It was a low,
terrible moan, the sound of a man in dreadful agony. In fact, when the sound came again, Jack was
sure what he heard was a man on the brink of death. But oddly enough, the sound didn’t produce
the same thrill Jack normally felt when he made men whimper in pain. Instead he felt something so odd, so foreign
to his nature, that it took him a moment to realize he was feeling what other
men called “pity.”
So Jack got off his horse and followed
the sound of the pathetic moans – for it was a moonless, cloudy night and the
hollow was pitch black – and after groping in the dark for a few minutes, he
encountered the body of a scrawny old man who had been beaten, stripped, and left
for dead. Hoisting the groaning victim
on his burly shoulders, Jack put the man on his own horse and led the beast the
last couple of miles to his home.
Jack’s terrified wife could not have
been more astonished when he kicked open the door and entered the home,
carrying the poor old fellow in his arms.
He crossed the large parlor and entered his bedroom, lying the bloodied
form in his own bed.
“I want hot water, bandages, and clean
towels, NOW, woman!” he roared as he tucked the old fellow in. Now that he could see the man’s face in the
flickering light of his bedroom lamp, he feared he may have been too late. The man was gasping for breath, his eyes
unfocused, holding onto life by a thread.
Jack left the room and met his wife
coming from the kitchen with a basin of hot water, towels, and some linen
strips he could use as bandages. He took
them with a glare, and then turned and re-entered his bedroom – where he
promptly dropped the basin, towels, linen, and water on the floor in shock!
The old man was had vanished, but
standing there beside the bed was the shining form of an angel straight from
heaven. His wings spread so wide that their
tips brushed the walls on either side of the room, and he was a head taller
than Jack, who was not a small man. The
angel smiled as Jack entered the room, and the brilliance of that expression
was such that the evil carpenter lowered his eyes.
“I knew it, Jack!” said the
angel. “I was informed that you were
utterly beyond redemption, but I told God that there was still a dollop of
compassion buried in that hard and wicked heart of yours! Now then, listen to me carefully. I am going to give you a test that will
determine the fate of your immortal soul.
You see, the Almighty has authorized me to grant you three wishes. You may ask for whatever you desire, but how
you spend those wishes will either save your soul from damnation, or send you
to the fires of hell, so choose wisely!”
Jack stared intently at the angel before
speaking.
“Three wishes, eh?” he said. “And I can ask for anything that I want?”
“That’s right,” the angel said. “But remember what I said, for your soul
hangs in the balance, Jack.”
Jack nodded, then took the angel by
the hand and led him into the parlor.
There, in front of the fire, was a huge chair with stuffed cushions,
placed in the best position for soaking up the heat on a cold night. Off to either side of the fireplace, in front
of the drafty windows, were two small, miserable stools. Jack pointed at the large, comfortable chair.
“Ye see this here chair?” he
said. “This is my chair. Built it meself, I did, and stuffed those
cushions with the finest goose down, so I would have a place to rest me weary
bones after a hard day’s work. But my
no-good neighbors, and those fools who call themselves my customers – well,
when they come into this house, what’s the first thing they do? Plop their arses down in my chair, and leave
me to take one of these miserable little stools instead!”
He paused, glaring at the memory, and
continued. “My first wish, Mister Angel,
is that whoever sits in that chair will be frozen, unable to move, until I
myself release them!”
The angel frowned, and then slowly nodded. “I can grant that wish,” he said, “but it is
a selfish wish. You must do better,
Jack, if you would know the joys of heaven!”
“I’m not done yet!” Jack snapped and
pointed to a stout oaken chest with iron staves that sat against the wall
opposite the fireplace. “See this here chest?
This is me toolbox. These tools
are my bread and butter; they put this roof over me head and food on me table. But my worthless neighbors love to pop in
unannounced and borrow them without my permission, and sometimes they get returned
to me broken – and sometimes never at all!
So my second wish is that anyone who touches my toolbox be frozen there,
unable to move, until I myself release them!”
“Oh, Jack,” the angel said, “that is
another selfish, terrible wish! I
thought you would have enough sense to redeem yourself, but you are proving me
more wrong by the minute!”
“I’m still not done,” Jack said, and
he took the angel by the hand and led him out to the yard, grabbing one of his
lamps as he went. He led the angel out
to a large, graceful yew tree that stood near the road in front of Jack’s cottage.
“See this here tree?” Jack said. “Me Da planted that tree the day I was born, and
it has grown up along with me, and like me it’s now tall and strong and
tough. But look here, here and here -”
he pointed to the trunk, where several branches had been rudely hacked
off. “These no-good travelers come down
my road, and they see these long, smooth, straight limbs, and decide to take
one to make a walking stick for themselves, without so much as a
by-your-leave. So my final wish, Mister
Angel, is that anyone who touches my tree be frozen there, unable to move,
until I myself release them!”
The angel shook his head sadly and laid
his hand on the tree for a moment. Then
he turned to face Jack and spoke a final time.
“Your wishes are granted, Jack, but
your own words have condemned you. You
have shown that the spark of decency you displayed earlier was nothing but a
passing fancy, and that your heart abides in wicked selfishness. Know this, Jack – one of these days the devil
will claim your soul!”
With that, the angel vanished in a
flash of blinding light, leaving only a faint smell of sweet perfume in his
wake. Jack stared at the tree for a few
moments, gave a satisfied snort, and turned on his heel and entered his
cottage, where he promptly retired for the night, sleeping as deep and sound as
ever, despite the dreadful condemnation he had received.
Twenty-five years passed. Jack grew old and grey, and his wife passed
on to her reward twelve years after the angelic visitation. Jack’s temper never reformed, although after
he turned fifty, he quit picking fights at the tavern, since he’d begun to lose
more than he won. But he was still a
hard-hearted, mean-spirited, evil old sinner, shunned by his neighbors unless
they required his services – and now that he was less able to terrorize his
competition, there were other tinkers and carpenters they could utilize some of
the time. Jack was still stout and
strong, but his stamina was fading, and from time to time he would feel his heart
flutter in his chest, and he knew that the time of his earthly dissolution was
drawing nigh.
One crisp evening Jack was seated in
his favorite chair, enjoying a warm fire on the last night of October. Suddenly there was a gout of fire and
brimstone, and a bright green demon materialized in his parlor, its skin smooth
and glistening, its eyes bright red and glowing. A youngish imp, Jack thought, seeing the
smooth, small horns and sharp fangs.
“Good evening, Jack,” the monster said
in a smooth, oily voice. “I suppose you
know why I am here? My master has a
claim on your soul and body, and I have come to collect on it!”
“Aye,” said Jack, rising and
stretching. “I’ve been expecting ye
these last few years. I don’t suppose it
will do me any good to put up a fight, now will it?”
“None whatsoever,” said the demon, “but
if you go quietly, I can make the journey easier than the destination will be.”
“Gladly,” said Jack. “But, if I may, sir – I know I am a wicked
man, but I’d like to write a note to my eldest son. Don’t know if he will ever see it or not, but
I’d like to leave it here for him. Why
don’t you have a seat in my nicest chair while I fetch a quill and paper?”
The demon insolently flopped down in
Jack’s still-warm armchair, settling deep into the cushions – and then suddenly
realized he could not move. Old Jack
grinned broadly and walked over to the corner by the door, where he kept a
stout oak cudgel that he used as a walking stick on his trips to town.
“So Old Nick thinks he can send a raw,
green imp whose scales aren’t even dry yet to harvest the soul of the wickedest
man in England?” Jack said with a laugh. “Well, here is what I think of that!”
He began to beat the demon viciously
with the cudgel, laying about its head and shoulders, breaking off its horns,
shattering its fangs, and fracturing both its kneecaps. Unable to move, the young demon began to
whimper, then to beg, and finally to scream for mercy, a sound so unnerving
Jack’s lone milk cow fell over dead when she heard it. After a while, Jack leaned on the cudgel and
smirked at the bloodied imp.
“Now go tell your master that if wants
to claim my soul, he needs to show me a bit more respect next time!” he
snapped. “Begone with you, imp!”
The demon staggered up from the chair
and vanished in a puff of damp, weak brimstone and smoke. Jack leaned his cudgel back against the wall,
heaved a deep sigh, and poured himself a glass of ale. Then he settled back down into his chair for
a quick nap, figuring that he didn’t have too long to wait.
Sure enough, little more than an hour
had passed when a huge spout of black, foul-smelling smoke announced the
arrival of a hoary old demon, his scales dark green and rough with age and
accumulated wickedness, his eyes a deep, nasty red reminiscent of a coal that
has burned long and hot. His horns were
huge, curved, and blunted at the ends from use, and his fangs stretched down
past his pointed chin.
“Time to go, Jack!” he snapped. “And none of your tricks, for I am Wormwood,
mighty in the service of the prince of darkness, and I will fall for none of
your shenanigans!”
Jack stood and gave a courteous bow.
“Now this is more like it!” he
said. “Not that I had anything personal
against that young fellow that came in earlier, I just felt it disrespectful to
my reputation for your master to send a novice to claim me.”
“Oh, my master will teach you a thing
or two about respect!” Wormwood snapped.
“Now come on, it’s a long walk to the pit that awaits you!”
“On me way,” said Jack, hobbling
across the room. But then he looked down
in disgust at his shoe, for the sole had come loose and was flapping as he walked.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Master Wormwood,”
he said. “But me shoe is trying to come
apart! Unless ye want to be carrying me
most of the way, I’d best fix it. Would ye hand me a tap-hammer from me toolbox?”
“Very well,” snapped Wormwood
impatiently, “but be quick about your repairs! You’ve cost us a great deal of
trouble already this evening. I’m
supposed to be off starting a war between Constantinople and Agrabah, and now I
am -”
The demon stopped in mid-sentence as
he suddenly realized that he could no longer move. His hand was reaching into the toolbox, his
posture bent over, and he could not so much as turn his head to look at his
victim!
Jack walked to the corner, retrieved
his cudgel, and proceeded to beat Wormwood as savagely as he could, up one side
and down the other, paying particular attention to those long, curved horns and
the stump of the demon’s mighty tail. At
first the elder demon kept his silence, but finally he started yelling, then
begging, and finally he was wailing like a Norwegian fisherman, screams so
bloodcurdling that calves were stillborn, babies cried in their cradle, and cats
did bark and chase dogs up trees throughout the realm of England!
“Now then,” said Jack when he was too
exhausted to lift his arms for another blow, “you go and tell your master that
if he has business with me, he can come and attend to it himself. Begone with ye, and trouble me no more!”
Wormwood shrieked his assent and dove
straight into the floor, leaving a smoking hole that quickly closed up on
itself in his wake. Jack nodded to
himself, leaned his stave against the wall, and returned to his chair for a
nap.
It was nearly two hours later when a
huge gout of fire and smoke heralded the arrival of Old Scratch himself. The Devil was bright red, his horns long and
straight, and his eyes as yellow as a candle’s flame.
“All right, old man,” he snapped, “You
are coming with me straightaway, and none of your tricks!”
Jack rose and groaned a bit – for it had
been a long time since he’d had such a workout – and nodded his head at Belial.
“A pleasure to meet you at last, Old
Nick,” he said. “I’ve known for years I’d
be making your acquaintance one of these days!”
“No pleasantries!” snapped Satan. “You
are mine, and I am taking you NOW!” With
that, he grabbed Jack by the hand and jerked him out of the house into the
front yard. He gestured at the ground
with a flourish, and with a roar and a rumble the earth split wide, to reveal a
black staircase leading down. Jack could
see, far below, the glow of the flames that awaited him. “Now get walking!” the devil roared. “You’ve
got twenty thousand steps to go!”
Jack paused at the edge of the chasm,
looking at the steps uncertainly.
“I’m an old man,” he said, “and
beating on your demons has wearied me.
Could ye not just break off one limb from yon tree for me, that I might
be able to balance? I’d hate to arrive
in hell with my legs broken from a fall!”
“Whiner!” the Devil said. “You’ll be wishing for broken legs when I am
done with you!” Jack innocently stared at him, and finally Satan sighed and
turned to the tree, eyeing it suspiciously.
“All right, old man, but none of your funny -”
He never finished his sentence,
because the minute he touched the tree he found himself unable to move. He screamed with fury at Jack’s treachery,
but the old man gave him a grin and hobbled back into the house, emerging moments
later with his cudgel in hand.
For the next hour, Jack proceeded to
beat the hell out of the Devil. Satan’s cries of anguish were so loud they
echoed around the globe, shattering windows, dropping birds from the sky, driving
men insane, and so badly frightening the Divided Arab Emirates that they fled
into each other’s arms and became the
United Arab Emirates to this day.
Finally, Jack fetched Satan such a mighty blow upside the head that the
cudgel broke in half, and he laid the jagged, pointed end at the devil’s
throat.
“Now the, Beelzebub, Old Nick, or
whatever name ye choose to go by, will you renounce all claim on my body and
soul from now till eternity ends?” he said. “Or shall I drive this through your
neck till it comes out the other side?”
“Yes!
Anything! We don’t want you down there
anyway!” Satan cried out.
“Then begone with ye, and trouble me
and mine no more!” Jack said, and the devil dove straight down the mighty
staircase to hell and slammed the earth shut after himself with so much force
that Rome fell all over again.
“Pesky devil,” Jack muttered, and
turned around to re-enter his home. But before
he could cross the threshold, there was a flash of holy light, and who should be
standing before him but the selfsame angel he’d seen all those years before? The angel was holding a lantern, and its
brilliant rays forced Jack to avert his gaze.
“Jack, Jack, Jack,” said the angel
sadly. “What can we do with you? You are too wicked for heaven and too mean
for hell! After conferring with the
heavenly host, here is the doom that has been pronounced upon you.” The angel stood even taller, his wings
blotting out the sky, and his radiance putting the full moon itself to shame.
“From this day forward, you shall
never sleep again, nor spend your nights under any man’s roof,” the angel
announced in a booming voice. “Instead
you will roam the earth by the light of this lamp, treading the darkest and
most remote highways and byways until Judgment Day, when God Himself will
pronounce sentence on your soul. Now
take my light, Jack of the Lantern, and begin your lonely journey, and reflect
on the wickedness of your life, that you might find true repentance thereof!”
And so Jack took the lantern with one
of his odd grins, and then turned and began stamping his way down the road,
pausing long enough to break off a limb from his yew tree to serve as a walking
stick. They say on the darkest of
nights, especially around All Hallows’ Eve, he can be seen to this day, the
lamp illuminating his smile as he trudges his way across the earth, awaiting Judgment
Day. Children whispered stories of him,
and many years later, began carving his grinning face into pumpkins which they
lit up with candles and placed in their windows, in memory of Jack o’the Lantern,
the man who was too wicked for heaven and too mean for hell.
Happy Halloween!
