Bravado's House of Blues Page 7

  At the call for goose, Jack began to bristle and sputter. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, I nudged the smallest of the bags over and gold spilled out. The way the sunlight sparkled off all those shiny coins must’ve mesmerized Jack. He stood with his mouth open for the longest time, a bit of spittle rolling off his lower lip. The bear swatted him upside the head, sending Jack into a full somersault. When Jack got back on his feet, he rubbed his head and glared at the bear. “All right,” he huffed. “You didn’t have to whack me in the head.”

  The bear grunted, sat down on his back-side and yawned.

  “Goose it is,” Jack said, stomping back to the bear. “Fresh-baked bread and sweet cream.”

  “Don’t forget a knife and fork,” I said as he and the bear ambled over the hill. He tossed back a look that set me to laughing.

  I pushed the gold back into the sack, tucked the three bags deep into the roots of the oak, and curled up besides them to sleep. Three days and nights I slept under that oak, eating a bit of bread, and drinking from the nearby crick. Before you know it, the sun was dipping toward the west of the fourth day when I heard the sound of bells.

  I sat up, yawning, and rubbed the honey out of my eyes. Across the hill came Jack leading a small wagon loaded with food. The bear was harnessed like a goat, pulling the contraption, and as about as disgruntled about it as one could get.

  The smell of roast goose flowed down the hillside and perked me right up.

  “Why, Jack,” I said, standing and stretching. “Time for a late lunch?”

  “Time for you to give over one of those sacks of gold,” he said sourly.

  “What happed that it took you so long?” I asked, scooping a bag out from amongst the roots.

  “That old fellah a ways back the road made me clean all his stables before he’d give me the first whiff of food. Spent two days di-verting a quick running stream into the stables, and out towards that yonder valley.” He pointed to the west with pride. “Cleaned the stables and fertilized the land thereabouts at the same time.”

  The bear grunted, and sat down. The cart nearly tipped over and Jack blanched. “We woulda needed to cut all the hay in his fields to get the use of a pony,” he grumbled. “But we worked it out.” He unbuckled the bear from the wagon and bowed in my direction.

  I strode up the hill to inspect Jack’s work. The wagon was full of barrels and boxes, buckets and bags—each holding all kinds of good food, from goose and bread wrapped in brown paper, to tubs of sweet cream, sacks of apples, salted pork, a barrel of pickles, and three types of cheeses. “Mighty nice work here,” I said to him, slipping an apple from a sack and hefting it in my hand. I set it back down in a puddle of honey.

  “Better’n you asked for, I do believe,” Jack said with a bit of pride in his voice. “So how about that gold?”

  I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head, walking away from the wagon. “I’m near drowned in honey, and that ain’t no way for a woman to be.”

  The bear nodded and licked his jowls again.

  “If you were any kind of gentlemen, you’d fetch me a kettle for a bath.” I sighed heavily, swooning toward the side of the wagon. “I need a good hot bath before I can even think about eating a fine meal. “I batted my sticky lashes at him. “You wouldn’t want me to do a disservice to your fine deed?”

  The bear moved to the cart and began snuffling around the spilt honey.

  “Bath?” Jack asked, flummoxed.

  “Yes,” I said. “A nice hot bath, plenty of fire under a big kettle of water. You understand.” I held my hands out in front of me, the honey dripping in great dollops.

  “Where am I going to find a kettle big enough to put you in?”

  I knew right where to get such a thing, as a matter of fact. That old giant I’d just killed, and the witch he lived with, had a kettle you coulda easily fit me inside, seeing as I was almost their supper a few days before.

  “Run back over to the next holler away south,” I said. “Past that knobby hill that looks like a porcupine, you’ll find a mean old house tucked in the shadow of the hill. In it you’ll find a black pot big enough to suit a bath.”

  Jack looked up over the hills to the south. “How far?”

  “No more than a night’s walk,” I said, striding back to the oak.

  “A night’s walk,” Jack said, the anger rising up his neck to his cheeks. He was as cute as can be, that’s for sure, but he tended to anger and rashness.

  “A bath before I’ll take a bite, it’s the only lady-like thing to do.”

  The bear lapped at the honey pooling at my feet. I giggled when his great raspy tongue tickled my toes.

  “And why wouldn’t I just be taking my gold now, and going on about my business?” Jack asked, watching the bear lick my left ankle.

  “I’d surely add another of them sacks for you to have, if I could get a bath,” I said.

  At the thought of another sack—notice I never said gold—Jack began to pull all the food out of the back of the wagon. “Come on, fool bear. We gotta go get this here woman a bath.” He spent the next while hooking that great big bear to that wagon again, climbed up on the buckboard, and pulled it around to the south.

  I blew a kiss off my palm toward Jack, who blushed all a sudden. “You may just save my life, young Jack.”

  “Come on, bear,” he called, snapping the reigns. The bear snatched his head to the side, nearly pulling Jack from the wagon. No bit or bridle, but the reins lead to the back of the halter.

  “Thank you, mister bear,” I said, holding my hand out toward the great beast.

  The bear took a long swipe from my palm with his tongue, and he took off at a gallop. Jack had an odd look on his face as he rolled off the wagon and onto his back. He stood up, brushed the dust from his britches, smiled at me one bright time, and took off running after the bear.

  They were gone for three days. I ate the crust and cheese from my pack, and drank the cold, sweet water from the crick that ran nearby. Each night I’d count the stars and think about Jack’s sweet smile.

  I was picking flowers on the west side of the hill when I heard the jangling of bells, and the halloo of Jack and the bear coming up out of the holler.

  In the wagon was half a cord of wood and that giant’s big stew pot.

  He stopped the wagon at the bottom of the hill and stood with his arms spread wide. “You failed to mention the giant had a brother,” he said, holding up a bloody sack. “Didn’t know I’d have to take his head, to take the pot. What say you now, honey-girl?”

  I stood and clapped, tossing daisies into the wagon at Jack’s feet. “You done fine, good Jack. Fine as can be. Toss that old thing over by the oak and let’s get me a bath. My hero.”

  Jack beamed, chucked the bag with the giant’s head to the base of the oak, and began to unload that big pot. He stacked the wood for a fire, but stopped when I coughed thrice in his direction.

  He stiffened and stopped as he was striking a flint to the stack of wood. “Is there a problem, milady?”

  I sighed at his sweet words. “As you are a gentleman,” I said with a demure smile, “you’ll understand that you need to build that fire atop the hill yonder.”

  Jack looked up the hill he and the bear had first tumbled down and swore under his breath. “And I’m sure you have a good reason why that’s so,” he said, a hint of bitter herb in his voice.

  I blushed. “Why, it would be unseemly for you to be able to look down into my bath, now don’t you think?”

  He thought on that a moment, and it was Jack’s turn to blush. Without nary a word, he had a big fire going at the top of the hill, and was carrying buckets of water up to pour into the big kettle. He carried one bucket, and the bear carried a second in his teeth. The bear must’ve been growing tired of the honey, or the game, because he growled and snapped at something Jack said. Jack dropped the bucket of water and launched into the bear. They both tumbled down the hillside and crashed into the stony field a
t the bottom. Both of them cracked their heads and sat dazed.

  I fetched a large brown paper wrapping from the loaves of bread, soaked them in the vinegar brine from the cask of pickles, and wrapped each of their heads. I carried the last pail of water up the hill and brought the water to a near boil before banking the fire and slipping around to the back.

  Jack and the bear watched the sunset, their heads in their hands, as I climbed into the hot bubbly water of the bath, clothes and all.

  As I could peel each piece of clothing from my sugar- crusted body, I flung it down the hill. After a bit, I was pink and clean as a whistle. Only I was naked as the day I was born.

  “Jack,” I called out. “For the final sack, I think I need you to fetch my clothes down to the crick and see them clear of honey.

  “Once more into the breach,” Jack said, standing and pressing the paper to his head. He picked up my honey drenched clothes and walked over to the crick.

  The bear followed along, sullenly, and helped Jack wash out my clothes.

  They brought them up the hill and draped them over rocks near the fire to dry.

  “That’s mighty fine, Jack.” I smiled from the lip of the kettle. “You’ve certainly earned the three sacks.”

  “Have I also earned a kiss?” Jack asked, edging toward the kettle.

  I squealed and ducked down below the rim. “You stay back, you hooligan.” Of course, I only mostly wanted him to skedaddle.

  Jack chuckled and reached his hands up on the rim of the kettle to lift himself up for a kiss, or a look, or both.

  The bear, however, had had enough. It reared up, roaring and stamping in the last rays of the sun. He knocked Jack to the ground. I laughed as Jack rolled down the hill once more, the bear defending my dignity.

  “You choosing her over me now?” Jack called out, scrambling to his feet.

  I watched as the two of them began to fight again, fur and cuss words flying into the coming night.

  With a sigh, I slipped deeper into my bath and waited.

  Jack and the bear fought for seven hours, rolling east across into the wild lands and back west, over the fields he and the bear had fertilized days before.

  Finally, they ended up rolling down the stream, each soaked through and battered. When the sun began to rise in the east, Jack strode up the hill, that bear’s hide in his hands. The bear roared over the back side of the hill, naked as a jaybird.

  “My final gift to you, Molly fair. Will this bear skin earn me a kiss?”

  I rose from the kettle, skin as wrinkled as a crone, and kissed him on the end of his nose.

  Jack did somersaults down the hill and picked up his three sacks. I slipped out of the kettle, pulling on my clothes, and wrapping the bear’s skin around me to ward off the cold.

  Jack sat down under the oak and wept. The small sack of gold, being mostly stones, the empty cheese rind, and the sack of laundry, hardly seemed fair.

  But I slid down beside him, wrapping him in the bear skin, and offered him a pickle. He brightened a bit and listened while I explained how the king over the holler where he’d cleaned out the stables would give us all the land to the west of his own for killing the giant.

  Jack listened intently and scooted closer to me, resting his head on my shoulder.

  “We can start a family,” I said, stroking his fine brown hair. “We can farm the land and raise a whole passel of children.”

  In that moment, wrapped in the fur of his friend the bear, I saw the wild gleam in his eye, the fear and the need to run off to the woods and battle the world.

  But a kiss to the side of his mouth settled things, and we struck our final bargain.

  Now Jack’s a good man, when he’s not sleeping in the barn, or chasing after some tomfool adventure. He brings home a bit of gold, or cheese, or a goose now and again, but his claim about killing seven giants at a single blow and pulling the moon from the sky to taste a bit of green cheese, why, that ain’t nothing more than fancy talk to impress the townies.

  And it ain’t like he forgets I’m a sittin’ here, raising up his three daughters and keeping the farm. He recalls quick enough when I have to go down in the holler and cut him out of some ogre’s stew pot, or giant’s gunnysack he’s found himself caught up in. The trouble is, come spring, or anytime a good load of fire wood needs cutting, my man Jack will get a hankering to have some road under his feet, and a open sky above his head.

  That old bear is the one thing about this whole mess I worry about. I hung his skin outside our new house after the king had given us the land and all. Each night I put out a pot of honey and a jar of daisies, but he never came back.

  When Jack is in his cups, and running wild, I think of that bear and wonder if I had been rescued by the wrong one.

  The HARP

  It’s a fucking harp, okay?” Jack said over Karen’s laughter. He pulled his waistband back up, covering the tattoo, and buckled his belt. The Escher print on the wall over her desk accentuated their conversation: highlighted the juxtaposition of their relationship to the hand drawing itself on the wall in front of him. Does the heart know of beginnings and illusions?

  Or of endings. This was their third date, but he feared it may be their last.

  Karen laughed into her fist. “Why a harp? Did you date a harpist?”

  Jack straightened his shirt, stalling—trying to read her face. The mirth he saw in her eyes spoke of joy, not mocking. Satisfied, he sat back on the couch. “No, but I did get drunk at an orchestral convention with a girl I lusted after. She convinced me to get the tattoo.”

  “And she played a harp?”

  Jack sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “No, flautist.”

  He nearly choked when the left side of her mouth quirked up, and her right eyebrow rose to the top of her forehead.

  “The tattooist,” he said running his hand along the arm of the couch, as if removing debris. “He dated a harpist—and didn’t have a picture of a cello, so he went with a harp.”

  She sipped her wine, considering. “Did she watch you get this tattoo?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, feeling the heat rush up his neck. “She expressed her regret later—several times, actually, before running off with an oboist later in the week.”

  “Ah, double reed,” Karen said with a knowing nod. “Lucky girl.”

  They both drank, letting silence settle between them. It was not uncomfortable. He turned toward the television. The paused movie glowed on the flat screen like a painting. A hot, young actress sat on the edge of a settee, naked on the screen, her back to the camera. Jack thought she had the perfectly shaped body, like a cello, and the tattoo at her lower back only added to her hot factor.

  Karen rocked her wine glass back and forth in her hand, smiling from across the couch. She had her legs crossed, and the creamy off-white of her skirt glowed in the light of the television screen. Her golden, tanned legs were nearly as nice as the girl’s on the screen, he thought. Of course, he’d only seen Karen’s from the knees down so far. But, the night was young.

  “I’ve never dated a cellist before,” she said after sipping at the wine. “I dated a drummer once, but that was a different story.”

  Jack retrieved his own wine and sat with his left leg cocked up onto the seat between them. “Drummers get all the girls.”

  “They do have a certain animal magnetism.”

  He watched her drink the wine, watched as she glanced at the screen for a moment, then back to him. “She is quite attractive. I can see the cello comparison, but don’t you think that’s a bit passé?”

  Jack shrugged. “I’d rather date a girl shaped like a cello than a harp.”

  “Interesting,” she said, her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “But what if the girl was shaped like a harp, and you loved her. What then?”

  His heart raced at the thought. What did he know of love?

  She sat her wine on the table, exposing a bright yellow, almost golden, bra under the tan jacket and cr
eam top she wore. She slid across the couch to the second cushion, pressing her right thigh against his left shin. “What if—”

  —she took the wineglass from his frozen fingers and set it on the table.

  “—this harp-shaped girl liked to be tied up and brought to a fevered pitch as you played her?”

  —she drew his hand to her mouth and sucked on his index finger.

  “Um . . .” Jack’s brain froze. He could not feel anything but the hot, moist tongue pressing his finger against the roof of her mouth.

  They made love twice. Once on the couch, clothes only partially removed, with a fiery passion he’d never experienced. She laughed after, at his astonishment, and led him to the bedroom to show him her ties.

  Jack woke to the most beautiful singing he’d ever heard. The full moon glowed in the window like a framed picture and for the briefest of moments, he thought he’d dreamed that voice. He tugged at the ropes he’d used to bind her during their lovemaking and smiled to himself.

  He glanced over at where Karen had fallen asleep. The bed was rumpled, but empty. He sat up, glanced around the room, and spotted her in the corner, by the dresser. She began to sing again, a lovely aria accompanied by the most divine harp music he’d ever heard.

  “Karen?” he asked, rising from the bed and moving to her.

  Her eyes shone in the moonlight, wet with tears. He knelt at her feet, touching the cold of her left knee. In the mirror he saw that she had transformed into the harp she was, the notes flowing into the air with a gentle grace that brought his own tears.

  “How?” he asked as she sang. “You are a harp?”

  She nodded once at him, and sang with a sweet sadness as the moon rose across the sky. Jack sat at her feet, his knees drawn to his chest and wondered how he had ever lived before hearing that voice, those notes so delicately floating into the world.

  He slept, finally, curled at the foot of the bed as her voice filled his dreams. Dreams of giants and pocket watches, hatchets and beans.