The Beanstalk

Here in the pristine countryside, among grazing cattle, tall grass, prickly weeds, and a massive beanstalk lays the gasping, bloodied body of a cloud giant. Birdsong flutters nearby, an almost caustic taunt of the felled behemoth. Soon, his corpse will rot, leaving moldy, fungus-pricked flesh under a flaky, paper-thin coating of decaying skin. With swirling, bouncing seasons will come fertilization -- all kinds of previously undiscovered flowers, fruits, bushes and trees mushrooming from the massive, billowing, oozing half-carcass. It'll swell and bloat, becoming puffy and emitting a caterwauling stench before exploding and discharging the rancid, metallic effluvium of rotting meat for miles in all directions. In the eternal words of Walt Whitman: "Nature without check with original energy." Time will pass, and pass thrice over it will, bringing the smell of grass, warm sunlight and soft drizzle to slowly weather the splitting bones then jutting from dry, collapsed lungs. When all flesh vanished, the smallfolk will wear masks to visit the site, examining the bones of the ancient behemoth. The rib cage will then be epic enough to climb inside.

"My goodness, boy, well done, well done! What is this, a chicken? A chi- why did you bring home a chicken?"

"Mama, no. This is no regular chicken. Look at this, the eggs are made of gold."

"Good heavens! Come here and hug your mama, boy. Brilliant, brilliant. Tomorrow morning we'll pack up and head for town. We'll be rich!"

"Mama, wait..."

"Hm? Yes, boy? What is it?"

"What'll happen to the body?"

The castle in the sky had never witnessed such utter quietude. Dishes were being thoroughly scrubbed (this time a blue ceramic plate) as the giantess squinted her eyes and looked at the window above the sink. She was patiently awaiting her husband's return. The golden harp had been stolen -- her only means of keeping busy besides chores, really. Since then, the floorboards seemed to groan with more zest and the worn window hinges squeaked prominently at dusk: a peculiarly numb divot of silent stillwater for the giantess.

Dishes had been washed twice over. The giantess rubbed her sore knuckles, glancing at a pair of fuzzy wool boots, then the doorway leading outside. Where was that man?

A cloaked stranger, a smallfolk, trudged after his dawdling cow. He bought it yesterday in exchange for the beans but that wasn't the point; they were finally out in the world. After years of mastering a recipe in the lab, he had come as near to perfection as possible. He set out in search of someone to take the beans. They must be spread, nurtured, grown, and nudged, the final step requiring a simple drizzle of springwater to push the sprouts through the soil and towards the clouds.

He recalled encountering the boy. Up and over the bend, the forest entrance, the "clip-clop"s floated. The thinning trees were the only obstacle between town and the countryside, and he was there to intercept travelers with proper means of distributing the beans. There was something about that young girl he wanted to put a pin on, but she left much too hastily for him to get a word in. Near now approaches a boy, closely aged to that of the girl, with a rope in hand and a cow attached to the rope. This jaunty character will have to do, the stranger thought. He then spoke hastily, with a voice of river water. "Boy! Come hither, boy. I must have that magnificent specimen of yours."

"My cow? You want my cow?"

"Yes, boy. The cow. I want the cow. Here, I'll give you these beans in trade."

"Um... what kind of beans are they? Are they worth anything? Do you have any coins? Mother needs coins."

"Take the beans, boy. I'll sell the cow myself."

The stranger quickly snatched it out of the air and shoved the beans into the boy's soft, sweaty hands. "Go now. What are you waiting for? Go. Plant the beans. Plant your beans now. The mother will be quite pleased, you're assured. I must be on my way now. Go now. Plant the beans, boy."

That was long ago. Time passed, and when everyone had died, the beanstalk shriveled. It shrunk first, leaning back and forth as it retracted into the soily crater whence it began before. It turned brown, light to dark, and finally a charred blackish shade as it lay dead among the tall grass: a regular-sized beanstalk with furled roots. So be history, as history was made today. The fall of a king, of a castle, and a boy. The fall, once over, of a giant.