Death of the Trefoil

It was a matter of time. Eventually, everyone within the compound walls would succumb to some sort of sickness. No one knew why, but no one had made it past the age of forty. Jack and his mother were no different. They lived in a run-down house like the rest of the compound, except Jack’s mother was his only guardian. She was about thirty-eight years old now and couldn’t do much except lie in bed. It would be a miracle if she could live a couple more months. Jack was expected to work and take over as a gardener for the compound after her death, and he would receive a small sum of money. This morning, as Jack was giving her spoons of stale, watery oatmeal, she had muttered something. 

“What?” asked Jack. He had heard what she said but wanted to make sure. 

“You have to sell the cow, get some money for it, you won’t have use for it as a gardener but someone else will.” 

She was right. A farmer, butcher, or someone else would have better use for it, as she once did in her youth. Despite the sickness taking over her brain, she still had intelligent thoughts and understanding. This couldn’t be said for some of the others, and so, appreciating her rational mind while he still could, he led the cow into the marketplace. Looking around the stalls, he saw a few people turn their heads up at the luxury of his possession, but then, in slight sorrow, turn their head down, knowing what the selling of a cow really meant. He saw packets of oats, stale vitamins, hammers, religious idols made of iron, and a few toys. Eventually a man tapped a finger on his back. He had startled Jack and Jack had never really seen him before. The man had bandages on his face, his nose was missing and his hair was falling out. He held an enormous backpack full of things and was somehow able to carry it. This was a man who didn’t just live in spite of the sickness but actively fought it. His existence itself was defiance. 

“Hello, young gentleman,” whispered the man, his vocal cords likely damaged beyond repair. 

“Good evening. I’ve never seen you before,” replied Jack. 

“Well, I walk around a lot. Gotta keep thin.” He let out a hyena–like laugh. No one kept thin on purpose except for the royalty sector. 

“Yes, well… I’m in a hurry.” 

As Jack moved away, the man put a tight grip on his shoulder. 

“Listen.” He leaned in closer and Jack could feel his wheezing. “What happened to the adventure? To joy? What happened to the stories of old, where young children would escape evil step-parents and girls fell to the cunningness of wolves?” Jack had read a few of these stories but he had difficulty understanding where the man would move the conversation to. 

“You are a Jack,” he said, moving his hand into his pocket. 

“How did you— ” 

“And what did Jack do? No, no, not Jack and Jill. That is a punishment. You would break your crown and you don’t even have a sister.” 

Jack’s grip on the cow’s leash tightened. 

“Your mother is sick, you’re selling a cow and your name is Jack. Today is the perfect day my friend.” 

He dug into his pocket and took out three green beans, each of them glowing.

“I’m not going to—” 

“Sell me the cow? No matter, you may have the beans for free, at least for now. But when you climb the… what do you call it?”

“The beanstalk,” confirmed Jack. 

“Right, the beanstalk. When you climb the beanstalk and are high up in the clouds, I will take the cow myself.” 

Jack thought this was a fair deal. If the beans didn’t work then that would be it, no cow. But if they did, he would find adventure and perhaps gold, a close encounter with a giant and a castle. “Well… alright then, sir.” 

Days passed. 

Climbing the top of the beanstalk, Jack’s hands bled with the close brushing of thorns. He grabbed, not the edge of magical clouds, but the edge of a surface consisting of dried and unstable land. Rocks flew down into the abyss where one could imagine the earth still remained. Long spikes emerged from the top of the cliffs, protruding into the stratosphere, the whole landscape a porcupine made of steel. Not a sentient being, creature, flower, human, animal in sight. Broken structures displaced all around, and the sickening smell of nuclear waste remained. It was the warm bright radiance that kept Jack from freezing, but it had also been making him sick. Occasionally, he had retched, his body heaving on the ground, but the sickness had failed to leave his body.

He climbed further, onto stepping stones protruding ever so slightly on the side of a cliff face. Calculating, waiting… JUMPING. He stumbled forward halfway, nearly overestimating the distance and tumbling into the depths below. Had he slipped, he would have crashed and landed through his mother’s roof. Nothing but the burnt remains of his skeleton for her to recognise.

He crawled through a hole carved into the cliff’s wall. A man-made cave, dark and unlit. There, he slept until the morning sun rose. Clouds of wet, cold, and green crystals scraped his cheek, making him shudder. He continued his trip up to the topside of the cliff, arms stretched, ready up like an infant awaiting the safety of a mother. There he could see the spikes protruding much more clearly. A giant bloodied figure wearing a, golden gown, holding the whispers of sin and sorrow. His face, or, rather, his skull broken through by another protruding metal spike. His skeleton seemingly the only thing not dissolving after all these centuries. He had arrived expecting a golden goose, an adventure, or a close brush with death. But standing in front of this giant, he had only the sickness growing steadily through his veins. Choking on his own vomit, he wished only for his mother. Had he been literate, he would have heeded the warnings and history that slept alongside him in the cave. 

Stained on the walls in white chalk:

“God fell, God fell. 

Sooner or later we found where he dwelled. 

Quickly destroyed, he is but a shell. 

Slowly we’re brought 

neither to Heaven nor Hell.”