Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Rhys, in all his exuberant foolishness, had bought almost three dozen turnips.
As a result, Seph had told the housekeeper to send a servant or two to participate tonight so that the rest of the staff might enjoy this activity on their own later, rather than being stuck with turnips in their dinner for the next two weeks.
They sat in the circle, a maid and that blond footman who’d been so aghast at their first dinner hovering toward one another like they weren’t certain they were allowed to remain. So, she introduced herself to both of them too before beginning.
Once everyone was seated and the lights had been dimmed, Seph fished the turnips out of their ice and handed one to each person, her fingers going numb in the process.
The final turnip was in her pocket, already carved from her preparations earlier today.
She took it out of her pocket and raised the small lantern that had been left in place of the bowl of turnips, now cleared away by the staff.
Both items went to the center of the circle, where Seph sat cross-legged, with the lantern between her ankles, so that it would throw light up onto her face.
It wasn’t quite a campfire, but it was close enough to how this story was told to her every year when she’d been a child. When she’d been a Traveller.
“Tonight, we are going to make special lanterns,” she told them, holding up her completed turnip to the group, her palm covering the side with the face carved into it, and tilting it toward the group to show them the hollow she’d made inside.
“Talismans of protection, like the ones Father Wheeler spoke of, and symbols of the world beyond ours, like Merlin mentioned tonight.”
“Out of turnips?” Nini asked, sounding both baffled and completely game as she examined her own round vegetable. “How bizarre!”
“These lanterns are special to this particular time of year as we approach the equinox and the observation of All Hallows’. In Ireland, we call the night before All Hallows’ Eve ‘Samhain.’ And Samhain has a patron. A wicked and clever drunkard from many generations past known as Stingy Jack.”
“I have a cousin called Stingy Jack,” Nini quipped. “He’s a rat bastard.”
Everyone chuckled, including Seph. “While I talk,” she said, gesturing to the knives everyone had been provided, “cut the tops off your turnips and start working at hollowing them out. They should be firm and fibrous from the ice, which makes the process easier. Don’t cut too thin, as the outside needs to retain its integrity. If you need help, Rhys can show you.”
Rhys took the opportunity of everyone turning toward him to demonstrate a round cut to remove the turnip’s stem and provide a flat surface from which to start hacking into a bowl.
He scooped the knife into the second layer and created a little basin to start from, winning nods of understanding from their assembled audience.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as Rhys wordlessly traded his prepared turnip for Merlin’s, with nothing more than a nod between the two men in understanding. And her heart melted. Just a little.
“Stingy Jack was the type of man everyone in town knows and avoids,” she began.
“We’ve all met the like. A cheat and a con, good enough at both that it suggests he might have been a great man if he hadn’t discovered the bottle first. But discover it he did, and Jack’s only goal in all the world was staying drunk and comfortable for all his days.
“So effective was Jack at his debauchery that word reached the Devil himself, and worse, impressed the demon. Satan decided he wished to meet this Jack, rather than wait for his inevitable arrival someday in Hell, and so he came to our world. He came to Ireland. And he sought him out.”
“Almost flattering, really,” Rhys murmured to Merlin, getting a huff and titter out of the old man.
“The Devil does not simply approach you in the pub and buy you a drink,” Seph warned.
“He is a trickster and cheat himself, and so he took on the visage of a corpse and waited in the road on Jack’s path to town that night.
Jack, of course, intended to step over the dead man and continue on his way, which spoiled the Devil’s fun, and so he jumped up and announced himself to Jack, allowing the man to believe he’d reached his end.
“Jack groused about his doom, of course,” she continued, looking face to face as they carved and watched, their blades glinting eerily in the low light.
“He told the Devil he ought to have come for him after he’d had his final drink, not before.
And how unfair this was to him. The Devil, amused at the cheek of it, told Jack he could have his final drink and accompanied him to the pub of his choice.
“Of course, once they’d arrived, Jack patted his pockets and, innocent as you please, claimed to only just then realize he had no coin to speak of. He once again lamented going to the pits of Hell whilst sober.”
“Reasonable,” said Father Wheeler, who then grunted as he dislodged a particularly stubborn chunk of turnip from the inside of his lantern.
“The Devil pointed out that he also did not carry coin, for obvious reasons,” Seph said.
“But as the Devil was not above petty theft and was not recognized to the barkeep as the notorious cheat Jack was, so he opened a tab and the two drank many, many pints of ale and sweet wine as the night unfolded between them.
“The Devil grudgingly found himself liking Jack and all his nefarious schemes and thoughts. So, when Jack suggested the Devil turn himself into a silver coin so that they could make their escape without paying and simply turn back into himself when the barkeep’s back was turned and join Jack on the road, the Devil agreed with glee.
In a pop of sound and smoke, the man across from Jack became a silver coin, glinting on the table, worth enough to pay for all their drinks.
“Jack picked up the coin and put it in his pocket. In his other pocket, he had his own coin. Enough to pay for the drinks and to buy the crucifix the barkeep wore ’round his neck besides.
He dropped the crucifix into the pocket with the Devil in it before the Devil knew what had happened, trapping him there, in Jack’s pocket, indefinitely. ”
Madame Ivanova humphed. “Men always say they have the Devil in their trousers,” she observed. “This one was telling the truth.”
It sparked another round of giggling, making the footman turn red and little Parley blink up in confusion at the adults who’d understood the joke. Mercifully, no one volunteered to explain it.
“Jack told the Devil he’d let him out in exchange for ten years of safety from being dragged down to Hell, and the Devil had no choice but to agree.
They did not part on the friendliest terms, but part they did,” Seph said, leaning toward the lantern light to cast shadows on her face as she spoke.
“The Devil is many things, but he honors his deals. For ten years, Stingy Jack continued his antics on Earth—until the day his debt finally came due. Once again, he saw a corpse on the cobbles, and this time, he knew what it meant.”
She paused, looking around at almost everyone reaching the bottoms of their turnips, neat piles of root viscera on the towels beside them.
“Here I will pause,” she said, holding a finger up, “and explain something about All Hallows’.
I suspect in all of your homelands, you know it is a day when the veil between the living and the dead is considered at its thinnest. Some cultures wear masks to fool the dead, some lock their doors, some avoid certain avatars of the spiritual world. Rhys?”
“A sow,” he said immediately, giving a shudder. “A black sow with no tail. She’ll eat you. She’ll eat everything.”