Free The Thief and the Beanstalk (Further Tales Adventures) by P. W. Catanese

what was supposed to happen when the seeds were planted. It would be so easy to just drop them on the ground to let them grow. But at the same time, he was afraid to let ithappen. All the strange events of the last few days had simply swept him along. Choices were presented to him, by Finch and Jack, Each man, in his own way, seemed to look into his soul. Finch saw a little thief who would open the door to Jack’s treasure. Jack saw a little thief who would steal these beans and call forth the beanstalk again.
    The beans. They were the reason Nick had come to this remote spot, far away from villages and prying eyes. It was a farm, after all—a place to grow things.
    He looked around, clutching the beans in his small fist. The overgrown vegetable field seemed like the right place to plant them, so he hopped over the rock wall. He dropped to his knees and, with his free hand, ripped weeds away to expose a patch of bare soil.
    “Nothing to be afraid of,” Nick told himself. He held his breath. Opening his fist, he turned his hand sideways. The beans stuck to his sweaty palm. With the fingers of his other hand, he prodded them loose. One, two, three beans dropped to the ground. Nick watched closely, afraid to breathe. Nothing happened, and at last he exhaled.
    “Am I doing this right?” He rearranged the beans into a neat triangle and sat back to watch again. Nothing happened. He began to feel foolish for believing in their power. Maybe the old man was playing a joke on him.
    “No, you’re real, all right. I know you are.” He pressed his thumb deep into the soil beside each bean andpushed them into the holes. Then he scooped a handful of loose dirt and filled each cavity. Brushing the rest of the soil off his hands, he squatted next to the spot to see what would happen. This felt right, but something was missing.
    “Water. Bet you need water.” The old stone well was there, but any bucket and rope were long gone, so Nick ran to the stream and scooped up water in his cupped hands. He walked back gingerly, trying not to spill, and poured a little over each hole. It didn’t seem like enough. An old rain barrel at one corner of the house held some stale water, but it was too heavy to carry. Nick wondered if there was a smaller container of some kind in the farmhouse. He trotted toward the dark doorway.
    Just before he stepped inside, he saw a metal object glint as it caught a beam of morning light that penetrated the shadowy house. He stumbled back as a figure inside the house stepped forward. It was Finch. His face was the distillation of pure rage, his teeth bared in a snarl, his eyes wild. Nick yelped like a puppy and turned to run. When he spun around, he was looking at Toothless John.
    He darted to one side of the vile man. Toothless John reached out and caught hold of the leather pouch around his neck and snapped it back. Nick was yanked off his feet, the strap cutting into his flesh. He fell with a rough thump on his back. Before he could move, Finch was standing over him, reaching down with one stronghand. In the other hand he held his jagged knife.
    Finch’s hand clamped around Nick’s neck and lifted him until his feet dangled a foot from the ground. Nick grabbed Finch’s wrist with both hands to keep himself from being strangled. The rest of the band emerged from the broken-down farmhouse and gathered around. Finch held his blade to Nick’s face, the jagged edge pressed against one cheek. His jaw was clenched so tight, he could barely spit out words.
    “Didn’t you know, boy? Didn’t you know what I would do to you?” Then, abruptly, Finch wasn’t looking at Nick anymore. He was looking down at his own legs.
    Nick followed Finch’s gaze. Finch’s body, from the waist down, was covered with ants. And not only that, but the ground was swarming with living creatures. A thousand more insects scrambled through the weeds. Dozens of blind black moles emerged from their tunnels and fled. Beetles unhinged