Tynasian Dreams

presents

Jack Sprat

The Truth Behind the Nursery Rhyme

Jack Sprat is a short story that I wrote a year or so ago.  I'd been thumbing through The Treasury of Nurse and Rhyme after a visit from my partner's grandson and the idea suddenly came to me, what if Jack were really a vampire.  It would explain why he was so thin.  The tale just evolved from there. This tale now forms the introduction to my latest venture, a cyberpunk/horror/fantasy set in an apocalyptic alternate future.

Jack Sprat could eat no fat,

His wife could eat no lean.

Jack smiled to himself and considered the old rhyme. Written so many years ago that Jack had forgotten the name of the author, and certainly long after his own death, it was strange that he could still remember the ditty. It flowed through his mind making him smile. Reaching up, he eased open the lid of his coffin and sneaked a look outside. It was dark, much as he had expected in fact, for after all this time of undead existence Jack had finally managed to regulate his body clock to the new, nocturnal pattern. He stretched, more from habit than necessity, and opened the coffin lid wider. The well-oiled hinges flapped the lid back with a crump of sound and a small whiff of dust. It’s certainly good not to be alive, he thought to himself.

The first line of the rhyme filtered into his mind again. Jack Sprat could eat no fat. How true he considered that to be. Blood was a very low fat food, and he wondered that it wasn’t more popular. Admittedly some did contain high levels of cholesterol, but one could easily spot people with fatty blood and avoid them. Besides, unless you were organising a feast for yourself and a few friends one didn’t over-indulge anyway.

These days’ feeding was risky enough as it was, what with the livings’ obsession with holding onto life at all costs, the advances in policing and forensics. It made the simple joy of a take-away so much harder, and less satisfying. But Jack had “the eyes”, the vampire’s biggest asset. After all with a face like a turnip with a carrot stuffed awkwardly into one side, and a mop of unruly black hair that hung lank and greasy well past his shoulders, Jack had never been a catch. Even his wife had said that.

His wife, ah, how Jack missed her. Not at all as it happens, as she had dedicated her life to food and had departed it at a young age, but probably a hundred times the size she’d been when she’d entered it. Jack sighed. What was her name? It was peculiar how difficult it was to remember so far back with any clarity. Only the moment of his birth as an undead still remained bright in his mind. He dreamt of it often, with love and affection for the woman that had initiated him into paradise.

It had been Tuesday; two days after his last visit to church, and a heaven sent five days before he'd have to go again. Not that the church was unpleasant, it wasn’t, it smelt of oak, and polish and candles and was always just the right side of being chilly. It was the people Jack disliked so much with their childlike beliefs. When would they realise that their god had forsaken them, had sent the plague in fact to get rid of them? Never, he realised with hindsight.

The Black Bull was heaving with men, its main room full of the scent of sweat, urine and ale. Unseen things scurried about in the ancient, soiled straw whenever a foot was moved. Smoke billowed from the wide fireplace and filled the high roofed space with a sooty dimness. Jack was in an alcove screened from the room by some old, dirty cloth that hung from black-iron pegs. He was alone except for a few cockroaches and a rat that seemed almost tame. Jack tossed it some cheese and the rodent seemed to wink at him before raising itself on its haunches and nibbling at the treat. Jack stared into the murky interior of his leather-drinking vessel, glad that the bitter tasting liquid inside remained hidden from view.

Suddenly the curtain to the alcove opened and a hooded figure slipped in. Jack glanced up and was about to complain when a delicate hand appeared from the deep recesses of a sleeve and pulled back the hood. Bright blue eyes sparkled at him from behind a golden cascade of hair. He sucked in his breath and felt his heart miss a beat.

“May I sit down?” asked the woman.

Jack found his tongue firmly glued to the top of his mouth and so nodded enthusiastically.

His beer slopped out of the container as he motioned to the seat with his hand. He grinned sheepishly. The woman avoided the spillage and sank into the seat like mercury. There was something about her that haunted Jack, some primeval fear that oozed from her and drew him to her. Something sensual, something unreal. It was as though the shadows parted to let her through, almost as though she were part shadow herself.

She eased open her cloak to expose a white dress that plunged almost to her waist, revealing two luscious mounds and an expanse of flesh the colour of porcelain. Riveted, Jack simply gawked at her until she leant forward and raised his chin with a long-nailed finger. As his head came up he was dimly aware of a sharp pain and the warmth of hot liquid on his neck. The woman withdrew her finger and licked delicately at the blood that covered the tip.

“You taste good,” she said.

Jack fumbled for a kerchief to dab at the blots now forming on the grimy tabletop. The woman smiled.

“Well Jack,” she said catching his eyes as he looked up at her sharply. He felt clouds fog his mind, and although a part of him screamed out a warning, the rest of him wanted to remain fixed by her stare. He took a long draft of ale and found his voice.

They had talked for a long time and Jack had suddenly realised that they were no longer in the Black Bull. The chill of the night was all about them. Despite it being dark, with a heavy covering of cloud, he found he could see her clearly before him. They stood in a small glade next to a standing stone. It had a name Jack was sure he’d heard men talk of it, claiming that it was haunted. The woman seemed to read his mind.

“This stone,” she said in her gentle, lilting voice, “is all that remains of a great fortress that once stood here. Centuries back a king held his court in the castle. Some say he was my half brother and that I gave him a potion to drink that revealed to him his wife’s infidelity. What care had I for that? With him on the throne, and the belief that we were related, I was safe.”

Jack listened, spellbound, his vision filled with her face, that beautiful white face with those huge, haunting eyes.

“Do you find me attractive?”

Jack nodded.

She reached up and took his chin in her hand, squeezing gently at first but when the pressure continued and Jack felt his bone begin to twist, he made to cry out. She relaxed her grip.

“I have watched you Jack, you and your obese wife. You have the right constitution for what I propose. You see, Jack, I need a partner, there are those that would oppose me, and all that I stand for. I am old, and powerful, but also tired. My time is soon to come, I fear, unless I can perform certain acts. Will you help me Jack?”

Uncontrollably Jack nodded.

“Then let us seal our partnership with a kiss.”

She bent forward and Jack pushed his lips towards hers, but at the last moment she twisted her head to one side and lunged for his neck. He felt two small, sharp pains and then warmth flooded through him.

He awoke to find her cradling his head in her lap. “Here,” she said, “drink this. It will make you feel better.”

She lifted a small silver chalice to his lips, tipping it gently so that he could drink. The liquid inside tasted salty, almost metallic, but slid down smoothly, warming his whole body. Suddenly he felt pain surge into him and his eyes bulged open in terror. He heard her comfort him from a distance, and then the pain enveloped him and he passed out again.

*

When he awoke it was still dark and he had the feeling of being inside somewhere old and musty. She was there with him and whispered things into his ear that both horrified and excited him. He felt his mortality slip away.

Jack shuddered. That was too long ago now, he thought, too many years had passed and the time for remembrance was over. For now he had the future, and at the moment he was happy to keep that to himself. He did not miss her too much now, they had had so long together, after all. She was the only one of his many partners whose face and name he always remembered. She had whispered it too him as they parted for the last time.

“Morgana,” she had sighed, as she drifted away into the night. “Known to some as Le fey. Goodbye for now Jack Sprat, we shall meet again, I think.”