Once upon a time there was a bricklayer and a weaver, and they had three sons, and the third of those sons knew his place in the world quite well.
“Mother,” the third son would say to the weaver, “please be sure to give me the smallest portion of food at mealtimes. I want to be sure my brothers grow up big and strong while I stay small and humble-looking.” And though this puzzled his mother she loved her family greatly, and so did as he requested.
“Father,” the third son would say to the bricklayer, “please be sure to scold me often for laziness and lack of diligence. I want to be sure I am the least of your sons in your eyes.” And though this puzzled his father he loved his family greatly, and so did as he requested.
Then after some time passed the bricklayer became very ill and died of the Squats, which was considered tragic but not all that unusual, and the time came for his children to inherit much of his property.
“Brothers,” the third son said to his siblings, “please be sure to take up ALL of father’s estate and possessions – his worldly belongings, his wealth, his home, all of it but these two humble bricks from his work-table. Do not let me have a single thing besides – this is important! And if you would mock and jeer at me and drive me from this place now, it would be much appreciated. I shall now seek my fortune.” And all of that made no sense at all to his two older brothers, but they were already sick at heart from the death of their father and were in no mood to gainsay the heartfelt requests of another member of the family, so they – carefully! – cursed him and – gently! – beat him about the head and – politely! – threw him out into the woods with only a torn shirt and the two humble bricks from his father’s work-table for company.
“Excellent,” said the third son with great satisfaction as he rubbed a palm over his bruises. “All is proceeding precisely as I wish. Now I have but to find some lost traveller in need of assistance, and my fortune shall be made whole and entire and real.”
“Hello,” said an old, old, old woman, who was bent double from weariness in the ditch nearby. “Could someone please show some pity to this lost traveller in need of assistance?”
“Truly wonderful,” said the third son. “I will do so, old, old, old woman, for although I am but the humble third son of a bricklayer with naught to his name but these two humble bricks from my dead father’s work-bench, I know that I will always assist those in need!”
“Oh lovely,” said the old, old, old woman. And though the bricklayer’s third son was somewhat bruised and somewhat small and humble-looking, he was still a bricklayer’s son and she was as light as a hollow-boned little bird, so carrying her to her home took little effort.
“This may surprise you,” she said after she had been placed on her own two legs once more, “but I am in fact a powerful worker and sculptor of magic, and I wish to reward you. Would you like wealth? Jewels and gold are trivial for me to grant you.”
“No!” said the third son readily.
“Would you like titles? A snap of my fingers and a dozen armed men will serve you; a great house and servants will thrust free of the wilderness for your use.”
“No!” said the third son easily.
“Since you are so (suspiciously) modest and humble, how about if I just enchanted those two equally-modest-and-humble bricks of yours? I can make it so they might build anything you wish so long as you continue to stack them atop one another.”
“Yes!” said the third son promptly, with a grin so wide it might have been called – on the face of a less small and humble person – a leer.
“Then it will be done, and my debt is settled and our bargain is made,” said the old, old, old woman, as she spat on her palm and gently tapped each brick once with her long, long, long forefinger (which was crooked besides). “Go now, and do great things.”
“Indeed,” said the third son with deep and all-consuming glee. “Indeed.”
***
After the third son of the bricklayer left the home of the old, old, old woman behind he walked with quick feet. Destiny was pulling at his soles, dragging him closer and closer to that which he sought, and before nightfall had come he saw it waiting for him beside the road: a bent-backed farmer, stooped low besides the crumbling remnants of his field.
“Ah, traveller, would you by chance have pity in your heart and a need for an afternoon’s pay?” he asked. “My field is picked clean by animals every eve, and I need assistance in putting up a fence – even one of simple sticks would do. Please, lend me a hand.”
“I shall do you one better,” said the third son with a smile. “In exchange for a fine meal and a place to sleep for the night, I will build you a stout brick wall before the stew is done cooking.”
“That would be a cheap price indeed for such a miracle,” said the farmer, “but I will accept your help at such a price regardless.”
So the farmer went to the woods to cut sticks, but while he was doing so the third son took the two humble bricks from his pockets and began to stack them, one atop the other. He did so once, then twice, then thrice, then thrice again, and by the time the farmer had returned with the few meager limbs of wood the forest nearby could offer him the third son had laid a foundation halfway around the field and was working on getting it up past chest-height.
“Why, a miracle indeed!” said the farmer. “I will race to get that stew done for you.”
“Too slow!” said the third son, and indeed it was, for he was done his work on a proud and high brick wall around the field long before the stew was ready, and spent the rest of the evening relaxing.
“Would you like to marry one of my daughters?” asked the farmer the next morning. “You are a maker of miracles, and a hard worker, and they have told me small and humble-looking is pretty easy on the eyes.”
“I thank you,” said the third son, “but my fortune lies elsewhere. Only give me some better clothes, if you have them – mine are worn to tatters.”
“I’ll give you my best,” vowed the farmer. And so he did, and so the third son walked down the road in fine clothes with all his bruises well-rested and fading and the two humble bricks in a nice leather pack. He travelled all afternoon at unhurried pace until he saw a despondent noble sitting at the roadside, surrounded by his household.
“How fare you, noble traveller!” cried the third son.
“Pretty poor, thanks – though not as poor as you, by the looks of things,” replied the nobleman, sweeping a tired but critical eye over the third son’s accoutrement. “Were your clothing a little more dusty and tattered I’d think you some insolent peasant, rather than an upstanding man down on his luck for the moment. Alas – ordering the thrashing of a reprobate might alleviate my despair and sorrow.” And his critical eye drifted lazily over his household, which all shuddered away from it.
“What troubles your spirits so, noble traveller?” asked the third son forthrightly.
“My manor has been swallowed by a bog,” said the nobleman moodily. “It was a fine building about so-and-so on one side and such-and-such on the other and of about this many stories in height. The architects told me that would be safe and stable, even on such unsteady ground, and so I have had them put to death. The tatterdemalion fools did not even think to warn me not to coat the entire building with gold lest it offset the weight, can you believe it?”
“I cannot,” said the third son sincerely, “but I can believe this: I can replace your sunken and swallowed manse today, for you, by myself.”
“Insanity,” said the noble promptly. “Lunacy. I am eager to watch, and when you fail, I shall be eager to have you decapitated. Goodness knows there’s nothing much else for a nobleman to do in a swamp.”
And so while the nobleman was fanned and fed fine fruits the third son took the two humble bricks from his pockets and began to stack them, one atop the other. He did so once, then twice, then thrice, then thrice again, and by the time the nobleman had flogged his fourth servant for mishandling a plate the third son had laid the foundations for a building about so-and-so on one side and such-and-such on the other, and was already stacking higher.
“My gracious and my oath,” said the nobleman, nearly falling into a socially appropriate swoon. “I can scarcely believe my most astute eyes. But what if it can’t be gilded?”
“Have no fear!” called the third son, “I will fill the swamp itself!” And indeed he did, for by evening’s time he had not only completed the building to a height of about-this-many-stories (roof and all) but he had filled the swamp bottom to top with sturdy bricks and turned it into an elegant courtyard fit for a fine dinner party, which he and the nobleman shared while his household was busy regilding the premises.
“I suppose I can host you for the night, in spite of the state of your wardrobe,” mused the nobleman. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Executing someone, ideally; but there’s always gold and property.”
“I thank you, but my fortune lies elsewhere,” said the third son. “A sack full of stones from the drained swamp is all I ask.”
“How excitingly unreasonable,” marvelled the nobleman. “Someone will do that. Now go to bed so I don’t have to look at you anymore.” And someone did, and when the third son left the rebuilt manor that morning he did so in his (somewhat dusty) fine clothing with two packs: one leather and holding his two humble bricks, and one from woven gold holding a large collection of swamp stones, knobbly and easily clutched in a knuckle-grip. He walked all morning until he heard distant cries and lamentations, then he smiled and broke into a run, and at last he came upon a troubled city from which anguish and terror radiated like licking flames.
“Help!” called the citizens. “Save us!”
“I shall, I shall,” whispered the third son, hungry and through his teeth. “Just find me your mayor.”
“Here!” called the citizens, “here!” The city’s mayor came, pale of face and bulging of eye, with a cut dribbling fresh blood down his cheek.
“We are besieged,” he explained. “A terrible giant has built a fortress on the hill above us, and from there he flings flaming boulders into town unless we meet his demands and feed him our children. His walls are impenetrable, his aim is perfect. We cannot stop him. Can you? You don’t look like much, but we’ll try anything.”
“Absolutely,” said the third son. “Only give me some lunch. This will take a bit of work.”
“We can spare it,” said the mayor. And they gave the third son a full satchel, and so he walked towards the hill that the giant’s fortress squatted upon with a vibrant heart and a singing step.
But he did not walk all the way. Halfway there he stopped, and he climbed a tree, and he made note of the fortress’s height (great) and its sturdiness (formidable) and the arcing force of the giant’s fiery boulders that issued forth from its ramparts (perilous). Then the third son laughed, and he took the two humble bricks from their pack, and he began to stack them, one atop the other. He did so once, then twice, then thrice, then thrice again, and thrice again, and thrice again, and thrice once more, until he had built a tower higher than any tree, higher than the hill, higher than the walls of the giant’s fortress, and he could see all the way down into the giant’s war-parapet, where he was quenching his thirst between volleys with a huge pitcher. The giant had six arms and three heads, and each begrudged the other two their turn to sip, so it was in the spirit of mischief as much as experimentation that led the third so to aim his first rock so that it shattered the giant’s pitcher.
“Ho!” shouted the giant’s first head, pointing accusingly. “This thing is empty! One of you greedy louts drained it before my turn!”
“Not so,” countered the giant’s second head, raising a clasped palm. “See, I have broken pottery in my hand here – one of you must have broken it with your clumsy fingers.”
“Ah,” declared the giant’s third head, gazing upwards. “I see the problem. While you two are bickering, someone has climbed up above us and is throwing stones. A cheap trick.”
“What?” asked the giant’s first head.
“Gnrk,” said the giant’s second head, lolling back with a small swamp stone lodged deep in his brow.
From there the battle began in sharpness and earnestness, and for every stone that descended from above six fiery boulders left the giant’s six palms. But fiercely though they flew they did so in defiance of gravity, while the third son’s made it their happy ally, and so in each exchange all six shots bounced and cartwheeled harmlessly down the long, long sides of the third son’s mighty tower while his single stone inevitably struck the giant on hand, on palm, on wrist, and on foot. So dwindled the giant’s ability to strike back, then his ability to flee, and at last when he laid groaning and broken on his parapet down came two last stones – plunk plonk – onto each of his remaining heads, shattering their crowns and killing him entirely.
“Ah,” said the third son, sitting back in satisfaction, and he took a moment to consider his situation. It was not quite noon, he had ample food, and he had a bag of stones that was still more than half full. His smile was wide and broad and totally genuinely and very awful.
“THIS,” he said, “is my fortune at last.”
Then he plucked up a stone, aimed, and fired. Thunk, and down went the mayor of the city.
“That was for speaking so undeferentially to me, when I might have saved you!” shouted the third son. Aim, fire, thunk and down went the nobleman in his manor, before he could finish his afternoon drink. “And that was for considering me unsightly!” he laughed. Aim, fire, thunk and over went the farmer in his field, back bent farther than ever before. “That was for giving me such poor clothing!” he called. Aim, fire, thunk, and in the old bricklayer’s home his oldest brother fell backwards at his workbench. “And THAT,” mocked the third son, “ was for mocking and jeering at me! Whether I ask it or no, I need not tolerate such any longer!” And he laughed and cheered and sat down for a good long lunch and when it was done he took a long nap, for he had risen early for three days of travel.
While the third son of the bricklayer slept, his second brother sat down by the road and cried for a while, where an old, old, old woman found him.
“Hello,” said the second son, rubbing his eyes clear. “Can I help you?”
“I’m actually doing alright at the moment,” said the old, old, old woman. “But you look troubled.”
“My older brother was just struck down by a stone from the sky at our father’s work-bench,” said the second son. “My poor mother has just had our father pass on and seen our youngest brother demand to be driven out of house and home, and now this – what will I tell her? What will I do?”
“Hmm,” said the old, old, old woman. “I think I might know the problem, and I think I might have caused it. As such, I will fix it.” So she spat on her palm twice and tapped her long, long, long (and most crooked) forefinger on a small egg she took from her pocket, and she gave the egg and two small pieces of fruit to the second brother.
“Put that in your brother’s mouth,” she told him, “and place this egg in his pocket. Then if a stone strikes him again, put the second piece in his mouth. And don’t worry about whatever happens next. It’s not your fault.”
The second brother was troubled a bit by the implications of this, but not as much as he was troubled by anything else that had happened that day, and so he did as he was told, and how astonished he was when his older brother’s eyes opened once more and he groaned as though he’d drunk too much, rather than because his skull had been perforated. But joy overcame shock, and by the time the third brother was awake and stretching his arms atop his lofty tower he was himself astonished to see that his oldest brother was not dead at his father’s work-bench but was happily stacking bricks in his yard.
“What?!” he shouted. “I threw true! I always do! There is meddling afoot, and trickery, and that is NOT appropriate – I am the third son! I am the trickster, the meddler! I am the one who receives his fortune! This is NOT ALLOWED!” and so saying (and spitting [and spiting]) he took up another stone and cast it down, down, down all the way to his older brother, who fell dead just as he stood up for his work, landing face-down in the dirt atop the bricks and cracking open the egg in his pocket.
The egg hatched. What came out was not a bird, but it was shaped something like one, although it grew much more quickly. With its first breath it was the size of a songbird, with its second it was the size of a turkey, with its third it was the size of a human, with its fourth it stood as tall as a house, and then it took a great final breath and leapt into the air with a great push of its powerful clawed wings, long neck straight and beak clattering. It spiralled up, up, up into the air, following the disturbance left by the passing of the swamp stone, and it circled the third son’s tower like a vulture above a corpse.
“Ho! Get away! Shoo!” called the third son. “I have felled giants uglier and more powerful than you! Shoo!” And he threw a stone, but for such a big animal the not-bird was quick, and it moved its long, long neck ever so slightly and the third son’s stone flew harmlessly away. This angered him and his second try was hastier and less aimed yet, and the third worse on both accounts, and on and on until his golden bag was empty of swamp-stones, then his satchel of lunch, then his sturdy shoes, and still the great not-bird came closer, its beak snapped more hungrily, until the third son of the bricklayer felt true, cold fear crawling up his back with its clawed feet for the first time in his entire life, for although he had planned and schemed past many obstacles to MAKE his fortune he realized that he had never thought for an instant as to how he might KEEP it. It was the dread of those who have much, and it struck the third son like a snake-bite, and in that moment he did what those who feel it always do, which was the most-immediate, least-sensible thing, and he reached into his leather pack and pulled out one of the two humble bricks and he threw it at the not-bird.
It caught it in its mouth and flew away.
The third son stood there for a moment, not sure of how he felt. Then he realized something awful, and could not help but look into the leather pack.
There was but one humble brick in there, and it was not stacked atop another. Not once. Not twice. Not thrice.
And so, in short and sharp suddenness, all that the stacking of the two humble bricks had wrought became unwrought. The farmer’s brick wall fell away as if it were made of hair-thin twigs; the nobleman’s new manor slid ripplelessly into the swamp; and the great and tall tower of the third son – beneath his very feet – was gone.
The air beneath it, however, was not. Nor was the ground far, far, far below that.
***
The first and second sons of the bricklayer (after a second bite of fruit for the eldest) did well enough, and married the two orphaned daughters of an elderly farmer from down the road.
The nobleman’s household took the leftover gilding from the sunken manor and moved to a nearby city, where the head cook became mayor.
The giant’s fortress was never visited by any except the most brave and most-dared children that crept to its closed gates, who claimed to hear dreadful clacking and clattering noises within, as if the giant were clapping a pair of giant shears together.
The humble bricks were placed in the old, old, old woman’s garden, where she used them to prop up her bench.
They laid side by side, of course. She didn’t need more of THAT foolishness.