When he heard the giant's snores resounding through the castle, Jack quietly climbed out of the wash tub and crept into the storeroom. One bag of gold would surely cover all his needs, but he hated to pass up the hen. Assuming the hen continued living as long as Jack did, one gold egg a day would provide quite a nice-- well, "nest egg" was the only term he could think of.

The hen glared at him, or at least watched unblinkingly. Although she had looked very small in the giant's hands, Jack could see that she was capable of resisting if he tried to pick her up. She turned as he attempted to edge behind her, so he gave that up and pulled his purse from inside his shirt. It seemed ages since he had put anything more than a few beans in it. But it would easily fit over the hen's head-- the question was whether any bird was really stupid enough to take the darkness of the purse for nightfall?

Perhaps so-- the hen resisted vigorously, but silently. Once he was able to tighten the purse strings a little. the hen relaxed, and he was able to tuck her under his left arm with no trouble. He grabbed the bag of gold, which was heavier than he had anticipated, in his right hand, and moved toward the door and freedom. Then he saw the harp.

Jack had rather liked the sound he had heard from inside the wash tub-- a high clear voice accompanied by resonant, unplucked strings. It was beautiful, but didn't prepare him for the sight of the harp.

It was about half his height, just as he was half the size of the giant. The front and top were deeply carved-- the top arm with ivy leaves, and the front post with a young girl. Admittedly, he had no experience with naked women, but surely this one represented bodily prefection. Her hips and thighs were just a little plump, her belly was slightly rounded as was the mound below it, which was covered only by a few sparse locks of hair. Her white breasts were still small, widely separated and pointing slightly outward as though welcoming an embrace. A few ribs higher up were her collar bones and softly rounded shoulders that were pulled back-- her arms stretched through the ivy leaves, and he could see wooden cords carved over her wrists, binding her in place. He could not see her face; like the giant, she was asleep, and her head drooped forward. Her hair was pulled back in a knot, but so loosely that her cheeks were covered.

"Her white breasts..." The harp was carved of a light wood, probably maple, but had yellowed with the years. But just as the carved leaves represented green ivy, he knew that the carved breasts represented soft, white flesh that was intended for himself, despite being exposed to the world for untold years. This was perfection. He almost resented the nights wasted on embarassingly realistic dreams of Nancy at the Three Pigeons , who he now knew to be too large, too tan, probably even too soft. To be fair, it was the very size, color and probable feel of Nancy's breasts that had once attracted him, but that was all in the past. With a new sense of gentleness, he set down the hen and the gold, stepped onto a grain sack, and reached up to the harp perched on a barrel in the corner of the storeroom. The giant's snoring continued at the other end of the room.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Perhaps he should have grasped her knees instead, but the balance wouldn't have been quite right. In any case, the harp had awakened.

"Quiet... you'll wake him up," he whispered.

"I lull him to sleep-- I can wake him if I wish," she said, but she said it with her voice lowered. Still, her glare was more definite than the hen's had been, and she seemed to expect an answer that he wasn't ready to give. She had dark brown eyes. Apparently the craftsman who made her was able to take advantage of a pair of knots in a piece of wood that was remarkably free from blemish. Aside from the brown eyes, the only spots of color were a mole on her thigh and another just below her left armpit.

"So what are you up to?"

"I've come to rescue you," he said, grasping the harp more discreetly and lifting her down from the barrel. He then sat on the floor beside her, his eyes level with hers.

"We both know who needs rescuing," she said with a snort. Then she began to sing, quietly, with no accompaniment from the strings.

"Fe, fi, fo fum!
I smell a boy who shouldn't have come.
Soon you'll draw your final breath--
There's no escape from here but death."

"Did you make that up yourself? You must have a quick mind."

The harp looked like she didn't know whether to roll her eyes or blush. But she did neither. She lowered her eyes and spoke even more softly.

"Sometimes I put new words to old tunes. The man who carved me said that was all right , and my master now doesn't seem to mind-- or notice."

"Can you invent new tunes? How many do you know?"

"No. Eight. Some are very complex, though."

"The giant-- you call him your master, but he's just a thief. He stole you from my father, and I've come to take you back."

"Do you live with your father? Did you, I mean, when you still had a life to live?"

"No. He died of a broken heart not long after you were stolen. I was still young at the time."

In fact, Jack did not remember his father, and his mother never spoke of the man. But this story might encourage the harp to ignore her loyalty to her master and come with him. Surely the giant had stolen the hen, the gold and the harp from someone-- who was to say it had not been his father?

The harp looked sympathetic, but more than a little skeptical.

"I don't remember much of my early days either. He carved my head and mouth first, so I could sing as he worked, but it was a long time before I learned to ask questions. And I've nearly forgotten now."

"The giant's not much of a conversationalist?"

"He says, 'Sing! Lay! Fe, fi, fo etc.' And only one word of that is directed at me. But he is my master, and so I sing."

"And beautifully, too."

"And beautifully, too. The man who carved me taught me well." She looked at the ceiling a moment. "He wanted me to be happy. He said he would never have carved me if he had realized it would enable me to become sad."

"Why did he make you?"

"For company, I think. He had many customers, but not many friends. Certainly not to sell me, though. He was offered hundreds, sometimes thousands. He would laugh, or he would throw the customer out. He certainly never bargained over me. In the evenings we would laugh and sing together, and he would tell me stories of places he dreamed of but would never visit. . . . Besides, he said I couldn't be sold. No man could own me without killing him, and no amount of gold would make that a good bargain for him."

"And where is he now?"

"My master killed him to pass the time one afternoon, and took me away as an afterthought, when he heard me scream. That was nearly 300 years ago. Which one is your father-- the carver or the giant?"

" . . . I lied about my father because I wanted you to come with me. I'm sorry. . . . You must hate him."

"My master? I feel like any piece of wood feels toward its owner. If he says "Sing," I sing. If he says "Stop," I stop. Just like a chair supports him when he sits, and stands waiting when he doesn't sit. There's no need for feelings, except that I'm thankful he doesn't sit on me."

They both laughed, although Jack wasn't sure her statement really justified it. Then he deliberately lowered his voice, since hers had begun to rise. "How does he treat you?"

"How do you treat your shoes? You're looking for something that just isn't there. I'm not human and neither is my master. If you can't tell that, it's because you don't belong in this world at all."

Jack knew better than to answer her.

"But when he first brought me here, he'd sit me on the table during dinner. I'd sing to him, and he'd tell me what he had destroyed that day. And sometimes he'd give me a little wine."

"You drink wine?"

"I can't swallow. It's pretty hard to carve internal organs, apparently. The wine made me feel warm, or sleepy or happy, but finally I had to spit it out on the table or the floor. He drank quite a bit too, and the floor was always a mess."

"And then?"

"The housekeeper came-- that woman you were sweet-talking this morning. Everything changed then. No more wine for me, and no more spitting for anyone. She listens to his talk, and she shares his meals and-- everything. I sit perched on a shelf or a barrel, or lean in a corner until he says "Sing," and then I sing.

"Everything? Do they-- I mean, is she like his wife? You know what I mean."

"I think giants are like mules. They have lots of brothers, but no children. I have no idea what goes on outside this room, though."

"So does she ever mistreat you?"

"No, she's very confident of her position. You must have noticed that-- or did you think it was your charm that made her deceive my master?"

That possibility had seemed quite strong to Jack, but this wasn't the time for a long discussion of the matter. He wanted to change-- or return to-- the topic of conversation.

"I love you, harp. I want you to come with me. "

"It's no use. I can't disobey my master. He owns me."

"Has he ordered you to stay? If you don't share his feelings, you can hardly anticipate his commands."

"And I will continue to belong to him as long as he lives. That's not my choice-- that's just the way it is. Wood doesn't choose."

"And what if I kill the giant?"

"Have you ever kissed a woman?"

That turn of topic confused him. Discounting his mother, the answer was negative. But why had the harp asked that? Despite his confusion, he answered almost correctly. Jack kissed two fingers of his right hand, and placed them on the harp's small mouth. It was softer than he could have imagined.

"You smell of fear. It is a common smell here; I know it well. It is time for you to leave this place. Take your gold and your hen. Take your fear and your love and leave."

"And what if I kill the giant?"

"What if you do? Then he'll be dead, you'll be very wealthy, and I'll be a piece of furniture in a rich man's house. That would be very nice for you, wouldn't it?"

"No, you'll never be just a harp to me. We'll always stay together. We'll make new songs and sing them together. I'll learn to read, and give you stories and plays and poems from all kingdoms on earth. I'll take you to see the mountains and lakes, and we'll ride across the sands of Arabia. Just say what you want to do, and I'll never be happy until we've done it."

"You've never died, have you?" the harp said, lowering her voice once more. Neither have I, but I've seen it happen many times, and it never looks pleasant. Please go. Now."

Jack knew that she was serious about the danger, and that he was bluffing about killing the giant. But trying not to look reluctant, he carefully returned the hen to her nest, and gently removed the purse that had blind-folded her. The hen continued to glare silently as he returned the bag of gold to its place, slipping a handful of coins into the now-empty purse, and as he returned to the harp.

"Has your master commanded you not to be carried away?" he asked.

"This is foolish. You don't have a chance."

"Exactly. If I leave, I'll never see you again. If I stay, I'll become English loaf. If I slay the giant you'll call me master, but pout whenever I ask you to sing. I don't have a chance. So it really doesn't matter what I do, does it?"

"I don't pout," she said, biting off the words with a slight frown.

"No, I'm sorry to have suggested it," Jack said. "Does your master have any weaknesses? Or can't you say?"

"A bad temper when he first wakes up. And his eyesight isn't great, at least compared with his hearing and sense of smell."

With a promise to return, Jack went back to the kitchen, with the hen and the harp staring after him, and the giant snoring at the table. He did return, and soon, with a large knife in his belt and a fistful of flaked sage leaves in his purse. He placed his left hand on the harp's hard, wooden shins, then slid it gently up a softer thigh to the slighly rounded belly, which was sensitive almost to the point of ticklishness. Then he grabbed the shins, cradled the harp's soundboard in the crook of his right arm, and went out into the entry hall.

Once they reached the open air, which even Jack recognized as smelling much less fearful than that inside the castle, he stopped to kiss the harp's small mouth, its rounded cheeks, its forehead, eyelids, ears, and chin.

"Idiot!" she whispered. "You don't have time for this. What do you think you're doing?"

"Covering your face with kisses. It's an old English custom; you wouldn't understand."

With that, he tightened his grip and began jogging back toward the beanstalk. He had just reached it when bellowing began to be heard from the direction of the giant's castle. "Where is it? "What happened to my harp?" "Who has been in my castle?" And then the word Jack was dreading: "Sing!!"

"Set me down facing the castle, and get out of here," the harp ordered Jack. "Don't argue-- if you love me, just do it!" And she began singing a light dance tune, something about walking through wheat fields in late summer.

To her surprise, Jack did what he had been told. But he stopped just out of sight, and used the knife from the giant's kitchen to cut through the tip of the stalk that was visible in the giant's kingdom, and started it on a long fall to the earth. Above him, and still at some distance, he heard the giant yell, "Louder, harp! Sing louder."

Jack was surprised by the power of the harp's voice. The strings pounded out strong, rhythmic chords-- no more ethereal arpeggios-- to accompany her stunningly inappropriate anthem of honor and glory.

Some 20 feet further down the stalk, Jack reached into his purse, and began rubbing sage over his face and arms, and into his hair. He then began another cut into the stalk. His plan, if he had the time to carry it out, was to cut part way through the stalk, to such a depth that it would support his own weight, but not one significantly greater.

Jack kept working even when the singing stopped and he heard the giant's voice above him.

"Harp! How did you get out here?"

"An Englishman carried me away while you slept. He must have sneaked into the castle while you were out this morning."

"But didn't you call out?"

"He covered my face. He looked weak, but very cunning."

Jack felt a slight sense of relief, but continued carving at the beanstalk as he listened to the harp and her master.

"Where is he? His stink is faint, and I can't tell which way to turn. I hate it when people take things from me."

"He put me down when he heard you yell. I was watching for you, and didn't see where he went. But he didn't go toward the castle. You've been running-- please sit down if you have time to rest."

The giant must have done so. The harp began to sing, but Jack didn't realize why until he began to yawn himself. Her lullabye was seductive. Jack paused to open a pod of beans, and pushed the smallest ones into his ears. The larger beans went into his purse, but he already suspected he would not want to plant them.

When his stalk carving was done, Jack cautiously removed a bean. The singing had ceased, and Jack could hear the giant's sonorous snoring.

The top section of stalk swayed as he climbed up, but supported him as he reached for the silent harp. With one arm passed behind her back, he climbed back down to the notch and, with difficulty, severed the stalk completely at that point, which he hoped would put the stalk out of the giant's reach.

From there it was just a matter of climbing down the beanstalk, quickly, but with care not to put any strain on the harp's back. At the same time, he tried to anticipate objections from the harp, but she said nothing. Jack finally broke the silence himself.

"So what now? I have you beside me, so I'm happy no matter what happens. The giant is still alive, so I'm not your master, and you can sing or not sing, as you please."

"I don't know. Does the giant ever come to this land? And how big is it, if he decides to come searching for me?"

"I don't know either. I'll do some chopping when I get to the bottom. But until then I'm not going to worry about it."

"Between the sage and the sweat, you smell like a pig ready to be roasted on a spit. But that's a nicer smell than a fearful Englishman."

Jack concentrated on climbing, and the harp tried to remember a song she had known long ago, about the sun rising over the lake in a valley far away.