“Sam, I need your help,” Jack entreated. “As you know, my heart has been sliced into pieces like a bruised, mealy apple, its very core ripped out and the remnants laid upon a crust of misery, to be baked into a pie of sadness after being sprinkled with the cinnamon of despair.”
“Now I’m hungry,” Sam complained.
“I have conceived of a bizarre plan whose first requirement is that I seek out eleven others who are identical to me in face, figure, and size. I believe this is my one and only chance, for I am far too weak, useless, and pathetic to succeed without help. And you are the person most like me in all the world, except stronger and handsomer and overall better in—”
“You really are his brother, aren’t you?”
“—every way. What do you say, Sam? Will you help me?”
“Aye, of course,” Sam agreed graciously, as was his wont. “I can never refuse you. Let me drop these wee sticks off first, and then we shall be on our way.”
And so the two of them set off.
“Do you always go along with every wild idea he dreams up?” I asked.
“I’m fine with following his lead. Jack enjoys being the romantic hero. I’m content with a supporting role.”
“Really?” Thanks to my family, I had some experience feeling like a secondary character in my own story. I can’t say I enjoyedit.
“It’s all for the best,” Sam said. “Jack’s never steered me wrong.”
“If you say so.” His wounds seemed to argue otherwise, but I refrained from pointing this out.
They decided the next person they should recruit to their cause was their cousin Clem, the famed hunter, as Clem’s resemblance to the pair was so strong that as children they had oft been called by the wrong names at family gatherings. Or at least, they had been until Clem opened his mouth, for he had been raised in the high hills and spoke in their manner.When they approached Clem’s land, they found the man in question standing atop a ridge with his bow, peering into the distance with an arrow nocked and drawn.
“Hello, Clem—” Jack began, stopping when his cousin shot a sharp glare in his direction.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “Ye’ll friten it aff.”
Jack lowered his voice. “What are you hunting?”
“Twa miles awa’, a flea is sittin’ oan an oak tree branch. Ah’m wantin’ tae shoot tis left yak oot.”
Clem loosed his shot, and a minute later, they heard the faint but unmistakable cry of a flea being half blinded by an arrow hitting its left eye.
“You did not.”
“I may be embroidering the tale somewhat,” Sam acknowledged.
“Any more embroidery and it’ll have more stitches than you do.”
He chuckled and flashed a rather charming grin before continuing.
Jack and Sam put their case to Clem, and he immediately agreed to join their cause.
Now, while the three of them had other close relatives, none fit the bill; they were all too short, too tall, too slender, too stout, or otherwise unsuitable. So the three of them set out across the land in search of additional companions.
After many miles of walking, they came upon a curious sight—seven windmills whose sails were racing around at tremendous speeds, in spite of the calm weather.
“That’s strange,” Jack commented, approaching the windmills. “I wonder if—”
But we are never to know what he wondered, for as soon as he came within a few feet of a windmill, a mighty windpicked him up and sent him tumbling arse over teakettle down the hill.
Unable to account for this narrowly focused gale, the three travelers moved on. Two miles from the windmills, however, they came across a man sitting in a tree who, as it happened, appeared identical to Jack, Sam, and Clem in face, figure, and size.
“That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Well, perhaps not completely identical in face.” Sam tapped his mask. “He only needed to be close enough for this to finish the job.”
