Down the Hill

Artful flailing of limbs and cries of pain and panic disguised the control behind Jill's much-practiced tumble down the hillside. She saw no witnesses, but one can't be too careful. She fetched up next to the twitching boy.

"Jack! Jack," she cried, "are you hurt bad?" The crack she'd heard was not, as she'd hoped, his neck snapping. Blood and hair clung to the jagged rock behind him. The crown of his head was misshapen. He would live, after a fashion. She'd seen such injuries before, among the sheep. He would never be a man again.

Her prediction proved correct. Jack was, for the rest of his many days, a hopeless idiot. He ate nothing but sweets (how he howled if there was no plum pie!), and he exhausted his nights jumping over burning candles.

Jill was satisfied. Her lover, the giant, was avenged.