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The Peach-Pod and the Cloud-Sea

The Peach-Pod and the Cloud-Sea ​The beanstalk didn't sprout from a handful of magic beans anymore; it grew from the pit of a single, colossal peach. ​James Henry Trotter—no longer a boy, but a lean, nervous-looking young man—sat huddled in the dusty attic of the aunt and uncle who had, thankfully, been dead for years. He was the sole inheritor of their dreary, isolated cottage. His life hadn't been the grand adventure he'd hoped for. The Giant Peach, his escape, had been lost years ago in a terrible storm over the Atlantic, its crew of insect friends scattered to the winds. ​One day, while weeding a neglected corner of the garden, he found it: a single, glistening peach pit the size of his head. It pulsed with a faint, internal warmth. He recognized the magic; he couldn't deny it. Hoping for a new vessel, or at least a good crop, he buried it. ​That night, a sound like a ship's mast cracking split the air. James ran outside to find a stalk—not green and supple, but a mottled, woody brown, spiraling impossibly high into the black sky. It was already wider than the cottage chimney. And it was bearing fruit: not beans, but a single, massive peach-pod clinging near the top. ​This is his chance, he thought. A second flight. ​He climbed for hours, his hands scraped raw, the wood of the stalk rough and sticky. As he neared the top, he saw that the peach-pod was leaking a luminous, sweet-smelling juice. He pulled himself up onto a thick, horizontal branch just below the clouds. ​Here, a vast, white Cloud-Sea stretched out, broken only by other strange growths—giant cabbages, enormous acorns, and, most notably, a massive, crudely-built wooden fortress that seemed to float on the mist. ​As James stared, aghast, he heard a sound—not a giant's voice, but a high, manic cackle. ​"Well, well, what have we here? A little earth-worm climbing my sky-ladder?" ​A man stepped out from the fortress gates. He wasn't a terrifying giant, but an impossibly tall, unnervingly thin man with a patchy, yellow-grey beard and clothes woven from what looked like shredded money. This was Jack, the original climber, who had stayed and thrived. ​"Jack?" James whispered, trembling. ​"The one and only," Jack boasted, hefting a gleaming golden egg in his hand. "Though I go by 'Cloud-Lord Jack' now. See that giant hen? She lays these for me! And that harp? Plays itself! Paid for by your giant peach, by the way. I used its remains for fertilizer." He pointed a long, bony finger at the immense, leaking peach-pod above them. "That's my new project. A new ship. A better ship. Not sailing over the sea, but through the clouds." ​James's heart sank. This wasn't a land of simple giants; it was a ruthless, monopolized farm. "You stole the magic," James accused. ​"I harnessed the magic," Jack corrected, his eyes glinting. "Down there, you had a single giant peach. Up here, you have the whole sky to exploit. Everything you see—the Cloud-Sea, the light, the very air—is mine." ​He laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "But you're a good climber, little man. I could use a servant. You can tend to the peach-pod until it's ready. You'll never go hungry, and you'll get to breathe the finest air money can buy." ​James looked past Jack to the great fortress, and then up at the massive peach-pod dripping its sweet nectar. His second chance wasn't a joyful, shared journey; it was a lonely, gilded cage. ​He would have to steal his adventure back. ​He gave Jack a respectful, low bow, the movement hiding the fact that his hands were now closing around the sharp, splintered edge of a broken beanstalk branch. He wasn't just James Henry Trotter anymore. He was the master of his own daring. He was a second, unexpected climber. ​"Cloud-Lord Jack," he said, forcing a subservient smile. "I'd be honored."