Jack O' Lanterns

Different Purposes:  Spooklights & Jack-0-lanterns

Will the Blacksmith, Clever Will, or Bad Will, Will O' the Wisps, and Spook Lights or Ghost or Ghast Lights

Will the Blacksmith: The First Will o’ the Wisp

(The Fool steps forward, doffs his hat, and shouts to the crowd)

“Make room there! Stand aside! Here’s a tale worth a penny and a pint — a tale to chill yer bones and set the children squealin’!"

A long time ago, in the misty, boggy lowlands of England — where the moon hangs like a white shillin’ and the reeds whisper secrets — there lived a blacksmith named Will. Folks called him Will the Smith, though some said Cunning Will, others called him Bad Will, for he was tricksy as a fox and twice as sharp.

Will was known for his hammer and tongs, aye, but more for his quick tongue and love of a sly jest.

(Aside, to the audience)

“As is the custom (koo-stum), a man what laughs too loud at his own jokes finds the Devil at his elbow soon enough!”

One raw, foggy night, Death knocked at Will’s forge door, and behind him stood the Devil himself, a grin splitting his black-bearded face.

Will looked up from his glowing anvil and winked.  “Ah! The tall reaper and the black rogue, come to fetch my poor old bones! But — as is the custom, a man is due one last drink before his journey!"

The Devil, fancying himself a connoisseur of mortal weakness, nodded and sat for ale. Will poured and poured, spinning tales so wild they near cracked the moon in two.

After many mugs, Will said,

“Before ye take me, good sir, let me show you a smith’s trick no saint nor sinner has seen! Turn yourself into a fine iron nail, and I shall forge you into a marvel for the ages!"

(Aside, hand cupped to mouth)

“As is the custom, a trickster’s tongue can twist even a serpent’s tail!"

The Devil, puffed up with pride, turned at once into a bright iron nail. Will snatched it with tongs, flung it into the roaring forge, and hammered away, sparks flying like fallen stars.

The Devil howled so fierce that the church bells near fell from their towers. At last, shriveled and beaten, he cried for mercy.

Will leaned in close, black soot smeared across his grin.

“Swear now — as is the custom, a fair bargain holds — swear never to take me to Hell, and I’ll free ye!"

The Devil, sizzling with shame, agreed and slithered away in a puff of sulfur.

Years limped by, and Will’s hammer arm grew weak. His eyes dimmed, and he took to mumbling at the hearth. One morning, Death crept alone to his side and took him — no jest this time.

Will’s spirit drifted up to Heaven’s high gate. There stood Saint Peter, stern as frost.

“No room for the likes of thee, Will," he thundered.

(Aside, wagging a finger at the crowd)

“As is the custom, no liar treads the golden path!"

Cast out, Will drifted down to Hell. The Devil stood waiting, arms folded, hoof tapping.

“Ho ho! Look who’s come crawling," said the Devil, his teeth like tombstones.

“But — as is the custom, a bargain binds. No seat by my fire for you, old rogue!"

Will fell to his knees.

“Please, friend! Surely there's a corner for a fellow with a jest?"

The Devil roared with laughter so fierce the flames reared back.

“Ah, Will! You tricked me once, but you cannot trick me twice — but as is the custom, a promise stands. Yet," — he paused, eyes gleaming — “take this coal to light your long, lonesome road!"

With a mighty kick, he sent a glowing ember flying.

Will, groaning and cursed, scooped it up. On the marsh’s edge he found a turnip (tur-nip), and with his smith’s blade, carved a wicked face. He tucked the ember inside.

(Aside, tapping the lantern)

“As is the custom, a lantern lights the road — but beware who follows it!"

From that night to this, Will wanders the fens and bogs, swinging his ghostly lantern — folk call him Will o’ the Wisp. The pale blue glow dances and bobs, tempting travelers off the safe road into the black pools, into the moors and bogs to get lost in endless mist, or else into fast running rivers to drown.  So, beware of the spook lights on the moors.  They be 'guiding you to your doom.

(Fool leans forward, voice low)

“As is the custom, keep your eyes down and your feet on the track — else Will o’ the Wisp will have your soul for a song!"

Why “Will o’ the Wisp”?

Will: from Will the Blacksmith’s name.

Wisp: an old word for a torch of twisted straw or rushes.

(Fool throws up his hands and cries)

“A lantern for a lost man, a light for a liar — and a lesson for all! So ends our tale. Toss a penny in the pot if ye liked it, and may your path be straight and dry!"

Stingy Jack: Jack “O' " the Lantern

Stingy Jack: The First Jack o’ Lantern

(Fool stamps foot, swings staff)

“Room! Room! Make way for the play! A tale of drink, devilry, and one lantern what’ll haunt yer dreams!"

“Room! Room! Stand aside, good people! Make way for the tale — a tale of drink, devilry, and a lantern carved from a turnip! A tale to curl your toes and sour your beer!"

A long time ago in old Ireland — when the bog roads were black as ink and a pint could buy you forgiveness — there lived a man known far and wide as Stingy Jack. Jack was meaner than a goat in a briar patch, trickier than a fox in a henhouse, and thirstier than a fish at sea.

(Aside to crowd)

“As is the custom (meaning: 'as old tradition says'), a man who loves the drink more than the priest’s blessing is bound to meet the Devil at his elbow!"

One cold and blowy night, Jack sat at his usual spot in the pub, mug dry and pockets empty. He’d drunk through every coin he had — as was his custom, along with lying, cheating, swindling, and being a general cruel and unsufferable conman and crook.  

Then suddenly — WHOOOSH! — the door burst open! A cold wind swirled in, though no one had touched the latch. The crowd barely noticed, and those who did saw no one enter the door, but only Jack saw clear: the Devil himself stood there, tall, black-cloaked, and grinning like a butcher’s cat.

Old Scratch stepped forward, his eyes burning bright.

“Ah now, Jack me lad, sure I’ve come for that black heart o’ yours at last!"

(“Ah now, Jack my boy, I’ve finally come for your wicked soul!")

Jack swallowed hard but forced a crooked smile.

“Well now, good sir, surely — as is the custom — a man gets one last wish before he’s dragged below, eh?"

(“It’s tradition to grant a condemned man one final request, right?")

Black Peter squinted then snorted.

“One last wish, is it? Arrah, ye’d talk a bishop outta his boots, so ye would! Go on then, one wish before we go!"

(“Ah, you’re so slippery you could convince a bishop to walk barefoot — fine then, speak your last wish!")

Jack licked his lips.

“I’d fancy one more drink, sure — a final drop to wet the tongue before the fire!  I've spent my last on that last pint of ale, and I'd like to have another, if you'd please."

(Aside, tapping belly)

“As is the custom, a man’ll trade Heaven itself for one last sup o’ the black stuff!"

(“A man might choose one last drink over salvation!")

The Devil nodded, and Jack downed his ale. But when the barkeep came round, Jack had no coin to pay.

“Say now, mighty prince of darkness," Jack said sweetly, “would ye be so kind as to turn yerself into a silver coin, just for a blink, so I can pay the good man here?"

(“Will you turn into a coin so I can settle the bill?")

The Devil cackled.

“Ohh, aren’t ye the sly fox! Always up to your old jigs and japes (tricks), eh? But fine — I’ll play along!"

With a flash, he snapped his fingers and became a bright silver coin. But Jack, slyer than sin, shoved it in his pocket — where he kept a small silver cross.

The Devil screamed from the pocket.

“Mother o’ mercy! Let me outta here, ye cursed spalpeen!"

(“Good grief! Let me out, you rotten rascal!")

Jack chuckled, tapped the pocket and winked.

“Not ‘til you swear to leave me be for ten years. Else I’ll keep ye jiggling in me trousers ‘til Judgement Day!"

(“Promise not to bother me for ten years or stay trapped forever!")

(Aside, winking)

“As is the custom, a trickster’s tongue can tie a devil in knots!"

Furious, fuming, burning, and spitting, the Devil agreed, and Jack let him out.  With a snap of his fingers, Old Scratch disappeared in an instant like he hadn't just been standing in front of Jack.   

. . .

Ten years later, Jack was stumbling home from the pub again — penniless, stumbling, and wobbling with pockets empty, belly full of ale as was his custom — when a shiver ran down his spine, a chill seized him bodily, and goose pimples appeared on the back of his neck.  He'd been keeping track of the days and he knew his jig was up.

He wheeled about to see the eyes cast upon him, and as he suspected saw Olde Black Peter waiting, arms crossed, tail twitching.

“Ten years to the tick, and here I am! Did ye think I’d forget, a mhic tíre?"

(say it  it: uh VICK TEER-eh, “son of a wolf,";“It’s been exactly ten years — did you think I wouldn’t return, you wolfish scoundrel?")

Jack’s eyes darted to the orchard nearby.

“Now, now — as is the custom — one last wish before I go down below?"

Black Peter groaned.

“By all the banshees, what is it this time?"

Jack pointed to the tallest apple while pointing at the tallest tree in the orchard, naturally the closest to his position at the side of the trail, and pointed at its highest branch, and the largest, juiciest, sweetest apple barely clinging to it.

“I’d like one last sweet apple — that one there, see? Just a taste before I burn forever."

Ole Beelzebub just grunted and snapped his fingers, leaping into the branches like a black cat in one giant leap.  At the exact same moment that Old Scratch's cloven hooves left the ground, Jack sprinted nimbly to its trunk, whipped out his blade, and carved a deep cross into the bark. The Devil shrieked from the top branch, “Saints preserve me! Ye’ll be the death o’ me yet!" (You’re driving me mad with these tricks!)

Jack called up, laughing.

“Same deal as before! 'Cept this time, swear ye’ll never take my soul to Hell!"

The Devil howled.

“Yer tongue’s sharper than a tinker’s awl (sharp tool)!  Yer wits are slipperier than an eel in a barrel!  Sure, it’s a rare soul altogether that can outfox the father of tricksters — and not just the once, but twice, mind ye!  Fine then — I swear it! Now get me down, ye cursed bogtrotter!" (You win again. Just get me down, you swamp-born menace!)

Jack cleared the cross, and the Devil dropped to the ground, red with rage.

. . .

Years passed, and at last Jack’s body gave up. His soul floated up to Heaven’s gates, but Saint Peter crossed his arms.

“No place for cheats and liars here!"

(Aside, folding arms)

“As is the custom, no drunkard shares the saints’ supper!" (Heaven’s not for drunks and tricksters.)

“Sure, the Devil’s gossip runs faster than an old wife’s tongue at the fair — no sooner had Jack breathed his last than the word was halfway round the otherworld! So when Jack came wanderin’ down to where he truly belonged, to the gates of Hell itself, who was there waitin’ but the Devil himself, tappin’ his hoof and grinnin’ like a cat at the cream!"

So Jack’s soul drifted down to Hell. There stood the Devil, leaning on the fiery gates, grinning from horn to hoof.

“Well now, Jack, ye belong here sure enough — but a promise is a promise. I’ll not take ye!"

Jack fell to his knees.

“Please, my evident sire! I’ve no place else! Let me in, for I’ve nowhere else to wander!"

The Devil roared with laughter so fierce the flames bent backward.

“A promise is a promise — and who’d make a deal with the Devil if they thought he wouldn’t keep his word? Hah! Take this ember, and may it light your endless wandering above! Off with ye now — be gone, Jack o’ the Lantern!"

With that, he kicked a burning coal (ember) from Hell at Jack’s feet. Jack picked it up and stumbled away into the dark.

Passing a turnip patch, he yanked one up, hollowed it with his blade, carved a wicked face, and set the ember inside.

(Aside, eyes wide)

“As is the custom, a lantern wards off worse things than shadows!"

Ever since, Jack has roamed the dark hills and misty roads, a ghostly turnip lantern lighting his way. Folks call him Jack of the Lantern — or Jack o’ Lantern.

(Fool steps forward, big finish, staff in air)

“And after all... who’d make a deal with the Devil if they thought he wouldn’t keep his word?!"

(Bows deep, cap in hand)

“Toss us a coin if ye liked the tale — or else Jack may come tap-tap-tappin’ at your window come All Hallows’ Eve!"