The Boggart

Farmer Jack had skimped, saved, and finally, finally stashed enough gold to buy a new field.

But as he sat admiring the land on that first day, he quickly learned that someone (or something) had already claimed the land as their own.

A boggart.

Boggarts are sneaky creatures, and this fellow was no different.

When the boggart told Jack that he was trespassing, the farmer replied that he’d just bought the field. He showed the boggart the paperwork, but boggarts can’t read. Instead of complying, the small, hairy creature shoved the farmer back down to the road and told him to hurry home.

The farmer pushed back, crying that this was his home and he’d spent every coin to his name to purchase the land. When that didn’t work, the farmer threatened to take the boggart to court. Finally, seeing that he was getting nowhere, he offered to buy the land (again) from the boggart.

But the boggart wasn’t interested in money or sad stories, and he definitely didn’t listen to judges.

Jack thought about his predicament. A boggart is a trickster, there’s no denying it, but they also stand by their word.

So instead of fighting, the farmer offered to split the land. He would give whatever grew on top of the soil to the boggart and keep only that which grew beneath. The boggart felt this to be an excellent deal and quickly agreed.

That year, Jack sowed an entire field of root crops—carrots, potatoes, beets, and more. When harvest time came and the farmer cleared the fields, he packed his root cellar to the ceiling.

Meanwhile, the boggart was left with carrot tops and withered potato leaves.

When planting season came around again, Jack (not wanting to anger the boggart since boggarts can bring all sorts of upset to a farm) asked his companion if he’d like the same deal as before.

The boggart scoffed at the man. Did he believe him dense? The boggart explained that this time, he would take what grew beneath the soil, and the farmer would take whatever grew on top.

Jack agreed. That year, he planted wheat. When harvest time came, Jack had five carts full of golden straw.

The boggart took home a pile of flimsy roots.

Next year, the man approached the boggart with a new plan, one that he said would be a win-win. Instead of someone claiming whatever grew on top of the soil and the other what lie beneath, what if they halved the field? The farmer would plant wheat again, but this time, they would split the land down the middle. Each man (well, man and boggart) would harvest however much they could, as quickly as possible.

First come, first serve.

The boggart thought about this. The man had tricked him twice already, but as they say, the third time’s a charm. And besides, despite his size, the boggart was stronger than the farmer, and he could harvest a field twice as fast.

So the boggart agreed, and when harvest time approached, he was ready. His scythe was sharp, his mind focused, and his stomach growled.

Morning came, and the man and boggart set out scything the field. The man filled up one cart and grabbed a second, but the boggart had hardly made a dent. Whereas the man’s blade glided through the wheat, the boggart’s stalks were hard as steel. Before the hour was over, the boggart was drenched in sweat, and he cursed the day he ever stepped foot on that wretched land.

The boggart knew he needed to do something drastic to beat the farmer, so he took a deep breath and swung his scythe with all his might, knowing that one swift blow should be enough to fill his cart.

But instead of clearing the field, the scythe splintered into a million tiny pieces.

Because what the boggart didn’t know was that when the wheat was just ankle-high, the farmer inserted fine metal rods into the boggart’s half of the field. By the time the wheat stretched and turned to gold, the rods had disappeared from sight.

But you know what they say, what a boggart knows won’t hurt him, and by then, he’d had enough nonsense to last him two lifetimes. He decided that the land was obviously cursed by something older and stronger than he, so he told the farmer that he could have his doomed, good-for-nothing field. He stomped his way down to the main road, kicking up clouds of dust with each step.

And because boggarts stick to their word, the farmer never saw him again.