There are many legends and stories about why the pumpkin became a symbol of Halloween. We came across one while hiking in Ireland, where Halloween is said to have originated. The story supposedly takes place in the north of Ireland, in a small town surrounded by forests, and it happened like this.
The Irish Legend of Halloween and Greedy Jack
Long, long ago, in Ireland, there lived a humble blacksmith named Jack Stingy, whose favourite pastime was to while away the hours in taverns. There he perfected his drinking craft until his skill became something of a legend.
He became so notorious that word of him flew across the kingdom like wildfire. Many challengers tried to dethrone him, stepping up to test their mettle, but each contest ended the same way: the contender would slump, dazed, beneath a bench, while Jack—unfazed—would lift his cup and drink on as if nothing had happened.
One evening, an elegantly dressed gentleman entered the tavern. He scanned the smoky room and asked the innkeeper—who was rubbing battered mugs with a rag not quite fit for the task—about the man said to be unrivalled in drink. The innkeeper glanced up, measured the newcomer with a squint, scented the heavy purse at his side, bowed to the floor and pointed him toward a corner bench.
“Greetings, Jack. Know that your fame has reached far beyond the kingdom,” the stranger said, then hefted a heavy oak chair and set it by the table. Jack looked up from his cup and, more in a mumble than words, replied that he was pleased to meet him. The stranger went on.
“I have come from afar—very, very far. You may think I jest when I tell you where I come from, but I speak the truth: I come from Hell.” He fixed Jack with eyes that glittered at the edges, baring teeth sharp as razors in a mocking smile.
“I want to test you, smith. In Hell there is no devil I cannot out drink, and the sport is growing tiresome. Providence has sent you to me. Will you take up the challenge?”
It took Jack a moment to swallow the stranger’s words. He scratched his beard, spat without ceremony onto the floor, wiped the rest on a grubby sleeve and said, “Let us drink!”
They drank all night. The innkeeper brought round new potions and refilled cups to the brim; the rivals consumed everything set before them like machines. Dawn crept in, and still no victor emerged. They might have drunk on forever, were it not that the tavern owner approached and, bowing low, announced that the cellar was drained, and the contest must end. “A draw. Time to settle the bill.”
“I will not pay!” Jack slurred at his companion. “You challenged me, sir—then you pay.” The Devil looked at him with mild surprise and said he, too, had no coin—but perhaps there was a solution.
“I can transform into a material thing. I will turn into a gold coin; take it and pay the innkeeper. Thereafter, I will change back, and tomorrow we shall continue the contest in another house.”
As he said, so he did. In a puff of biting smoke, the stranger shrank and left upon the table a great golden coin. Without thinking, Jack stretched out his greedy hands and—rather than hand the coin to the innkeeper—slipped it into the very pocket where he always kept the rosary his mother had given him long ago. The power of the crucifix bound the Devil inside the coin. The Devil thrashed, begged, pleaded, commanded—but Jack remained unmoved.
“I will not let you go until you promise not to seek vengeance and swear you will never touch my soul,” the smith told the captive. After long weeks of captivity, the Devil consented to the terms.
The moment he returned to his true form, he looked into the drunkard’s eyes and sneered, “I will never take your soul, Jack—yet believe me, you will pay dearly for this.” With a cruel laugh, he vanished into the darkness, leaving behind only a scorched mark on the grass.
Jack Stingy lived many years after, but his time too came at last. When his eyes closed for the final time, his soul went to Heaven. Standing before a great gilded gate, Saint Peter informed him that entry was out of the question. His ledger of sins was far too long.
“Go then, soul, to Hell—there is your place.”
So Jack set off toward his appointed destination and soon hammered upon a great black gate. It opened with a grudging creak, and from the doorway stepped the very Devil Jack had once trapped. The fiend, parting his wrinkled lips, said:
“Welcome, friend. Do you not remember the oath I swore? My honour will not allow me to take your soul. I can give you but a single coal to light your way while you search for your place upon the earth.” He tossed down a black stone at Jack’s feet, laughed, and slammed the gate with a thunderous clang.
From that hour, Jack wandered the earth without rest, lighting his path with a lantern made from a carved pumpkin, forever searching for the rest that would never come.
You must be logged in to post a comment.