The Book of English Folk Tales

by Sybil Marshall

  A man who knows this story would have had to be more than usually courageous to visit the spot in the light of the full moon thereafter. Not only did the White Rabbit hop about there as unperturbed as ever, but leaning on the churchyard wall from the inner side the ghostly figure of a man could now be seen. He had a double-barrelled shot gun in his hands, taking steady aim at something that seemed to move always where the moon made the greatest glory among the long grass of the open space in front of him.

  Giants

  In mythology, giants often represent the powerful forces over which mere men have no control, and the giants of folk tale are almost always huge creatures demonstrating the truth of the adage that might is right. Most of them are creatures of such abominable crime and cruelty that their bodies have to be of gigantic proportions to match this concept of terrorizing evil. In contrast with bogles and boggarts and the like, the occasional female giant has a better side to her, and sometimes even counteracts her husband’s deeds by her clemency.

  A Yorkshire Giant

  Lands of moor and mountain appear to be the natural home of mythological giants. This one actually claimed to be a descendant of Thor, one of the Norse divinities, and the ‘greybeard’ hermit – who does not pretend to be a Christian holy man – also has a ring of Dark Age mythology about him. This would make the story at least a thousand years old in its origin.

  The giant of Penhill, so the story goes, could trace his ancestry back to the great god Thor, who was also a giant – Redbeard the Rocksplitter they used to call him; but by all accounts Thor was in general a jovial giant who only got into rages occasionally, whereas his descendant seems to have been a thoroughly vicious and ill-natured brute who by his size and his reputation managed to terrorize all the surrounding district.

  He lived in an enormous castle, and his sole delight was in raising a huge herd of particularly ferocious swine. He employed many swineherds, who were assisted in their task by the only creature, other than the pigs, that found favour in the giant’s eyes. This was a splendid boarhound, called Wolfhead, a large, sagacious hound, well-trained at its task and quick to obey its master’s bidding. Between the giant and his fearsome dog there existed some sort of bond, and together they put fear into the heart of all Wensleydale.

  Now one day the giant was striding down the valley of the river Yore, with Wolfhead at his heels, when he came upon a tiny flock of sheep. It angered the giant that anyone other than himself should own anything, and in any case he was bored and felt like having a bit of fun at somebody else’s expense. So he spoke a word of sharp command to Wolfhead, and the next moment the powerful boarhound was hurtling at the startled sheep. In less time than it takes to tell, the dog tore out a sheep’s throat, and left it lying while his master urged him on to serve all the others in the same fashion. The giant was highly entertained by this exhibition of his own power and his dog’s obedience, and was in no mood to be interrupted in his sport; but he saw coming towards him a most beautiful young girl, who was crying and wringing her hands as she reached him, and threw herself down in supplication at his feet.

  ‘Sir,’ she implored, ‘spare the others! They are my father’s flock, and all he has in the world. I beg of you to call off your hound!’

  The giant was amazed at her daring, but any kind of opposition only made him angrier and more cruel than ever. He spurned her with his great boot, whistled up his dog, and set it back again at its vicious sport. The girl began to weep most bitterly, and this caused him to look down at her again. And this time he noticed that, shepherdess though she might be, she was extremely beautiful; and being what he was, his thoughts changed swiftly from one kind of sport to another. He picked her up, and began to fondle her, feeling the soft, small-boned body between his fingers like a delicate piece of silk-covered porcelain. But the horrified girl twisted and turned as she shrank away from his caresses, and somehow or other she managed to slip from his grasp. Then she took to her heels, and fled.

  The infuriated giant, mad now with frustration as well as desire, started to run after her; but fear lent her wings, and she outstripped him, making instinctively for the woods in which he would be hampered by his great size, and she might be able to slip to safety between the trees. Seeing her intention, and that he could not overtake her before she reached cover, he once more whistled up Wolfhead, and set him to attack the girl. The hound went off like a cross-bow bolt, and the terrified girl heard him pounding towards her. She turned as he sprang, so he missed her throat, but knocked her over. As he made another rush at her throat, she seized a large stone that lay ready to her hand, and brought it down with all her strength on his muzzle. The dog, in pain and bewilderment, for neither sheep nor pigs had ever retaliated before in that way, drew off, baring its teeth and growling; and in spite of its master’s repeated commands, it refused to make another attack. By this time, though, the giant had come pounding up, and in his rage at being thus so thwarted by both dog and girl alike, he raised his huge club high above his head, and brought it down on the head of the defenceless shepherdess. Her skull cracked like an eggshell, and she died at once. Then he spurned her dead body with his huge foot and turned away, leaving her where she lay for her heartbroken family to find.

  Though his evil reputation had already travelled far, nothing had ever made his name stink in the nostrils of the good folk of Wensleydale as did this callous murder of Gunda.

  ‘Bad will become of him,’ said the people; and in the course of time, they were proved right.

  In the meantime, however, the giant returned to his normal, evil ways. Every morning he sent for his swineherds to bring up his herds and, with the help of the hound, to parade them two by two before his eyes. Though there were hundreds of them, he knew every one by sight, and this daily inspection served to inform him if any was sick or ailing, or not fattening and growing as it should.

  One day, as the young boars were passing by him, he saw that one was walking alone, and that its usual partner in the parade was nowhere to be seen. Bellowing, he commanded the swineherds to turn the pigs, and send them back in front of him again, which they did; but the boar was still missing.

  ‘That hound is getting too old for its job,’ he said, aiming a vicious kick at Wolfhead, and commanding him to go to drive in the missing boar. The dog laid back its lips and bared its fangs, but slunk away to obey, while the swineherds sweated in terror.

  ‘Find that boar,’ snarled their master, ‘or by Thor I swear that I will skin you alive and leave you for the wolves to finish off!’

  They turned to go, but at that instant they heard Wolfhead set up a dismal baying, and with the giant they turned and began to hurry towards the noise. The giant’s huge legs outstripped them, and when they reached the spot they found Wolfhead crouching, fearful but faithful, over the carcass of the boar, from whose side protruded an arrow, the point of which had found the beast’s heart.

  The giant’s rage now knew no bounds. His roars filled the valley and rebounded from the hills. He had no notion whose hand it was that had sped that arrow, but he vowed by his great ancestor that he would find out, and when he did he would cut off the hand that it might never let fly another. Then he cursed Wolfhead again and threatened him with death for not protecting his charges properly. At last, his fury for the moment spent, he heaved the boar’s carcass on to his shoulders, and commanding the hound to follow him, set off home. The dog, remembering that vicious kick and sensing the mood of his master, refused to follow, but instead made off to the cover of the woods in which poor Gunda had died.

  The giant called for his steward, and bade him send messengers in all directions throughout the dale, commanding every man who could draw a bow to present himself at a high point near a steep cliff on Penhill, in one week’s time, threatening death and destruction to any who absented himself from the gathering; for he would scour the district till he found the culprit who had dared to slay his boar. As the news spread from mouth to mouth, great fear rose among the p
easants. They did not know who had killed the boar, but every man feared for his own life, and what his neighbour might disclose. As the week wore on, the whole dale was filled with terror bordering on panic, for in spite of their robust independence they knew themselves to be no match for the giant.

  That horrible creature could barely contain his impatience as the days slowly passed, especially as he was more and more angered by the continued absence of Wolfhead. One day, walking on his battlements, he detected a movement in the woods, and peering amongst the trees, he saw a shape that he recognized as the hound, the only creature on earth for whom he had ever felt the smallest affection, or who had ever shown the least sign of affection in return. The giant whistled, and Wolfhead raised his ears, and stood up; but he did not obey the call. His master whistled again and again, but the dog still stood, hesitant and reluctant to obey. Then the giant lost his patience and flew into another of his blind rages. Seizing his huge bow, he fitted an arrow to it, and sent it unerringly right through Wolfhead’s heart. Without a sound, the hound dropped dead, just as Gunda had done, in almost the same spot.

  At length the day of the muster arrived, and all the fearful peasants gathered together at the place the giant had decreed. When all had assembled, the giant strode before them, carrying in his hand the arrow taken from the carcass of the boar.

  He held it up before them, and demanded, ‘Which of you shot this arrow?’

  Nothing but dumb, stubborn silence answered his question. Three times he asked it, and three times every man stood his ground, sick with fear, but silent.

  ‘Ah! So you dare defy me? You think to shield the culprit by your silence? By the great god Thor, I will make you speak! Begone then – but tomorrow you shall return, and every man among you shall bring his youngest son in his arms; and if you do not then tell me what I wish to know, we shall see how many men will still keep silent when I show what I can do to the children! Out of my sight, you dogs – and fail not tomorrow, or it will be more than the youngest children who shall suffer! By Thor it will!’

  The poor men stood as if frozen to the ground. How could they go back to their tiny cottages and break such terrible news to their wives? How could they, on the other hand, not obey? While they stood as if petrified by the horror of their situation, they were almost as astonished as the giant himself was, to hear a single, aged voice raised quietly, calmly addressing the huge tyrant. Looking down, the giant saw before him an old, bent man with a long grey beard, leaning heavily on a stick, but looking at him from a pair of deepset, steady grey eyes in which there showed no single flicker of anything but contempt.

  ‘Who are you, old greybeard?’ shouted the giant. ‘Who dares so to stand before me? What do you want?’

  The old man spoke, clearly and calmly, without passion.

  ‘When each man brings his child to you tomorrow,’ he said, ‘what then? What do you want with the babies?’

  The giant roared with laughter. ‘What then? You old fool,’ he said. ‘Dare you ask that? Be careful! I am the one with power of life or death over you all. It will pay you well. Greybeard, to keep a civil tongue in that head, for your grey hairs shall not save you!’

  The old man stood his ground, quite undismayed.

  ‘Is that all your answer?’ he asked.

  ‘It is all the answer the likes of you will get, unless you want an arrow through your breast!’

  Then the queer old man took a step forward, and looked sternly up into the giant’s face.

  ‘Take heed, thou tyrant, to what I say, for I speak only the truth that I do know. You swear by Thor. Tomorrow is Thor’s day, and if on that day thou spillest one drop of blood – nay, if you should even cause one innocent babe to cry out in fear or pain – then dead or alive, you shall never enter your castle stronghold again!’

  It was as if a shudder of hope passed through the ranks of the standing men, though they could not believe the old man could do anything to save them; but someone whispered that the old man was a hermit, and somebody else that he was a seer, who could foretell the future. One of the stewards reported this to the giant, but he only laughed more cruelly than ever.

  ‘Get back to your hole!’ he yelled at the hermit. ‘Tomorrow you shall see what I can do to whining dogs like you!’ and he turned on his heel and strode back to his castle, while the sorrowing men dragged themselves home, their only frail hope reposing in the even frailer figure of the old man wending his way back slowly towards the woods with the help of his stick to keep him upright.

  It was a sad sight to see the next morning, as the men climbed the slopes of Penhill, each one with a crowing baby or a chattering toddler in his arms, while left at home were terrified women wailing for the loss of their children, for none thought ever to see her babe alive again. The giant watched them come from the towers of his castle, and his heart was filled with the awful satisfaction of his power over the haggard peasants, and of getting revenge for his dead boar. He exulted at the thought of the slaughter to come, and settled his dagger and axe more firmly round his waist.

  The tragic gathering of peasants were all surprised, and a bit relieved (though they had but little hope) to see the greybeard hermit there before them. When they were all assembled he moved among them, murmuring words of comfort.

  ‘Keep up your hearts,’ he said. ‘Every babe shall go home unhurt to its mother’s arms. Stand firm, and take courage!’ How they wished they dared believe him!

  Up in the tower of the castle, the giant saw him, and his presence only served to inflame the raging passion already in the tyrant’s breast. He was just about to go down to the concourse, when one of his stewards came to him.

  ‘Lord,’ said the steward, falling on to his knees, ‘I beg you to show mercy! Last night, I had a dream, and I come to warn you. Have you not seen the ravens and crows in their hundreds, circling round the castle since yesterday? They are birds of ill-omen! And in my dream, I saw ——’ He got no further. The giant turned, with a furious growl, and kicked him as hard as he could. The man gasped, and lay still. The giant laughed, kicked him again, and left him for dead. Then, with his appetite for slaughter well whetted, he strode out, and up to Penhill, to the top of the cliff, where all the trembling, grieving peasants and the calm-eyed hermit awaited him.

  But the steward was only stunned, and soon came round. His hatred and fear of his master had reached the limit, and he could no longer contain it. Staggering out to the courtyard, he brought into the great banqueting hall nine huge trusses of straw, nine huge armfuls of dried heather, and nine great baskets of peat. Then he built a fire with them in the middle of the banqueting hall floor, and applied a torch to it. Once it was well alight, he added to the flames wooden benches and other objects, and making sure it was well and truly afire, he crept out to save his own life.

  Meanwhile, unaware of what was happening behind him, the giant was finding affairs on Penhill far from his liking. To begin with, he had barely taken nine of his enormous strides away from the castle when across his path there lay not one, but nine of his best boars, all dead! Nine paces further, there were nine more dead hogs – and so it continued, all the way up to the cliff. The very best of his herds had all been slaughtered, and with every nine carcasses he passed, his rage grew till fury choked his throat.

  ‘You’ll pay for this!’ he bawled in a strangled voice when at last he faced the crowd. ‘By the great god Thor, from where you stand shall your blood run in rivers down the slopes of Penhill, and the crows and ravens circling above shall pick clean your bones before sunset!’

  Then he paused for breath, and for the first time seemed to notice the hermit, who stood alone, calm and unafraid in front of the cowering mob.

  ‘COME HERE!’ roared the giant.

  ‘You come here, if you wish to speak with me!’ replied the aged hermit. ‘I have no fear of you! Your power is gone. If you don’t believe me, look behind you!’

  The giant looked. From the turrets of his castle there ar
ose nine long tongues of lurid flame, and nine billowing columns of black smoke. The giant’s eyes turned red with passion, and seizing his axe, he whirled it up, over the hermit’s head; but before the blow could fall, the axe fell from his hand, his face turned pale with terror, and his eyes gazed in glazed horror at what he could see before him. Sagging at the knees with fear, he began to take slow, trembling steps backwards, as whatever it was came relentlessly on towards him.

  Then a great sigh came from the people, as they turned their heads to see what their tyrant was looking at. Clearly outlined against the setting sun was the spectral form of Gunda, and by her side the wraith of the great hound Wolfhead, straining at the leash, with bared fangs and dripping jaws, to come at his former master and tear out his jugular vein in the way he had been trained to do to others. There was no mistaking his intention, or that Gunda would slip his leash when the moment was ripe.

  Sweating with fear, the giant continued to retreat, as his ghostly antagonists pressed ever and ever closer. The crowd held its breath – even the babies kept utter silence, as he approached the edge of the great precipice behind him, his terror of what was in front driving him steadily backwards. Then the phantom shepherdess reached down, and unshackled the phantom hound. With a single bound, Wolfhead sprang straight at the giant’s throat, and with a last despairing cry, giant and hound together hurtled over the edge.

  When the people looked again, castle, giant and boarhound had gone. So had the sad little wraith of Gunda, and the hermit; but every man rushed down the hill, his heart bursting with gratitude, and his baby son safe to restore once more to its rejoicing mother’s kisses. The Giant of Penhill was no more.

  Bolster and Jecholiah

  As many a countrywoman knows, her only defence against male autocracy is to dissemble true feelings and defeat brute force with female wit. There is nothing in the story to show whether Jecholiah was a giantess or an ordinary mortal but there’s no doubt that she was a woman!