The archers let fly one hundred arrows, ninety-nine of which hit their mark, but Uulf was not undone.
And when the hundredth arrow hit its mark, Uulf, the son of oaf and angel, earth-son of the great creator, breathed his last breath.
It took one hundred arrows to slay him, they marveled. Indeed, he was the greatest of the great creator’s warriors.
All in all, in his lifetime of battles against the west and revelry, Uulf slew more than 5,000.
And here the bard did end his song.
Life Song of Great Lord Gerwargerulf
And the bard did sing:
The girl who was not slain with her sisters by Lord Uulf’s righteous hand, Grietjel, the firstborn daughter of Olentzlero the Mighty, king of the west, gave birth to a son who grew to be an oaf of great size, the tallest oaf on earth because an oaf had given birth to a child of Uulf, the earth-son of the great creator.
Gerwargerulf was a monstrous monster, this boy, but brave and strong. He became a lord in his grandfather’s armies two years before his full maturity because he was an oaf of great valor and strength—the strongest ever, after Uulf.
Like Uulf, he was a lover of the wing-ed harp. He practiced on it all day when he was not in battle—and he was a ferocious warrior who killed hundreds of oafs from the east single-handedly.
And there came a day after a battle in the east that the giant oaf dismissed his soldiers and went alone to a small hill to think about songs to play on his wing-ed harp, for this was his true passion, not war, which he only did as an occupation.
While he was deep in contemplation, Gerwargerulf heard a child’s voice. The boy was singing a song so sweetly!
When he peeped over the hill, he saw a boy of about eight dressed in the garments of his enemy the east.
The boy was there with a girl of about the same age, who was also from the east. He was singing to her a song he must have composed, for on occasion he would change a phrase and ask her if she liked it better that way.
This went on for some time until Gerwargerulf heard the boy amend a phrase that was excellent and he blurted out: No, child! Keep it the way it was before!
The two children from the east looked up and saw the awful head of Gerwargerulf. He was twice the size of any oaf they had ever seen. They quickly got up and ran away, fearing for their lives.
Monster! Monster! they screamed.
This made Gerwargerulf very sad, for he was a sensitive oaf, a true lover of music, and he did not wish to be feared.
For the rest of his life Gerwargerulf kept the boy’s song in his head and always wondered whether the child had settled for the better phrasing or the lesser. From time to time, he would hum the boy’s tune and modify it to his liking.
He told himself: This war will be over soon and when it is, I am going to find that child and sing to him my version of his song. I am certain he will like it, for I have improved it in a way that honors his heart song!
Gerwargerulf would imagine the boy from the east and himself traveling the earth together as musicians.
It was four years later, so the boy would be about eleven, maybe twelve.
At that point Gerwargerulf had killed over three hundred oafs of the east, though as a sensitive lover of peace, he had mourned every death as a great loss to oafenkind.
At long last there came a day when he was called into a meeting with the lords of the west and they told him what he had waited so long to hear: The war will be over tomorrow.
A delighted Gerwargerulf said, Are you certain? How is this to be accomplished?
Well, music boy, they kidded him, it will be over with the death of one small oaf.
A delighted Gerwargerulf prodded, How? Tell me how.
They said, You will engage in battle tomorrow against a champion from the east. His name is Wiftet and the enemy claims that he is a fierce warrior blessed by the great creator with great gifts. However, our spies say that he is a mere boy with no great gifts at all.
We believe that the east is weary of war and they are sending the lad to be sacrificed so that it might end.
You, great son of Uulf—music boy, they laughed good-naturedly—have been chosen to do the honors.
Make it a good kill, they shouted, for king and creator!
A good kill, a delighted Gerwargerulf echoed, for king and creator!
On the day of the battle, Gerwargerulf was dressed in full and resplendent armor.
He had a broadsword, a tall feathered helmet with visor, and a stately shield bearer who bore his mighty shield.
Trumpets blared as the oafs of the west gathered behind their giant champion.
Then trumpets on the opposite side of the battlefield blared as the champion from the east appeared, and the oafs from the west did hoo and haw in their laughter.
Indeed, it was a small boy—an oaf of eleven, maybe twelve, wearing no armor but a tunic of war so large for him that it gathered at his feet and dragged on the ground. In his hands were his weapons: a few smooth whispering stones and a sling.
Gerwargerulf cried aloud: How pathetic! They have sent a boy with pebbles to pester me! He’s no bigger than a little man man. Come, then, little man man. Come and taste of death!
He had a good belly laugh as the boy with the handful of pebbles began to run toward him.
Everyone on the west shook with jibes and laughter, while everyone on the east held a collective breath.
Great Gerwargerulf raised his great sword and thundered in his gait toward the boy.
One last death, one last good kill, and this war will be over, thought the great oaf Lord Gerwargerulf, and then his ears picked up something.
The boy was singing.
It was familiar music. It was the song!
This was the boy who had composed the song!
Gerwargerulf halted his charge and lifted his helmet to get a better look at the boy.
Indeed it was he! Wiftet was the boy! Oh what a great day!
In his joy, Gerwargerulf, the player of the wing-ed harp, was not reminded that he was in battle.
But Wiftet, the little singer of songs, did fit a smooth whispering stone into his sling and let fly.
As Gerwargerulf was shouting most joyously, You are the boy that I have been longing to see! the whispering stone guided by the hand of the great creator struck him in the forehead a mighty blow, which cracked his monstrous skull.
The giant oaf Gerwargerulf, the greatest oaf who ever lived, collapsed to his knees, teetered for a moment, and then fell forward into the earth.
Cheers rang out from the east and died away into the vacuum of stunned silence on the west.
But Gerwargerulf was not dead yet, only dying, for when the boy Wiftet went to him with the sword given to him by the king of the east to sever the head of the giant, he heard these words that no one else could hear:
Bend down low and listen to me, great singer of songs.
And little Wiftet bent down low, and these were the words the dying Gerwargerulf said to him:
I am he who frightened you that day by the hill, but I was only trying to hear your beautiful heart song.
Live long, music boy, and give much music to the world.
For the world needs the goodness of song.
Kill only if it brings peace as my death has brought peace.
And thus did die the greatest oaf who ever lived.
The great Gerwargerulf.
Thus did die the son of mighty Uulf, earth-son of the great creator.
Lord Gerwargerulf, the only one and the last one of his kind.
The great singer of songs, Gerwargerulf.
And little Wiftet did sever great Gerwargerulf’s head with the sword given to him by King Hrdrada.
And the forty-year war between the east and the west came to an end at last.
And all oafs were again united as one tribe under one standard.
And when little Wiftet grew up and became king, a period of peace and prosperity did follow, the likes of
which has never been seen before nor since, for he did rule with the goodness of music in his heart.
And when Wiftet died, his twin sons Euphus and Wiftet the younger battled over the royal seat, and there was war, for the earth was again divided into halves and ruled by two brothers with opposite ideals.
It has been this way ever since.
And here the bard did end his song.
Harp Song 104
There is a flower, a common flower, and they all pass it by;
There is a flower, a common flower, with only a thousand, upon a thousand, just the same;
There is a flower, a flower most rare, on the side of a high mountain, and they climb, they climb the mountain, to pick the flower most rare;
They fall, fall from the mountain, to their black graves below, but they climb, climb the mountain, to get the flower so rare;
At last they get, get the flower, the flower that is most rare, and they clutch, clutch the flower, it is a beauty so rare;
The flower, the flower, the flower is love, and it is a beauty so rare.
—Great Lord Gerwargerulf
I Do My Goodness Do
An oaf am I, and I cannot change, but I do my goodness do;
And my brother says, He is evil, can’t you see?
And I do my goodness do, and goodness comes back to me;
But when they ask my brother he says, He is evil, can’t you see?
I plant the seed in season, and feed the hungry and the poor,
I bless my friends with kindness, and forgive my enemies.
And when I ask my brother he says, You’re not evil, can’t you see?
When I ask my brother he says, I am evil, Can’t you see?
When I ask my brother he says, I am jealous of you.
—A folk song from the Forty-Year War;
Attributed to King Wiftet; but attributed by King Wiftet to Lord Gerwargerulf (King Wiftet affirms these are the corrections to his song that Lord Gerwargerulf whispered to him as he lay dying)
Three Little Man Mans
Once upon a time in the Village of Mans, there lived three little man mans who were of the same litter and so they were brothers.
And in the morning the littlest man man went to cross the bridge to go to the field where the trees were ripe with the sweetest fruit.
But as the man man crossed the bridge, there came a loud oafen voice that rumbled up like thunder from a deep pit, a voice so mighty that the bridge shook as the oaf spoke: “Where do you think you’re going, little man man, on my bridge?”
The little man quaked as he answered: “I’m going to the field to eat the ripe fruit.”
“No you’re not,” said the mighty voice.
“Why not?” asked the quaking man.
And the voice answered, “Because I’m going to eat you!”
A mighty oaf came up from under the bridge and grabbed the quaking man in his hands and opened his great mouth to eat him.
The little man man pleaded desperately: “Please don’t eat me, great oaf. I’m really too puny to eat. In a few moments my brother will pass this way. He is much bigger than I and will certainly make a more satisfying meal.”
The oaf smiled at this, for he was very hungry indeed and could use a more satisfying meal than this puny, little man man. And so he released him into the field, then he ducked back under the bridge to wait for the big brother.
Just as the little man man had promised, in a few moments his big brother did arrive, and the bridge did shake with the mighty voice that thundered: “Where do you think you’re going, little man man, on my bridge?”
The second man man, who was quite a bit larger and more delicious looking than the first, quaked as he answered: “I’m going to the field to eat the ripe fruit.”
“No you’re not,” said the thundering voice.
“Why not?” asked the man as he shivered with fear.
“Because I’m going to eat you!” cried the mighty oaf as he came up from under the bridge and grabbed the shivering man in his hands and opened his mouth to feast upon him.
“Please don’t eat me, great oaf,” cried the shivering man. “I’m really too puny to eat. If you are patient, in a few moments my brother will pass this way. He is much bigger than I and will certainly make a more satisfying meal.”
“Another brother? Even bigger than you?” said the great oaf, licking his lips.
So he released the little man into the field and ducked back under the bridge to wait for the big brother.
Sure enough, in a few moments, just as the little man man had promised, his big brother did arrive. And he was a very big man, indeed, for the bridge above the oaf’s head did tremble as he set foot upon it.
The oaf was so hungry he could not wait anymore and he jumped up onto the bridge.
But the big man on the bridge was riding a gallant hoss and wearing heavy armor. He had a long spear, a quiver full of arrows, and a broadsword, which he did heft with ease.
As soon as the oaf saw him he ducked back under the bridge, but there was no safety there. The man hurled his spear into the oaf’s neck, which brought the clawing, crying creature back up, and he filled his great breast with arrows shot from the bow with a strong and sure hand. When the horrid creature fell, the man finished him off with one mighty swoop of the sword and gave the great oafish head to his little brothers.
It was quite a treasure.
Mikel
The woman next to him on the bus was trying not to, but she was staring.
That was okay. Mikel was used to people staring.
She noted his freckled, pudgy cheeks, the prepubescent twinkle in his eyes, the brick-red book bag with stickers of cartoon characters on it, and finally asked, “How old are you?”
The beaming boy, who quite enjoyed the attention, looked down at the woman and said, “I’m nine, and I’m going to see my father. I have to take three trains and four buses to get there. He lives very far away. In Mapleton.”
“That is very far away,” the woman said. “Where is your mother?”
The boy explained, “Because of my height, I can travel alone. No one will trouble me.”
“Indeed, you are very . . . tall for your age,” the woman responded. “You’ll be okay, I’m sure, but I’ll keep an eye on you until you change buses.”
“Thank you very much. I will enjoy your company,” the boy said, digging into his pocket. “Would you like a stick of gum, ma’am?”
He held out his enormous hand and the tinfoil-wrapped stick of gum floated like an insignificant strip of silver on a vast ocean of pink palm. When she took it from him she marveled at how small her hand was compared to his. Her hand was not even half the size. And how uncomfortable he looked with the large knees of his long legs pressed against the back of the seat ahead of theirs.
Despite all that, he was still beaming, and he was talkative as most children are at that age. Somewhere amid his chatter, he informed her, “I am the tallest boy in the world, you know?”
“I believe you.”
Indeed, Mikel was the tallest boy in the world according to the Guinness Book of World Records, of which he had two copies, a paperback which he carried around with him in his brick-red book bag to show people when they stared, and the hardcover which he kept on the desk in his bedroom opened to page 321.
He was the tallest boy in the world at 6'10" and he would probably grow taller with the years. At nine, he was three inches taller than Robert Wadlow was at that age, yet he was not the tallest boy who had ever lived. That distinction belonged to his father, whose somber black-and-white photograph stared back at him from page 321 of the Guinness on his desk in his bedroom. When his father was nine, he had already reached the lofty stature of 7'7".
His father was the tallest man who ever lived, though Mikel had never met him.
His mother had always told him, “There were some difficulties, as you can imagine. He is very shy. He does not like people very much. The stress of all that got to h
im and we separated. But he is a good man. As you can see, we live very well. He’s very generous with his money, and he never forgets your birthday.”
Every Boy Should Have a Man Page 14