he should burst. But again the horn seemed as full as when he had begun.
With a last desperate straining, he lifted it a third time and buried
his face in its vast depth. He stopped, breathless and choking. The mead
had sunk below the rim, but the horn was still more than half full.
A great silence came over the hall. Loki and Thialfi cast down their
eyes. But Thor threw back his head, unbaffled. “Give me any weight,” he
cried, “and I will lift it. You shall yet see the matchless strength of
Thor.”
A gray cat larger than an elephant rubbed itself against the steps of the
throne. “Perhaps then, Thor,” said the giant king, “you will lift my cat
for me.”
Snorting with scorn, Thor took a swift step forward, and put one immense
arm around it. But the cat seemed bound to the floor with iron chains.
Thor tugged again. But the harder he pulled, the higher the cat arched
its back; and the best he could do was to make it lift one paw from the
floor.
Thor roared with rage. “Let me wrestle,” he cried. “I defy any giant of
you all to match his strength against mine. Let any one try to bring Thor
low, in fair and single combat!”
“Ask my old nurse Elli to come in,” ordered the giant king.
Thor’s eyes flashed. “Do not mock me,” he thundered. “At your risk you
taunt the great god Thor.”
“No offense is offered you,” said the giant king kindly. “Elli is no mean
opponent. Many a bold champion before now she has brought to his knees.”
As he spoke, there hobbled into the room a hag so bent, so wrinkled, so
infirm, that Thor drew back in anger and dismay.
“Elli,” said the giant king, “will you wrestle with the god Thor?”
The old dame nodded her head, and tottering up to the god, cackled
tauntingly in his face. “Throw me!” she quavered. “Throw me!”
Enraged beyond endurance, Thor seized her about the waist, meaning to lay
her gently upon the floor. But the harder he gripped her, the steadier
she stood. Bracing all his muscles Thor took a new hold, but the hag had
grasped him in her turn. Something in her slow embrace seemed to sink
into his very limbs. His arms loosened. His legs weakened. Before he knew
it, he dropped kneeling before her.
“Enough, Elli!” cried the giant king. “Let Thor go. We must give him
better entertainment. Come, minstrels. Come, cooks; deck out our board
and feast our guests like gods.”
In a twinkling a magnificent repast was spread, and giant jokes sped
about the hall. The minstrels played great, sounding tunes upon their
mammoth harps, and the giants did their best to make their guests
forget the outcome of all their boasting. But the gods, humbled and
downcast, took little part in the merrymaking. Even Thor, who had resumed
his natural size, had no more pride left in him. They sat silent and
dejected, and went off early to bed.
[Illustration: The cat was none other than the terrible serpent]
Next morning they rose before daybreak, hoping to escape from the palace
without seeing the giants again. But the giant king was up before them,
and in the great hall a breakfast stood ready. After they had finished,
the king himself led them down the gleaming roadway, and out through the
great ice gate, rosy with the light of dawn.
The giant king paused. “Before I leave you, my small friends,” he said,
“I must in honesty tell you that the giants admire while they do not
yield to the power of the gods. For had it not been for the magic we
used, we, and not you, would have been humbled.
“I myself was that giant Skrymir in whose glove you slept. I tied up
the wallet with the enchanted rope. It was I whom Thor struck with his
unconquerable hammer. Any one of the blows would have killed me had I not
each time brought a mountain in between. There in the distance you can
see in the peak the three great clefts his hammer made.
“Yesterday Loki could not win his eating wager. But it was because he was
matched against Logi who is none other than _Fire_ itself, which could
devour meat, bones, trough and all. Thialfi lost his race. But we giants
marveled at his speed, for he ran against Hugi who is _Thought_, the
swiftest thing in the world.
“When Thor drank, then indeed we wondered; for his drinking-horn was
connected with the ocean, and his great draughts made the waters ebb from
shore to shore. My cat which he tried to lift was none other than the
terrible serpent which lies around the world with its tail in its mouth.
When Thor tugged, he lifted it up till its back arched against the sky,
and it seemed likely to slip altogether out of the sea.
“When he wrestled with my nurse Elli, we saw the greatest marvel of all.
For she is _Old Age_, whom no one has ever withstood.
“But strong as you are, do not boast again, my tiny gods. For remember,
the giants’ magic is as great as the giants themselves, and can never be
conquered.”
Overcome with rage, Thor raised his hammer to shatter the giant and his
palace forever. But a sudden mist blinded his eyes. When it cleared, he
found himself, with Loki and Thialfi, alone on a wide moor glowing in the
sunrise.
—_From a Norse myth._
[Illustration]
IV
The Cunning of Fin’s Wife
From the stories we have told,
One may learn what giants’ lives are;
Here’s a tale of giants bold
Which will show what giants’ wives are:
How the doughty Fin M’Coul
Fled Cucullin, who was stouter;
Sought his faithful wife; and who’ll
Say he could have done without her?
How she put her spouse to bed,
Planning that Cucullin, maybe,
Would her husband learn to dread
If he took Fin for their baby:
If the babe be strong as this,
Thought Cucullin, I would rather
Hesitate to meet with his
Proud, perhaps pugnacious father.
So from out the house of Fin
See the hulking fellow hustle:
Thus a woman’s wit may win
Over bulk and brawn and muscle.
_Seymour Barnard._
IV
The Cunning of Fin’s Wife
[Illustration: The giants were building a causeway]
The giants were building a causeway from Ireland over to Scotland. A
great bridge it was to be: thousands of piles sunk in the sea, and over
them such a road as would take ten giants abreast. All the giants in
Ulster were working to make it, and Fin M’Coul was the head of them all.
Whack, whack, whack! went their sledges pounding the piles; and roar,
roar, roar! came Fin’s big voice telling how to place them.
Up came a little lad running. “Fin M’Coul! Fin M’Coul!” cried he. “The
great Scotch giant Cucullin’s looking for you. He says he’s come to beat
you; he says he’s come to treat you as he’s done every other giant in
Ireland!”
At that there was not a giant but dropped his sledge. Some felt of their
heads, some felt of their jaws, some felt of their backs, and some, of
their ribs. Every one put his hand to the spot where Cucullin had touched
him last. For the truth of it was, Cucullin was a terror and there was
not a giant could stand before him. When he stamped his foot, he shook
the whole county. In his pocket he carried a thunderbolt which he had
flattened to a pancake with one blow of his fist. Many were the times he
had come before, looking for Fin; but always it had happened that Fin was
away, seeing after his affairs in some distant part of the country.
But Fin was the best fighter in Ireland and not the man to be frightened
before his friends. So, though his knees set up a kind of swaying beneath
him, he called out to the little lad in a voice to shake the whole
township.
“And what is the Scotchman waiting for?” roared he. “Tell him here is
Fin, ready this long time to thrash him,—although,” he added easily, “if
it’s not hurrying he is, he may not find me _here_. For the truth of it
is, I was just about to be starting to see my wife Oonagh on the top of
Knockmany Hill. And fight or no fight, it’s there I must be going, for
she’ll be ailing, poor woman, and low in her spirits, all for the want of
her Fin.”
Now, Fin was not one to be slow in anything he had made up his mind
to. So hardly were the words from his mouth when it was down with his
sledge, up with his heels and off with him over the hills to Knockmany.
At first it was a long, swinging step he took, with a stout fir-tree as a
walking-stick. But the farther and farther from the Causeway he went, the
faster and faster his legs began to move, until after all he was going
not so much at a walk as a run.
Of all the hills in Ireland, the chilliest and windiest was Knockmany
where Fin lived. Day or night, winter or summer, it was never without a
breeze; and besides that, from top to bottom was never a drop of water.
But little did that trouble Fin. “Why,” he would say, “ever since I was
the height of a round tower, I was fond of a good prospect of my own. And
where should I find a better than the top of Knockmany Hill?”
There were some who said though, that it was not so much the view itself
that Fin liked as it was to be able to see when Cucullin was coming to
visit him. For then he could be off in time on his distant travels across
the country.
Be that as it may have been, there was no doubt now but Fin was glad to
be at home again. There was his darling Oonagh waiting for him at the
tiptop of the hill; and the smack they gave each other made the waters of
the lake below curl with kindness and sympathy.
“But what brought you home so soon?” said Oonagh.
“And what should it have been,” cried Fin, “but affection for yourself?”
But Oonagh, who always had her wits about her, soon saw that something
was troubling her good man. For it was nothing but into the house and out
again, across the hill and back, looking and peering, looking and peering
for something he didn’t seem altogether wishful to see.
Oonagh watched him for a while. Then, “Is there some one you’re
expecting, Fin?” said she.
Now, Fin knew very well that Oonagh would have it out of him sooner
or later. So he lost no time. “It’s that Cucullin,” roared he, “that
earthquaker, that thunderbolt-flattener! He’ll be coming here to beat me;
he’ll be coming here to treat me as—”
A pause came on Fin. Not a word more did he say; but into his mouth went
his great thumb. It was a rare quality Fin’s thumb had that when he stuck
it between his teeth it could tell him of the future.
“Thundering pancakes!” howled Fin. “He’s coming _now_! He’s down below
Dungannon. My thumb tells me.”
“Well,” said Oonagh, keeping on with some knitting she had, “what if he
is?”
“What if he is!” echoed Fin. “What if he is! So you’d sit there, would
you, and never raise your eyes to see your good man made pulp before you!
Cucullin’s coming, I tell you, that can knock a thunderbolt flat as a
pancake; and I can’t be running away.”
“Well, well,” said Oonagh, “we might be stopping him a bit.” So she got
up and turned toward Cullamore.
Now, Cullamore was where her sister Granua lived,—a hill, four miles
across the valley, the twin of Knockmany. Many a pleasant chat Oonagh
and Granua had together of summer evenings, one sitting outside her door
on Knockmany, the other on Cullamore. For Granua was as ready-witted as
Oonagh herself, and something of a fairy as well.
“Granua,” called Oonagh, “are you at home?”
“No,” answered Granua, “I’m down in the valley picking bilberries.”
“Well, go up on top of Cullamore,” said Oonagh, “and tell me what you
see.”
“Now I’m up,” said Granua; “and down below Dungannon I see a giant, the
biggest I ever saw.”
“That’s what I was expecting,” said Oonagh. “That’s Cucullin on his way
to Knockmany, coming up to beat Fin.”
“Would you want me to be keeping him a while?” asked Granua. “I’ll be
having a party of giants and giantesses this evening, and we could give
him some entertainment maybe that would keep him over night, and quite
away from your house till the morning.”
“If you would,” said Oonagh, “I’d thank you kindly.”
So Granua made a high smoke on her hill and whistled three times to show
Cucullin that he was invited to Cullamore. For it was in that way the
giants of old times told a traveler that he was welcome to come in and
eat with them.
As for Oonagh, when she turned around, there was Fin shivering and
shaking behind her.
“Thundering pancakes, Oonagh!” said he. “And what have you done but made
everything ten times worse than it was before? If Cucullin is coming, I’d
wish it would be now while I have some heart left to fight him. What with
thinking it over all day and dreaming it over all night, I’ll have no
more courage by morning than a boiled rabbit.”
[Illustration: “No,” said Granua, “I’m down in the valley, picking
bilberries”]
“If I were you, Fin,” said Oonagh, “I’d not be saying much about courage.
The best thing for you is to do as I tell you, and trust me to get you
out of this scrape as I’ve pulled you through many before.”
So Fin said no word more, but sat down on the hill and pitched cliffs
into the valley to steady his quaking limbs.
Oonagh went about her plans. First she worked a charm by drawing nine
threads of nine different colors. For this she always did when she wanted
to know how to succeed in anything important. Next she braided them in
three braids of three colors each. One she put around her right arm; one
around her right ankle; and one around her heart, for then she knew that
she could not fail in anything she tried to do.
“Now, Fin,” said she, “will you kindly go to the neighbors’ for me and
borrow one-and-twenty iron griddles, the largest and strongest you can
get?”
Fin was glad enough of something to do, and hardly were the words from
her mouth when off he was, down the hill and over the valley.
Oonagh went into the house and began kneading a great mountain of
dough. Into two-and-twenty parts she divided it, each a great round
cake the size of a mill-wheel. Scarcely was she done when back came Fin
again, clattering and clanking loud enough to be heard ten miles beyond
Cullamore. Seven griddles he had in one hand, seven in the other, and
seven strung about him in a noisy necklace.
Oonagh took them all, and each she kneaded into the heart of one of her
great dough-cakes. Over the fire she baked them and set them all upon the
shelf,—two-and-twenty fine loaves of bread, one-and-twenty with griddles
inside and one with no griddle at all.
Next morning she was up before daylight; and so for that matter was Fin,
fidgeting and fuming, and keeping a sharp lookout down the valley. As for
Oonagh, she went about smiling and humming to herself as if it were a May
morning.
First she took a great pot of milk and made it into curds and whey.
“Fin,” said she, “when Cucullin comes—.” And she told him what he must do
with the curds.
“And now,” she said, “help me while I pull out the old cradle.”
With that she put her hand to a cradle the size of an ark, and taking
two quilts an acre square began spreading them out and tucking them up
inside.
“Don’t be standing about, Fin,” said she, “but go and dress yourself up
like a bit of a boy.”
By that time Fin decided that she was daft entirely. But he did as she
bid nevertheless, for the fact was he was at his wits’ end, and thought
that since Cucullin was to make pulp of him at any rate, it did not much
matter how he was dressed.
Up the valley came a roar like thunder. Fin’s house on the top of
Knockmany trembled and the cradle inside rocked to and fro.
“That’ll be Cucullin singing to himself on his way up from Granua’s to
beat Fin,” said Oonagh.
As for Fin, he turned as white as the childish clothes he was wearing,
and trembled from top to toe.
“Not a minute to waste quaking and shaking!” cried Oonagh. “Into the
cradle with you, Fin, and a stout heart inside you! Lie quiet now; never
forget you’re but a child; and not a word out of you till you see it’s
the time.”
Into the cradle clambered Fin, stumbling and grumbling and barking his
shins. Oonagh tucked him in.
“Fold up your knees under your chin,” cautioned she. “Not a move now, or
you’ll burst the cradle! Close up your eyes; put your thumb in your mouth
like an innocent babe fast asleep. Quiet now, and leave Cucullin to me.”
Oonagh smoothed out her apron and patted her hair. Down on the doorstep
she sat and began to knit, as cool and airy as the dawn on Knockmany.
Up the hill in three leaps came Cucullin. Such a giant Oonagh had never
seen. Half again as tall as Fin he was, with muscles that stood out
like small hills. But Oonagh was not one to let herself be surprised.
So, while she saw all this beneath her eyelashes, she kept on with her
knitting and pretended not to have noticed Cucullin at all.
“A fine morning!” roared Cucullin. “And might this be where Fin M’Coul
lives?”
Oonagh looked up. “Indeed it is, my good man,” said she. “Won’t you be
sitting?”
“Thank you kindly,” said Cucullin. “Is Fin at home?”
“The pity of it is, he’s not,” said Oonagh. “The fact is, he heard there
was a big Scotch giant named Cucullin down at the Causeway looking for
him; and nothing would do but off he must be over the hills to meet him.
Indeed, for the poor giant’s sake, I hope Fin won’t find him. For with
the temper Fin’s in, he’d make paste of him in no time.”
At that Cucullin threw back his great head as if it were some joke Oonagh
had made. “Ho, ho, ho!” roared he. “Ho, ho, ho! Make paste of Cucullin,
would he? Make paste of Cucullin! Why, why, why, my good woman, _I’m_
Cucullin!”
Oonagh put down her knitting. “Can it be?” cried she. “_You_, Cucullin!”
And with that she gave a clear laugh, as if he were but a wee bit of a
man, hardly worth considering.
“Have you ever seen Fin?” asked she, all at once sobering down.
“Why, no,” said Cucullin, “thanks to all the trouble he’s taken to keep
himself out of my way.”
Oonagh shook her head. “I thought as much,” said she. “I judged you could
never have seen him, to speak as you did. And if you’re fond of your own
skin, you’ll pray you may never. Not but what you’re a sturdy fellow of
your size, but Fin—”
“Well, well,” cried Cucullin good-naturedly enough, “there’s been never a
giant in Ireland could beat me yet. So, now I’ll be off to the Causeway
to give Fin his chance.” And with that, up he got, laughing, and took one
of his great strides down the hill.
Oonagh rose up too. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said, “might I ask
one favor before you go? The wind’s blowing in at the door, you see, and
would you mind turning the house around for me?”
Cucullin stopped where he stood. “Turn the house!” cried he.
“Why, yes,” said Oonagh. “Turn it about, you know, so the wind won’t be
blowing in at the door. It’s always what Fin does when he’s at home.”
“Indeed!” thought Cucullin to himself. “This Fin must be more of a lad
than they’ve been telling me.” But never a word more did he say. Instead
he pulled the middle finger of his right hand till it cracked three
times. For it was from that finger all his strength came.
Up the hill he stepped, and putting his great arms around the house,
gave a tug and a twist,—and there it was, faced about completely. Fin’s
cradle, inside, banged back and forth; Oonagh’s great bread loaves
bounced about; the dishes clattered. As for Fin himself, his breath left
him entirely, and there he lay, tight squeezed in the cradle, gasping and
spluttering, and quite blue with terror.
Cucullin turned to go down the hill again as if he had done nothing
unusual at all. But Oonagh curtsied before him.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” said she. “And since you’re so obliging, maybe
you’d do another civil turn for me. You see it’s a dry stretch of weather
we’ve been having, and there’s scarcely a drop of water from here
to Cullamore. But under the rocks hereabout, Fin says there’s a good
spring-well; and he was just about to pull them apart to find it when
along came the news that you were at the Causeway, and off he dashed. So
here we are, still without water; and indeed if you’d take a minute to
pull the rocks open for me, truly, I’d feel it a kindness.”
So, she led him to a place, all solid rock for a mile or so. “Now, here’s
the spot,” said she.
Cucullin looked at it for a while without speaking. Then he cracked his
middle finger nine times, and bending down, tore a cleft a quarter-mile
long and four hundred feet deep.
When Oonagh saw that, her courage oozed down to the soles of her shoes.
But she was never one to give up anything she had once decided. So, after
a moment she said, “I’m much obliged to you, sir. And now, you’ll be
coming back to the house with me to take a bite of such humble fare as I
can give you.”
“Indeed,” replied Cucullin, mopping his large red brow, “that’s an
invitation I’ll not be refusing. It’s warm work tearing up landscapes and
moving houses, and I can’t say that I’m not hungry either.”
So into the house they went; and down before him Oonagh set a side or
two of bacon, a mountain of cabbage, and ten or twelve loaves of the
bread she had baked the day before.
Cucullin fell to with a will. He finished the bacon and cabbage, picked
up a loaf of the bread, and took a huge bite of it. Down came his teeth
on the griddle inside.
“Thundering pancakes!” roared he. “What’s this? Here are two of my best
teeth out! You call that bread, do you? You call that bread!” And he
stamped about the room, howling with fury.
“Indeed, I’m sorry, sir,” said Oonagh. “I should have told you. That’s
Fin’s bread that nobody else can manage but himself and the child in the
cradle there. I’d not have given it to you, but you seemed a stout little
fellow; and indeed since you’re bound to fight Fin, I thought you’d be
scorning anything but his own food, too. Here, try this loaf. Perhaps
it’ll be softer.”
Cucullin was still hungry, and besides, he was a little touched in his
pride by Oonagh’s remarks about Fin’s bread. So he took the new loaf she
handed him, and jammed it into his mouth, meaning this time at any rate
to get a good bite out of it. Down crashed his jaw on the iron again, and
up he jumped roaring.
“Take it away! Take it away!” he bellowed, twice as loud as before. “I’ll
not be losing my teeth for Fin’s bread or any other. What kind of jaw
has Fin got to crack—”
“Hush! Hush!” cried Oonagh. “Whatever you do, don’t be waking the child
in the cradle there.... Oh, indeed, it’s too bad! There he is awake now.”
All this time Fin had been lying cramped up in the cradle. Never a move
did he make, except now and then a flicker of his eyelashes just to be
peering out at Cucullin sitting and eating up his bacon at the table.
A terrible sight it was too: Cucullin’s great fingers as big as trees,
reaching, reaching; Cucullin’s great jaws as big as millstones, crushing,
crushing. Fin shut his eyes in a hurry, and his heart froze up inside
him to think of fighting a giant like that. But when he heard Cucullin
howling over Oonagh’s griddle-bread, he couldn’t, even for the terror
in him, help a kind of smile creeping across his face. And so, when
Oonagh spoke of the baby’s waking, he let out a yell almost as loud as
Cucullin’s own.
Cucullin himself stopped his dancing, and turned to see what kind of
child it might be that could make a noise like that.
“Boohoo! Boohoo!” howled Fin. “I’m hungry.”
“There, there!” said Oonagh. “Quiet now, my little man. Here’s some bread
for you.”
And with that she handed him the one loaf that had no griddle in it. And
Fin, grasping it in both hands, ate it down greedily.
Cucullin stared and stared. He forgot his lost teeth entirely, for wonder
that such a youngster could devour bread he himself could not even bite.
“If the son that’s yet in the cradle can eat bread like that,” thought
he, “what must the father be? It’s perhaps as well for me after all that
Fin’s at the Causeway.”
“I’d like,” said he to Oonagh, “to have a glimpse of that lad in the
cradle. A boy that can manage that bread must be something to look at,
too.”
“Indeed you may see him,” said Oonagh. “Get up, darling, and show this
good man something that’ll be worthy of your father, Fin M’Coul.”
At that Fin, who was cramped and aching from lying so long bent double,
gave a leap, and bounced out, nearly bursting his cradle. Up to Cucullin
he went, and seizing him by the hand, started out the door.
“Are you strong?” bellowed he. “Are you as strong as my daddy?”
“Thundering pancakes!” exclaimed Cucullin. “What a voice for a little
chap!”
Fin picked up a big white stone. “Are you strong enough,” said he, “to
squeeze water out of this?”
Cucullin clenched his hand over it. He squeezed and pressed, and pressed
and squeezed till his face grew black and his eyes stood out. But never a
drop of water fell from the great white stone. He might rip up rocks and
turn houses but to squeeze water from a stone was quite beyond him.
“Would you let me try?” asked Fin.