The book of friendly giants

Part One: How the Giants Went Exploring

After the earth was newly washed by the Flood, nearly all the land of Europe lay flat and green under the sun. Except in one far corner there was not a mountain nor a valley nor a hill nor a hollow, nor so much as a little stream. The soft young grass stretched away and away, in a wide meadow, as far as one could see.

But there was nobody there to look. For all the people there were, lived in the Up-and-Down Country, on a great forked point in the Far North. And that was a very different kind of place, with mountains that went up and valleys that went down, cliffs that rose and cascades that fell, and not so much flat land as a giant could cover with his pocket-handkerchief.

But the giant Wind-and-Weather, who lived there, did not mind that in the least. He sat quite placidly on a mountain-top and looked through a kind of glass that he had, out over the sea. As for his wife, the giantess Sun-and-Sea, nothing bothered her. She sat on a cliff and wove on a kind of loom that she had, back and forth, back and forth, with a noise like the long ocean rollers on a fair day.

When it came to the children, they never sat at all. Like the country, they were always going up or down,—sliding down the mountains, scrambling up the waterfalls, or playing Follow-the-Leader, hoppety-skip, skippety-hop, straight down the long row of peaks that made their home.

And when they all played together, it made rather a good game. For there were fourteen of them, sturdy youngsters, each over a mile high, and growing fifty feet or so every day. Then too, they happened in the jolliest way, for they came in pairs so that every one had his twin. There were Handsig and Grandsig, Kildarg and Hildarg, Besseld and Hesseld, Holdwig and Voldwig, Grünweg and Brünweg, Bratzen and Gratzen, Mutzen and Putzen,—a boy and a girl, a boy and a girl, a boy and a girl, straight down through.

Now, one morning, with Handsig ahead and Putzen straggling somewhere behind, they were all playing Follow-the-Leader, rather harder than usual. Handsig had rolled down peaks, and wriggled up, hopped on one foot and jumped on two, turned somersaults and splashed through waterfalls. And the whole line of them had come rolling, wriggling, hopping, jumping, tumbling, splashing after. Being put to it for something to do next, Handsig started on the dead run from peak to peak, straight along the mountain-tops.

All of a sudden he stopped short. Ahead of him were no more mountains, only a straight drop thousands of feet to the sea. He had come, before he knew it, to the end of the Up-and-Down Country. But that was not what made Handsig stop so quickly. He had been to the end of the land before. It was something beyond the water that attracted him,—another country so different from his that at first it did not seem to be land at all. There was no up or down in it. It stretched flat and green as far as he could see.

Handsig waved his arms and shouted, “Oh, Kildarg, Hildarg, Besseld, Hesseld, see the nice, green running-place!”

And all the other children, thinking it was still part of the game, waved their arms and shouted, “Oh, Kildarg, Hildarg, Besseld, Hesseld, see the nice, green running-place.”

By that time Handsig had no doubt any longer. Without another word he plunged headforemost into the sea, and swam with all his might straight for the wide meadow that was the rest of Europe.

Splash! Splash! Splash! The other children dived after, and puffing, blowing, kicking, raced across the channel. Then hand in hand, fourteen in a row, they scampered pell-mell down across the plain where Germany is to-day.

But with swimming so hard and running so fast, poor Putzen was quite out of breath. It was so strange, too, to be going along on a level. It did not pitch one forward; it did not hold one back. It was just the same—just the same, step after step after step. The twenty-six legs beside Putzen did not stop for a minute; they beat along faster and faster. Putzen hung on to Mutzen as best she could, but her legs would not go and her breath would not come. And so, gasping and plunging, she sprawled headlong, pulling Mutzen after her.

Mutzen dragged down Gratzen, and Gratzen dragged down Bratzen; and so they all tumbled till the land for miles around was a mass of upturned turf and sprawling giant children. Then Bratzen wailed, and Gratzen wailed; and Mutzen and Putzen who were at the bottom of the whole pile, wailed loudest of all; and the air was so full of large sounds that it seemed likely to burst.

Now, Grandsig, who felt responsible as the oldest girl of the family, started to scramble up to quiet Mutzen and Putzen. As she did so, her hands dug into the soft, moist earth, and scratched up two good-sized hills. A happy idea struck her. “Kildarg! Hildarg!” she cried. “Look!” And she burrowed into the earth again, scooping up handful after handful.

Kildarg sat up and wiped his eyes. Hildarg sat up and wiped her eyes. Then they both began to dig as if their lives depended on it. In a twinkling, there were no more giant children piled on top of Mutzen and Putzen; and twenty-eight giant hands were scooping out valleys and piling up mountains of earth.

Handsig and Grandsig made big mountains; Mutzen and Putzen made little ones. Every single giant child piled up a whole range higher than he was himself. Then, when all of them were done, there was such a patting and a pounding as never was heard before, as the valleys were smoothed, and the mountains molded into shape. There were sharp peaks and blunt peaks, smooth peaks and rough peaks, single peaks, double peaks, triple peaks. As for the valleys, they were of all sorts,—straight and crooked, wide and narrow, long and short.

Grandsig looked at it all, quite satisfied. “Oh, children,” she cried, “we have made an Up-and-Down Country!”

The other children looked. Sure enough! It was nothing but hills and hollows, hills and hollows, just as it was at home. And they all danced about and cried, “Hooray! We have made an Up-and-Down Country.”

“And now,” said Handsig, “let’s run!”

So all the children stepped out from between the mountains they had made, to run back again to the sea.

“But oh!” cried Kildarg, “where is our nice green running-place?”

The children gasped. Instead of their flat grass plot were miles and miles of mudholes, hardening in the sun. As far as they could see, their green meadow was scarred with row after row of great black hollows,—the marks of their twenty-eight running feet.

That was too much for Putzen, and she sat down on one of her mountains and wept a whole lake into a valley. As for the other giantesses, they did very little better, and even Grandsig wept a few giant tears, as she tried to think what they could ever do to get their running-place back again.

“I know!” she cried at last. “We’ll go home and ask father to build us a ship; and then we’ll sail till we find another running-place.”

When a giantess starts to weep, she has so many tears and such large ones, that it is very hard to stop. So, although the children set off at once for home, it was some time before Putzen, Gratzen, and Brünweg, Hesseld, Hildarg and Voldwig were smiling again. And their tears, in a great torrent, flowed after them, over the hubbles, around among the hollows, and out toward the sea.

They cried, in fact, so hard and so much that even to-day their tears are still flowing,—for they gathered and gathered until they became the river Rhine. As for the mountains the giant children built, they too are still there. They hardened until they became quite firm and rocky, so that nowadays in Switzerland people are continually climbing up and over them. And the place where the giant children made, so to speak, the first mud-pies, has been called the Playground of Europe ever since.

When the children got home, there was old Wind-and-Weather sitting as usual on a mountain-top and looking through a kind of glass that he had, out to sea.

“Oh, father,” they cried, “we want a ship to sail the sea to find a running-place again.”

Old Wind-and-Weather was not disturbed in the least. He got up, put his glass into his pocket, and walked along the mountain-ridge. With one slow wrench, he pulled up by the roots a tree taller than he was himself.

“There is your mast,” said Wind-and-Weather.

Then, Handsig and Grandsig pulled up big trees for beams to make the sides and keel; Mutzen and Putzen pulled up little trees for oars. And with as many trees as they could drag, they all trooped after their father down to the seashore.

Half-way down there was the giantess Sun-and-Sea, sitting as usual on a cliff and weaving on a kind of loom that she had.

“Oh, mother,” cried the children, “help us. We are building a ship to sail the sea to find a running-place again.”

Sun-and-Sea was not disturbed in the least. She got up and took out of her loom a sheet longer than she was herself.

“There is your sail,” said Sun-and-Sea.

Wind-and-Weather took the sail down to the shore, and the children began such a hacking and planing and pounding as no shipyard has ever heard. In just a few hours of giant time, there was the great ship with the mast set and the sail rigged, ready to be launched.

Mutzen and Putzen climbed in and took their oars; and the others pushed and pulled until the boat, slipping and grating, shot out into the water. Mutzen and Putzen, having nothing to christen it with, beat on the sides with their oars and cried, “We name you Mannigfual!”

“Mannigfual!” echoed the other children. “The giants’ good ship Mannigfual!”

The children climbed in and took the oars. Wind-and-Weather took the tiller. And there they were, skipping along over the sea. When the wind blew against them, the children rowed and sang. When the wind blew with them, they set the sail and strained their eyes to find a running-place ahead across the water. As for Wind-and-Weather, no matter which way the wind blew, he sat and steered.

Now, it must never be forgotten that giants’ time is as big as they are; and half a year to them was scarcely more than a day. Our night and day they did not bother about in the least, for their big eyes looked through the dark as well as the light. Sunrise and sunset were no more to them than the revolving of a lighthouse lamp to us. But the minute a half-year was up, the giants’ night began, and giant children felt then very much as ordinary children feel in the evening after eight o’clock has struck.

Mannigfual had not sailed many hundred miles when the giants’ night came on. Mutzen and Putzen knew that it was coming, because their heads and their arms and their legs began to feel so very much in the way. Soon they lost track of their oars altogether, their heads bumped, their mouths dropped open, and there they were,—fast asleep. Then Gratzen yawned, and Bratzen yawned,—all the rest even up to Handsig and Grandsig. But somehow or other they managed to keep on rowing.

Wind-and-Weather took out his glass and scanned the sea ahead. In a little while they all saw what he was steering for. It was land. A few minutes more, and they had dropped overboard the great cliff they had brought for an anchor.

Wind-and-Weather picked up Mutzen and Putzen. With one against each shoulder, he stepped leisurely out and waded ashore. The children jumped after, splashing and rubbing their eyes. Straight ahead was a wide valley. Wind-and-Weather laid Mutzen and Putzen in that; and picking out a convenient hill for a pillow, stretched himself across the landscape.

“Well,” said Handsig, looking around, “I don’t think much of this as a running-place!”

And quite right he was. For there was nothing flat or broad about it. The whole country was broken up into little hills, little valleys, little fields, little forests. But Handsig might have spared his words, for there was nobody to listen. So he fitted himself neatly between two hills, and snored as loudly as the others.

Part Two: How the Giants’ Ship Was Stolen

Now, it happened that the giants had landed in the North of England, which even in that early time was inhabited by the race of men. And although there was only wilderness in the part where the giants had stretched themselves, a few miles down the shore was the cave of the pirates, Dare-and-Do, Catch-and-Kill, Fear-and-Fly.

The morning after the giants landed, Dare-and-Do was awakened unusually early. Somewhere outside the dark of the cave, the air seemed full of rumblings and the noise of great waves beating on the beach. Dare-and-Do yawned irritably. He was wondering how their old long-boat was standing it, tied under the cliff. Drawing his dirk, he reached over and pricked his comrades awake, after the pleasant custom of the cave.

“Storm!” hissed Dare-and-Do.

Groping and growling, the three pirates got up to look after their boat, and stumbled out—into as fair and innocent a day as ever dawned off England. The thunderings kept on, but there was not a cloud in the sky. The waves still pounded, but they burst white and glittering into the sunlight.

Catch-and-Kill turned crossly. “The storm’s over,” he said.

But Fear-and-Fly stood where he was, pointing out to sea, and shaking from head to foot. “Sea-serpent!” he gasped.

The others looked. There, a mile or so out at sea, stretched a great monster, motionless and stiff. Was it after all a monster,—the long, high, level wall, hiding the horizon, the great column in the center, towering and towering until it was lost in the sky?

“Sea-serpent!” snorted Catch-and-Kill. “It’s an island, a magic island.”

Dare-and-Do peered, shading his eyes. Across that high column went a bar. “You’re both wrong!” he shouted. “It’s all a ship,—a great ship.”

Now, there was this to be said for Dare-and-Do. There was never a ship made that he was afraid of. No matter what the size, his one idea was always to capture it; and the bigger the better, for him. So, instead of cowering at the sight of the giants’ ship, he rushed back to the cave for his oars and a whole set of dirks and pikes.

“It will make our fortune,” he cried, “—our everlasting fortune!”

Catch-and-Kill headed off Fear-and-Fly, who was already making for the bushes, and dragged him down to untie the boat. Dare-and-Do took one oar, Catch-and-Kill the other; and, with Fear-and-Fly huddling astern, they set off at top speed. With every stroke of the oars the ship grew nearer and bigger. To Fear-and-Fly it seemed an unending stretch of wooden cliff ahead. As they drew toward it, he saw that the side was nothing less than a mountain, towering a thousand feet into the air. The sight made him dizzy. He threw himself down on the bottom and shut his eyes.

The others were rowing silently now. The boat slipped stealthily, stealthily, alongside the steep ship. Dare-and-Do crept to the prow and thrust his pike into one of the ship’s enormous beams. It held. He passed a rope over, and the boat was tied.

Without a moment’s pause, he drew his knife, and began carving out footholds in the massive wood,—up, up, up the ship’s side. As he carved, he climbed, hand over hand, foot over foot, clinging like a fly to the precipice.

Catch-and-Kill did not hesitate. He fastened the boat’s stern, as Dare-and-Do had the prow. Stooping, he seized Fear-and-Fly by the collar, and dragged him forward along the bottom. With his free hand he pulled out his dirk and pointed with it, first at Dare-and-Do’s steps, then at the water. “Up?” he growled through his teeth. “Or down?”

Shaking and shrinking, Fear-and-Fly made the best of his way up the ship’s side. Catch-and-Kill followed at his heels, ready with a dirk to encourage him at the slightest hesitation.

Finally Dare-and-Do reached the top. Leaning against the side, he could look over into the great ship. Before him stretched, seemingly, a long, wide deck. He scanned it closely. As far as he could see there was not a single soul. He listened. Not a sound but Fear-and-Fly’s startled breathing below.

“Crew’s asleep,” muttered Dare-and-Do.

He turned to the others. “Quiet now,” he warned, “and follow me.”

With dirks drawn the pirates clambered over the side and tiptoed stealthily across the deck. Dare-and-Do headed for the stern. His idea was to make way with the crew before taking possession of the ship.

“Dirks and daggers!” he exclaimed. Before him opened a yawning abyss. The deck had come abruptly to an end. Beyond the wide chasm began another deck, made, seemingly, of a single, tremendous board.

Dare-and-Do turned and ran toward the prow. Again the deck stopped before an abyss, beyond which another deck began. He understood now. There was no true deck at all,—simply a succession of immense planks laid at intervals from side to side.

Fear-and-Fly groaned. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” he screamed hoarsely. “It’s a giants’ ship, a giants’ ship, and the decks are their rowing-seats.”

Catch-and-Kill scratched his dirk remindingly across Fear-and-Fly’s throat. “Silence!” he hissed.

But Dare-and-Do caught his hand. “Dirks and daggers!” he cried. “But the coward’s right. It’s a giants’ ship. Look at the mast; look at the sail; look at the tiller there, far above our heads! A giants’ ship, and not one of the crew aboard! They won’t be back either, if I know giants. They’ve landed somewhere for their six months’ sleep. Here’s luck, luck, luck at last. We don’t have to capture the ship. We’ve got her!”

Catch-and-Kill looked up at the mammoth rigging. “Great luck!” he sneered. “Great luck! A ship you can’t move! A ship you can’t steer! I suppose you’ll set the sail; I suppose you’ll turn the tiller; I suppose you’ll sail her to the Gold Lands!”

Dare-and-Do came a step nearer. “Who wants the Gold Lands most?” he asked meaningly.

Catch-and-Kill started. “You don’t mean the King?” he cried.

“Three hundred builders, three hundred sailors, two hundred days,” said Dare-and-Do calmly, “and there’ll be enough gold for us all and a little to spare; eh?”

“Daggers and dirks!” cried Catch-and-Kill, making for the ship’s side. “Let’s be off to ask him!”

Dare-and-Do dashed after, but Fear-and-Fly (who was as anxious to be off the ship as he was loth to climb on) was the first over the ship’s rail and down into their boat.

Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! Their oars flew through the water. In just half the time it had taken them to come, the pirates went back to their beach. Without stopping for food they ran over hill and dale, field and fen, brook and bog, till they reached the King’s castle.

Now the king of the country at that time was a spendthrift named Waste-and-Want. Half his time he spent in running into debt, the other half in imploring his councillors to get him out.

At last one day his councillors came to him. “Your Majesty,” said they politely, “we have the honor to report that the hundred and one means of escaping from debt which are recorded in history, have, in your case, been exhausted.”

“What!” roared the King. “You mean to say that you can’t get me out this time!”

“All methods,” replied the councillors delicately, “have been employed.”

Then the King was angry indeed. He vowed that the common people of his kingdom could help him better than that, and he issued a proclamation promising half his ships and half his kingdom to the person who should find a new way to free him from debt. All who wished to try had but to come to the castle and give the password, “Fortune favors Kings.” But any one who spoke the password and failed of his errand, was doomed to exile on the sea.

Now, exile of that kind did not frighten Dare-and-Do in the least. He shouted the password at the top of his lungs, and strode by the guard right into the King’s castle.

In the great hall the King sat on his throne, doing problems in arithmetic. But the trouble with the examples was that they were all in subtraction.

Dare-and-Do bowed low. The King looked up and hastily put on his crown.

“Your Majesty,” said Dare-and-Do, “may I make bold to ask you one question: Why is it that no ship yet has reached the Gold Lands?”

Now, it happened that the King had been thinking of that very matter himself. So he answered right off, “Why, we’ve never had one long enough, we’ve never had one strong enough, to stand the storms.”

Dare-and-Do’s eyes gleamed. “Just so, Your Majesty,” he said.

Then he drew a step nearer the throne. “But what would you say,” he asked, “if I could give you a ship long enough and strong enough to stand any storm that ever blew?”

“What!” cried the King; and then: “Where?”

Dare-and-Do told him about the giants’ ship. Before he was half through, Waste-and-Want rushed down his throne-steps, bawling, “Guards! Guards! Guards! Call together all the builders. Call together all the sailors. Get all the beams and boards in the kingdom!” And when the King spoke in that voice, the guards were not slow in obeying.

By the next morning every sailor and every builder in the kingdom was in line on the sea-beach. As for the piles of beams and boards, they stretched for miles and miles. All day long every sailboat and rowboat on the coast plied back and forth, loaded down with beams and boards, sailors and builders. Then began a hammering and pounding, a planing and joining, that kept up five months and a day.

When it was over, even Dare-and-Do opened his eyes wide. From one end of the ship to the other ran a smooth deck, bridging the great gaps between the rowing-seats. At the stern was a high platform on which a hundred men could stand abreast to turn the tiller. Up the mast ran a ladder; and in the pulley-blocks were carved out little rooms where the sailors could rest from climbing, over night. To Dare-and-Do as captain, the King gave his fastest horse, which could do the distance down the deck from stern to prow in a few hours.

Finally everything was ready. The builders went ashore. The sailors ranged themselves on board. A hundred hacked in turn at the anchor-rope. A hundred began to set the sail. A hundred began to turn the tiller. Dare-and-Do galloped up and down the deck, shouting orders.

At last the anchor rope was cut. The sail flapped slowly out. The tiller creaked. The wind blew and the ship started forward. All the people shouted, and as for King Waste-and-Want, he made a bonfire of all his bills on the beach.

The ship moved along at a terrible rate. But had it not been for losing sight of the shore, not a sailor on board would have known that it was stirring at all. Dare-and-Do walked his horse. The crew, in three shifts, took turns eating dinner and holding the tiller. Catch-and-Kill and Fear-and-Fly began to plan how the gold should be divided. An open sea, and the wind behind,—what better luck could be desired?

“Land ahoy!” the lookout’s voice came down. And again, “Land ahoy!”

Dare-and-Do galloped forward. On both sides cliffs began to appear. Every minute they seemed to grow closer and closer together. Dare-and-Do measured with his eye the width of the passage ahead. Then he thought of his ship. A ghastly fright seized him. Suppose the ship should not get through! It was too late to turn around. The channel was already too narrow for that. But they must not go dashing on like this.

“Take in sail!” screamed Dare-and-Do. “Take in sail!”

Now, it had taken the crew a day and a night to set the sail; and although they raced to their posts when Dare-and-Do shouted his order, it was no easy task to pull the sail in. A hundred of them all together tugged and hauled with all their strength. Dare-and-Do drew a long breath. The ship’s prow was safely through the channel—

Smash! Shock! Shiver! Shake! The great ship stopped;—stuck fast between the cliffs that line the straits of Dover!

It happened that at the very moment when the ship was stopped so suddenly, the giant Wind-and-Weather awoke, a little early, from his six months’ sleep. He stretched his big arms and his big legs, and looked about him. Seeing his children still asleep, he got up softly; and sitting down on a nearby hill, looked through a kind of glass that he had, down across England.

Just then there was a great stirring among the giant children. They began to wake up and stretch the sleep out of their cramped bodies.

“Oh, father,” wailed Mutzen and Putzen.

“Oh, father,” wailed all the others. “Oh, father, our ship is gone!”

Old Wind-and-Weather was not disturbed in the least.

“Indeed?” he said.—“I see it.”

“Oh, where?” cried all the children.

“Over the little hills, over the little valleys, over the little fields, over the little forests,” said Wind-and-Weather, “I see the mast against the sky.”

“Oh, there!” cried Handsig, and “There!” cried Grandsig, and “There!” they all cried together.

With one leap they started, plunging down across England. From hill to hill, from valley to valley, over field, farm, and forest they raced, stubbing their toes against towns and jumping over villages when they happened to see them. Wind-and-Weather strode along after them, a mile at a step; and was at the seashore as soon as they.

Now, the three hundred sailors aboard the giants’ ship were hardly over their fright at having their big craft stuck between the cliffs when they were thrown into a much greater panic at hearing the giants’ footsteps beating down across England. They huddled in the stern; they hid behind the mast; they scuttled this way and that. They tussled and scrambled and scrimmaged and scratched, each one trying to get behind his neighbor. Finally, as they saw Wind-and-Weather’s huge form bearing down upon them, every mother’s son of them took a wild leap and plunged recklessly into the sea.

Dare-and-Do and Catch-and-Kill did not jump. They had been in plenty of panics before, and it was always their policy to stay by the ship. So, they sat, one on Fear-and-Fly’s head, the other on his feet, and waited the coming of the giants.

Wind-and-Weather’s great eyes made them out at once. He picked them all up with one scoop of his big hand and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he stepped into the ship. With a single kick he sent the platform under the tiller flying a hundred miles across Europe. With a stamp of his foot he smashed the decks between the rowing seats, one after the other.

“But oh!” cried Mutzen; and “Oh!” cried Putzen; “our ship is stuck between the rocks! How shall we ever get it out again?”

“I know!” cried Grandsig. And putting her hands into her apron-pockets, she drew out two immense cakes of soap, which she had brought to wash the children’s faces.

She took one. Handsig took the other. And they went to work with a will, soaping Mannigfual’s sides. Then Wind-and-Weather pulled and all the children pushed. The ship creaked and scratched; then slipped and slid straight out into the English Channel. But the soap, which they put on rather thick, came off on the rocks, and that is why the cliffs of Dover have ever since been white.

With a good wind it did not take long, I can tell you, for the giant children to sail up around the British Isles, back to the Up-and-Down Country. There sat Sun-and-Sea just as usual, weaving on a kind of loom that she had.

“Oh, mother, mother!” cried the children. “See what father has brought you.”

Wind-and-Weather held out the little men on the palm of his hand.

“They are just what I need,” said Sun-and-Sea, “to keep my threads straight.” So she took the bold pirates Dare-and-Do and Catch-and-Kill, and set them on her loom.

Wind-and-Weather put Fear-and-Fly back into his pocket. “For,” he said, “he can polish my glass for me and keep it bright.”

Whether the giant children ever found another running-place I cannot say. But I fear not. For, years afterward, the great-limbed men who followed the giants in the Up-and-Down Country, were still sailing the seas in search of new lands.

—Based on Norse legends.