The Giant, O’Brien
Hilary Mantel
For Lesley Glaister
…But then
All crib from skulls and bones who push the pen. Readers crave bodies. We’re the resurrection men.
George MacBeth, The Cleaver Garden’
Table of Contents
Excerpt from Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
‘Bring in the cows now. Time to shut up for the night.’
There came three cows, breathing in the near-dark: swishing with the tips of their tails, their bones showing through hide. They set down their hoofs among the men, jostling. Flames from the fire danced in their eyes. Through the open door, the moon sailed against the mountain.
‘Or O’Shea will have them away over the hill,’ Connor said. Connor was their host. ‘Three cows my grandfather had of his grandfather. Never a night goes by that he doesn’t look to get the debt paid.’
‘An old quarrel,’ Claffey said. They’re the best.’
Pybus spat. ‘O’Shea, he’d grudge you the earache. If you’d a boil he’d grudge it you. His soul is as narrow as a needle.’
‘Look now, Connor,’ the Giant said. His tone was interested. ‘What’d you do if you had four cows?’
‘I can only dream of it,’ Connor said.
‘But for house-room?’
Connor shrugged. ‘They’d have to come in just the same.’
‘What if you’d six cows?’
The men would be further off the fire,’ Claffey said.
‘What if you’d ten cows?’
The cows would come in and the men would squat outside,’ said Pybus.
Connor nodded. ‘That’s true.’
The Giant laughed. ‘A fine host you are. The men would squat outside!’
‘We’d be safe enough out there,’ Claffey said. ‘O’Shea may want interest on the debt, but he’d never steal away a tribe of men.’
‘Such men as we,’ said Pybus.
Said Jankin, ‘What’s interest?’
‘I could never get ten cows,’ Connor said. ‘You are right, Charles O’Brien. The walls would not hold them.’
Well, you see,’ the Giant said. There’s the limit to your ambition. And all because of some maul-and-bawl in your grandfather’s time.’
The door closed, there was only the rush light; the light out, there was only the dying fire, and the wet breathing of the beasts, and the mad glow of the red head of Pybus.
‘Draw near the embers,’ the Giant said. In the smoky half-light, his voice was a blur, like a moth’s wing. They moved forward on their stools, and Pybus, who was a boy, shifted his buttocks on the floor of bare rock. ‘What story will it be?’
‘You decide, Mester,’ Jankin said. ‘We can’t choose a tale.’
Claffey looked sideways at him, when he called the Giant ‘Mester’. The Giant noted the look. Claffey had his bad parts: but men are not quite like potatoes, where the rot spreads straight through, and when Claffey turned back to him his face was transparent, eager for the tale he wished he could disdain.
The Giant hesitated, looked deep into the smoke of the fire. Outside, mist gathered on the mountain. Shapes formed, in the corner of the room, that were not the shapes of cattle, and were unseen by Connor, Jankin and Claffey; only Pybus, who because of his youth had fewer skins, shifted his feet like a restless horse, and lifted his nose at the whiff of an alien smell. ‘What’s there?’ he said. But it was nothing, nothing: only a shunt of Claffey’s elbow as he jostled for space, only Connor breathing, only the mild champing of the white cow’s jaw.
The Giant waited until the frown melted from the face of Pybus, till he crossed his arms easily upon his knees and pillowed his head upon them. Then he allowed his voice free play. It was light, resonant, not without the accent of education; he spoke to this effect.
‘Has it ever been your misfortune to be travelling alone, in one of the great forests of this world; to find yourself, as night comes down, many hours’ journey from a Christian hearth? Have you found yourself, as the wind begins to rise, with no man or beast for company but your weary pack-animal, and no comfort in this mortal world but the crucifix beneath your shirt?’
‘Which is it?’ Jankin’s voice shook.
‘’Tis the Wild Hunt,’ Connor said. ‘He meets the dead on their nightly walk, led by a ghostly king on a ghostly horse.’
‘I will be feart,’ Jankin said.
‘No