Gog & Magog and the Bishop of London
It had been half a century since Gog and his brother Magog had seen another giant and yet they were not best pleased with the letter that lay on their table. The missive had arrived with the tide, sown into beard of a terrified sailor (who was recovering by the cavernous fireside).
“Are you sure it’s him,” asked Magog.
Gog leant over the letter. “The blood is hard to make out, but it’s definitely signed ‘Humbug the Horrid’.”
Magog shuffled his feet and wrung his hands. “Does it say when he’s coming?”
“It says ‘on dread North Wind at bloody dawn’,” Gog straightened up and rubbed his bald head, “I suppose that mean immediately.”
Magog turned to the still-trembling messenger. “Is that true? Is he coming immediately?” But at the giant’s voice, the poor man yelped in fear and hid himself under the hearthrug. “Oh, dear! I’m sorry,” apologized Magog, terrifying the man further.
“We shall have to prepare the spare room,” said Gog, keeping a tally on his fingers. “And get in some more mead. And meat and cheese. We should hide the best dishes and find those skull-mugs that auntie gave us.”
Magog wrinkled his face in disgust. “Ugh! Must we?”
“He is our guest,” said Gog. “And our kin. Hospitality demands it.”
His brother pouted. “But he’s such a bore! First he’ll drink all the mead and make us sing his terrible songs, then he’ll wreck the house in a drunken rage which will upset his gout and we’ll all end up in a heap of broken furniture listening to him complain about his miserable foot! And the next day he’ll start again! It’s more than stone and bone can stand!”
“I know,” Gog agreed sadly. “But what can we do?”
“Faargh!” Magog stamped his feet in frustration. “I wished we’d never received the wretched letter.”
Gog stared at his brother and a guilty smile split his hairless face.
* * *
Within the hour the two giants were miles away. Fearing to be caught by their impending guest, they had gathered a few meager provision in a sack, grabbed up their hats and sticks, tossed the letter on the fire, and ran.
“But where are we going?” panted Magog. “We could hide in Hlut’s Tub.”
“It’s too cramped,” said Gog. “We’ll go south. It’s been ages since we visited the Lowlands.”
“I wonder if those Roman lads are still about?”
“Let’s go and see,” said Gog, slipping the house key into a pocket.
And so south they fled, down from the Highlands, across the moors, through the Dim Wood, till they came to the Dubious Marches where men where not unknown. It was then mid-summer and the brothers were hot and dusty from their travels when they came upon a deep briny river flowing into a bay.
With a cry of joy, Magog thrown down his stick and his bundle, stripped off his tunic and breeches and raced towards the water. “Frith and Fruth!” he shouted as he dove into the river, sending up a torrent of water.
While his brother frolicked, Gog searched the hills till he had found a dozen or so large, flat rocks. Then, in accordance with ancient giant-tradition, he carefully arranged them in an upright circle.
“Nice camp-stones,” said Magog approvingly, emerging from the water.
“Thank you,” said Gog, surveying his handiwork with exhausted pride.
“And I have caught us some supper,” said Magog, spilling nearly a hundredweight of fish and shellfish from his tunic.
Gog smacked his lips and rubbed his hands, “Well done, brother mine!”
Soon the giants had raised a roaring bonfire and were feasting and laughing. In accordance with ancient giant-tradition, they sang the songs and told the stories that were recorded in the stars and did not think of sleep till they had greeted the yellow moon.
And so Brother Edcup found them: stretched out beside a smoldering mound of ash, on a pebble-beach of seashells, snoring earthquakes.
To the chroniclers he is known as Saint Edcup, but in the days in which our story is set he is brother Edcup of Lindisfarne Priory. Brother Edcup had, in a vision, been visited by a great duck, whose four heads spoke with one voice. And the heavenly bird spoke thus: “one onion cooked until sweet and herbs fresh and full.” The Prior of Linsbert had sat long in thought and took council with the senior brothers before he revealing to Edcup the meaning of his vision. Edcup had been chosen, the prior explained, by Saint Urthwalda (whose family crest was the drake) to carry northward the Light of the Church.
And so, after many weeks, brother Edcup had arrived at the very border of the Wild North, where dragons still slumbered and fairies still danced and where monks where merely a traveller’s tale. All night he had approached the blaze of the giants’ campfire, thinking it some hellish conflagration and now – in the growing dawn – he followed the smoke to the standing stones. Pausing only to recite the Psalms, he strode boldly into the circle. When he saw Gog and Magog, Brother Edcup’s knees knocked with fear but his heart leapt for joy for he thought martyrdom a fine institution.
Fishing out the rough and splintering cross that he wore against his skin, Edcup brandished it at the sleeping giants. “Begone demons,” he cried. “Awake! Awake and begone! Awake, I say!”
In answer, Gog flailed one arm and Magog rolled upon his face, but they did not awaken.
Then Edcup took from his satchel his prayer book and began to read aloud the Holy Latin. When still his foe would not awaken, the monk took up a smoldering log and began to beat Gog upon his bald head. “Get up,” shouted the monk. “Get up you sluggard!” He dodged the giant’s sleepy swatting. “Get up, that I may banish you!”
Finally roused, Gog sat up with a roar. Magog, too, awoke with a snort. “What is it?” he cried. “Jack? Knights? Humbug?” The brothers scrambled to their feet, glancing wildly about.
“Ho, ho,” said Gog, when he spied Brother Edcup just outside the stone circle (his martyr’s zeal having cooled somewhat). “What have we here?”
“What is it?” asked Magog, rubbing soot from his eyes. “Another princess?”
“It’s a man,” said Gog.
“Are you sure? She’s wearing a dress.”
“Not a dress, but a robe,” said Edcup. “I am a monk.”
“A monk?” said Magog. “Is that some kind of wizard?”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Edcup
“Oh good,” sighed Magog. “I dislike wizards.”
“I am a warrior of Mother Church!”
“Never heard of her,” said Magog.
“Oh, bother,” said Gog, brushing soot from his face. “Another warrior.”
“Aye,” shouted Edcup. “A warrior for the Lord. And I command you monsters: begone!”
“We’re not monsters,” said Gog.
“Besides,” added Magog, “we’ve just arrived and we can’t go home yet because Humbug – that’s our cousin – is coming for a visit and we don’t—“
“Silence, servants of the Devil!”
“We are not servants of any devil,” said Gog, “We’re giants and we do not take kindly to rude strangers disturbing our sleep.”
“Stay back!” Edcup held his prayer book like a shield. “Take but one step towards me and the Lord will strike thee down with a thunderbolt.”
The giants stared down at the little man waving his book and his stick. They looked about for his lord. They looked up in the clear, blue sky. They looked at one another and shrugged. “We mean you no harm, monk. Come, share our breakfast if you wish.”
Brother Edcup considered the giants for a few moments. “Are you then servants of the Lord?”
“We are servants to no one,” Gog said proudly. “I am Gog and this is my brother Magog and we know neither you nor your lord.”
Edcup’s face brightened. “I will make you and your brother servants of the Lord!”
“Are you offering us employment?”
“I am offering you eternal—“
Magog suddenly jumped as if he’d been stung by a colony of bees. “Gog!”
“What is it, brother? I’m talking to the monk.”
“The sailor, Gog, the sailor who carried Humbug’s letter, we left him at the cottage!”
“Pits and holes!” cried Gog. “You’re right!”
“He’ll tell Humbug where we’ve gone.”
“You’re right.”
“And Humbug will come after us and he’ll shout at us and he’ll box my ears and pull my nose and…”
“Yes, yes, brother, you’re right. Now be quiet and let me think.” Gog began to pace and mutter to himself. “We could return home…no, Humbug may be there already…we could…no, no, someone might get hurt…Magog, we must hide.”
“Hide? Where? And for how long?”
“Yes, we must go far away and hide ourselves. But it needn’t be too long; you know how easily bored Humbug is. No more than 2 or 3 years.”
“Three years!”
“I should think. But where shall we go?”
Brother Edcup, who had been eavesdropping (for giants are easily overheard), spoke. “Brother giants,” he said sweetly. “If you were to accept the Lord as your savior and master you could take refuge in the Church.”
“We would be safe in this church?” said Magog.
“Most assuredly,” said Brother Edcup.
“And it’s big enough? We’re quite tall, you know.”
Edcup smiled. “There is room enough for all.”
“And what would we do, for your lord?” asked Gog.
“Very little,” said Edcup. “For it is written that the ‘yoke is easy and the burden light’.”
“Yoke?” said Magog. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Hush,” said Gog as he pulled his brother aside. They whispered together in the language of their kinsfolk.
Finally, Gog knelt on one knee and extended a finger towards Brother Edcup. “Monk,” he said. “We will enter your lord’s service in exchange for his protection. Touch my finger and we will swear it by the Stones.”
“No!” Edcup recoiled in horror. “I mean, that is not the Lord’s way. You must be baptized.”
Gog climbed to his feet and dusted off his breeches. “What do that mean?”
The monk pointed to the river. “I must immerse you in water and anoint you in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
<What does that mean?> whispered Magog in Giantish.
<He wants to swear by the River instead of the Stones> answered Gog. Then, in the Vulgar Tongue, he said to Edcup, “as you wish, monk. But I can’t swim.”
And so – with no small difficulty – Brother Edcup baptized Gog and Magog.
The new converts and the monk headed south, Edcup jogging along happily, the two giants plodding slowly and stopping often.
“Gog,” said Magog as the bothers waited for the monk to catch them up. “I’m worried. That sounded like no oath-taking I’ve ever heard. What did it all mean? Who is ‘the father’? And the ‘ghost’? I dislike ghosts, almost as much as wizards.”
“Yes,” his brother rubbed his beardless chin. “It was strange.”
“And what did he mean by ‘born again’? Are we going to grow young again? That’s fell magic. I don’t want to be a child again; we haven’t a nanny!”
“I don’t, Magog. I don’t know.”
As they sat about their first night’s fire, the giants questioned Edcup about his religion.
“Tell us,” said Gog. “About your lord.”
Edcup got a faraway look in his eye. “He is the creator of all things and Lord of all the Earth.”
“Oh,” said Magog. He was glancing nervously at the night around them for Edcup had forbidden them from raising a stone circle.
“Hm,” said Gog, poking at the fire.
The monk glared up at them. “Are giants so powerful,” said he, “that they do not tremble before the All-mighty?”
“We’ve met lords before,” said Gog. “Most of them ‘lords of all the Earth’.”
Magog nodded. “And all of them have claimed to be all-mighty.”
“Well, my Lord is different,” said Edcup crossly. “He is the Lord of lords and resides in Heaven.”
“Like Bish,” said Magog, recalling the star-stories of his ancient youth.
‘No,” insisted Edcup. “Not like your pagan ‘Bish’! The Lord looks down upon the world with love and compassion.”
“Like Bish,” repeated Magog, pointing to his stars.
“No,” shouted Edcup. “The Lord sits in judgment over all.”
“But Bish is in the sky,” reasoned Gog. “And nothing is above the sky.”
Brother Edcup was standing now and angrily waving his prayer book. “The Lord smites the wicked and punishes the sinful!”
“You’re right,” admitted Magog. “That’s not like Bish.”
Appalled at their ignorance, Edcup began to recite the catechism. He was just explaining the mystery of the Trinity when the sleeping giants fell like trees.
* * *
The land grew more civilized as the trio travelled south: wild hills and groves gave way to hedgerows and tilled fields. It had been generations since giants had trod the king’s roads and Gog and Magog excited no small comment as they came. More then one mobs or local lord came out to meet them only to be hastily reassured by Brother Edcup.
Soon word of the giant converts spread and the angry farmers and terrified knights were replaced by curious townsfolk who gasped and pointed and cheered. Priests and freemen welcomed Brother Edcup to their tables, while disobedient children smuggled barrow-loads of food to the giants who sheltered outside of the villages and towns.
At last the monk and the giants came to Lindisfarne Priory where Edcup was greeted by awe and jealousy by his brother monks. But they did not tarry long for a summons awaited them, from no less a person than the Bishop of London.
They were met at the city gates by emissaries of the bishop: a page in scarlet livery who escorted Edcup to his Excelleny and a steward in armor who led the giants to a fallow field far from the bishop’s palace.
“Th-this way,” stammered the terrified steward.
Gog and Magog followed the little man on his skittish horse, exchanging concerned glances as the land grew wilder. At last they came to a weedy field beneath a stony hill where a large pavilion had been erected. Beside the pavilion was a wagon of hay, a cluster of barrels, and two scrawny cows.
As soon as they reached the pavilion, the steward stammered out something unintelligible, turned his horse about, and galloped back towards the city.
“Wait,” cried Gog. “What is this?”
“Camp,” shouted the retreating man. “Provisions!”
In the morning – after an uncomfortable night, crowded together under the pavilion – Gog and Magog were granted an audience with the bishop of London. His Excellently was seated atop a towering scaffolding, that he might receive the giants eye-to-eye. Beside his throne stood Brother Edcup, smug in his humble robes, while at the rear of the platform stood two guards, their pikes nearly as wavy as their helmets. The bishop kept the giants waiting nearly three quarters of an hour as if he had some other business atop his temporary tower, but at last he summoned them forward.
Gog and Magog approached the tower, genuflecting and crossing themselves as Edcup had taught them (though Magog forgot the shape of the blessing and traced a triangle across his stomach).
“Giants of the pagan north,” said the bishop. “I welcome you to London and to the Community of God.”
“We thank your Excellency,” said Gog in his most courtly manner. “You have been most generous, but my brother and I have a few questions . . . about our accommodations.”
“Of course,” the bishop smiled graciously. “The ways of civilization must seem strange to wild creatures such as yourselves. I apologize for your housing, but as you can see,” he laughed and waved his bejeweled hand, “London has no caves large enough for creatures such as yourselves. The pavilion was, no doubt, a luxury unheard of in the Pagan North, but be not over-awed; it is pleasure indeed to provide such luxuries to my guests. I trust also that the provisions provided proved an uncommon feast. Such fatted calves were they not?”
“Your Excellency,” said Gog. “We do not sleep in caves nor do we eat cows.”
“Do you not?” The bishop cast a reproachful look at the monk. “I’m afraid we have nothing else. I have no heathen prisons at the moment and I will not deliver up Christian men to be devoured.”
Magog and Gog stood aghast. “Your Excellency! We do eat men! I meant only that we do not eat living beasts. We eat pies and soup and cheese. We are quite fond of beef–” here Magog tugged at his brother’s sleeve. “Ah,” said Gog, “Ah, yes, but not of the two cows at the pavilion. My brother has befriended them.”
“They’re names are Damona and Boann,” interjected Magog. “Boann has the blue eyes.”
“Pies,” said the bishop.
“If your Excellency pleases,” said Gog. “Beef or mutton or fish.”
“And mead,” added Magog.
“Pies,” repeated the bishop. “And mead.” Then he smiled and clapped his hands, summoning forth a hitherto unseen underling. “Tell the kitchens: pies for our giant guests, and mead.”
The brothers bowed. “Thank you, your Excellency.”
“Now,” said the bishop. “Let us turn to other matter. I heard with great interested of the miracle of your conversion.”
“Miracle?” Gog lifted his hairless brow.
The bishop did to seem to hear the giant. “How the Lord softened your savage hearts and spared the life of Brother Edcup.”
“Savage?”
“How the Gift of Tongues allowed him to comprehend your monstrous speech.”
“My brother and I speak English.”
“And how, after the blessed sacrament, Brother Edcup miraculously brought forth a feast to celebrate.”
“But . . . I caught those fish,” whined Magog.
“It is not wonderful that even the Titans of the Earth come to pay homage to Holy Mother Church?”
“Titans?” said Magog.
“Homage?” said Gog.
“I have prayed longed,” the bishop continued undeterred. “And I have determined the reason giants were sent to us.”
Their words exhausted, Gog and Magog simply stared at each other in bewilderment.
“Work proceeds,” said the bishop, “on a cathedral destined to be the greatest in all of Britain. Thousands of men are prepared to devote decades of their lives erecting this great church, but with the labor of two such giants as yourselves the cathedral will rise twice as high, in a tenth of the time (and a hundredth of the cost), and rival any in Christendom!”
* * *
“’Burden is light’ my fat toe!” grumbled Gog as he hefted another colossal granite block into place. Already offering up the next block, his brother merely grunted his agreement.
For a three-and-a-half years – interrupted only by the necessity of driving off a fleet of very surprised Vikings – the brother giants had labored on the bishop’s cathedral. Under the increasingly shrill and demanding instructions of the Master Builder (not to mention the Master Mason, the Master Sculptor, the Master Mortar Mixer, and the Master Roofer) they had worked dusk till dawn raising buttresses, hoisting keystones, and supporting vaults until the mortar set. At the end of each day they bathed in the Thames to wash away the grime and stone dust and trudged wearily back to their pavilion.
When the work had first begun, crowds would gather to marvel at the giants and praise them, but the townsfolk had grown accustom to giants and the only people who approached them now were angry labors who their presence had put out of work.
At last the spire was raised, the doors were affixed, and the second great glass window was installed (Magog had dropped the first window, sadly killing the Master Glass-maker, who ceased to shout at the flustered giant only when his own radiant masterpiece had sliced off his head). The cathedral was finished. To the Londoners it had seemed to raise magically in the blink of an eye; to the giants it had taken years of back-breaking labor. But blink or break, it was finished.
The bishop was jubilant and held a celebratory Mass in which he said much about the glory of the Church and very little about giants. Gog and Magog were too exhausted to care and watched the ceremony while leaning over the city walls.
“What’s he saying?” asked Magog.
“He’s thanking the Masters and blessing the laborers,” replied Gog.
“No thanks for us.” Magog snorted in annoyance. “Did you see the gargoyles on the southern tower?”
“Which ones?” asked Gog guardedly.
“Which ones? The ones carved like giants!”
“Now, Magog, we can’t be sure they were meant to be us.”
“Of course they were meant to be us! One is completely bald and the other’s as hairy as a goat!” Magog kicked a bugle in the wall.
“I’m sure Master James meant it in tribute.”
“Gog, he fashioned your nose like a lump of coal! And I look like the Hermit of Boar Hill!” He twisted his long beard. “I know it’s bit shaggy but that’s only because I’ve been living rough for three years…”
Gog patted his on the shoulder. “I know, brother, I know. Let’s go back to camp and see if supper is waiting.”
There were indeed a pair of wagon wheel-sized pies waiting at the pavilion. While Magog fed Damona and Boann, Gog built a fire against the autumn chill. But before the brothers could warm the pies, the grey clouds unleashed a stabbing rain that drown the fire and chased the giants under the pavilion. And so Brother Edcup found them: hunched under their tent, eating a cold supper.
Edcup arrived in a painted carriage with a servant to light his way. Hurrying from carriage to tent, he shook the rain from his great cloak, revealing a brilliant robes and a cross of silver. “Giants,” he threw wide his bejeweled hands. “I bring you the grateful praises of his Excellency!”
Magog mumbled something around his cold pie. “Good evening, Brother Edcup,” said Gog without enthusiasm.
“No longer ‘brother’, giant. I have left the priory and entered the bishop’s service. I am now Archdeacon Edcup.”
“Congratulations,” said Magog.
“Good evening archdeacon,” said Gog. “You are most welcome in our tent. Alas, I can offer you neither a chair nor mead since we have neither. And the pie’s cold.”
“And scant,” added Magog
“No matter, giant, no matter,” said Edcup, choosing not to understand Gog’s accusations. “You and your brother have done great work. The Cathedral is as his Excellency foretold, the greatest in all Christendom!”
“You’re welcome,” said Gog, rain dripping down his temple.
“The bishop and I are most pleased,” said Edcup, shooing away Damona, who was nibbling on his sleeve. “Indeed, his Excellency has sent me here to offer you both his blessing and to grant unto you any reward within his power to give.”
“Mead,” suggested Magog. “More pies? A barber?”
“Hush, brother,” said Gog. “We thank his Excellency and would ask only that he provide for us a house to live in.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Magog, knocking his colossal head against the pavilion. “A house! And a shed for Damona and Boann.”
Edcup, who had learnt much in the bishop’s service, smiled broadly. “A house? The bishop will grant such a favor gladly! Naturally, a house of sufficient size will require a great deal of time and money to complete. And of course, such work must wait for the year to turn. But come the Spring, I promise you, you will be provided with the materials for a fine house!”
Gog drew in his leg, which had wander out into the rain. “Is there no place we may winter?”
“Alas,” Edcup shook his perfumed head, “there is no building big enough.”
“What about the cathedral,” ventured Magog after a long silence.
“Yes,” said Gog excitedly. “What about the cathedral?”
The bishop’s assistant drew back in horror. “Giants? In the cathedral!”
“Why not?” said Gog. “Giants built it.”
“It is a Christian house of worship!”
“Why do Christians need such a large house? You are such a small people.”
“It is the House of the Lord!”
“I thought,” said Magog, “the Lord lived is the sky?”
“He lives also in the cathedral,” snapped Edcup.
“Perhaps,” offered Gog, “we could share?”
“No,” said Edcup. “It is the seat of the bishop.”
“We promise not to touch the bishop’s chair.”
“No!” shouted the red-faced Edcup. “You may not live in the cathedral! Do you hear? You are forbidden to enter it!”
“Very well,” said Gog sullenly. “We hear you.”
There were a few moments of silences as Gog fumed, Edcup composed himself, and Magog scratched Boann under her chin. Then Edcup gathered up his cloak and bid the giants a good evening. But before his carriage withdrew into the dark, he leant out the window.
“Good giants,” he said. “His Excellency has sent for you tomorrow in the forenoon; he has received word the Vikings mean to come again.”
The speechless brothers watched the carriage disappearing into the storm night. “Not more muddy Vikings!” said Magog, rubbing the scar on his knee. “Those boats were sharp!”
Gog splintered a barrel in his fist.
“Do you,” Magog hesitated. “Do you suppose Humbug has given up by now?”
“It’s possible…”
“And if not, well, he’s not so terrible, is he?”
“I suppose not…”
“And some of his songs are quite funny,” admitted Magog before singing out in an affected baritone:
I hack and I cough
To blow me head off,
I’m the dragon of Feverly rock!
My gullet is sore
And I wheeze when I roar,
I’m the dragon of Feverly Rock!
My wings are so weak
Something-something squeak,
I’m the dragon of Feverly Rock!
“Yes,” answered his brother. “I always did like that one.”
“Gog, I’m not happy. I want to go home.”
“Me too.”
“Let’s go home,” Magog said firmly.
“But we swore to serve Edcup’s lord in exchange for sanctuary from Humbug.”
“We’ve done that,” said Magog. “We built his lord a house – a very large house – and we don’t want sanctuary anymore.”
“Well, I suppose…” said Gog. “But we swore by the River.”
“So, let’s go back to the River and declare the contract fulfilled.”
Gog smiled at his brother.
* * *
And so the brother giants rose early the next morning and taking only Damona and the blue-eyed Boann (for Magog had grown quite fond of the cows) they turned their steps north. They walked for long days and had one or two mild adventures before they came to the fateful river. Here – after chasing away a gaggle of druids who were worshipping at their camping-stones – they hesitated and argued about the best way to proceed. Finally, they waded into the river and poured water over each other in their best-remembered imitation of Brother Edcup.
Magog threw wide his arms and said, “Father Sun and Holy Goat,”
“Ghost,” whispered Gog.
“Are you sure? Very well: Father Sun and Ghostly Goat, we swore by this river to serve you in exchange for your protection. Now we declare – by this same river – that the contract is fulfilled. We leave your service and thank you for your protection.”
The giants looked about, waiting for a reply. “Well, then, I guess that’s it,” Magog shrugged and walked out of the river.
“I’m chilled to my bones,” said Gog. “Help me build a fire.”
* * *
The cottage sat still and grey upon its flowered hill. The front garden was overrun with weeds and a stork had set his home upon their cold chimney.
“I don’t think Humbug is here,” said Magog, peering through a dark window.
“I don’t think anybody’s been here in years,” said Gog, knocking aside saplings on his way to the front door.
Magog joined his brother at the door. “That’s good. I’ll be glad to sleep in a bed again. Hurry and open the door.”
“Mire and muck,” muttered Gog, patting his pockets. “I think I’ve lost the key.”
* * *
When it was discovered that their giants were gone, all of London mourned the loss (save The Most Honorable Brotherhood of Stone-Movers) for they had become proud of their cathedral-builders. The bishop held Edcup responsible for the disappearance and the townsfolk agreed with His Excellency. Only when Edcup found Gog’s lost house key and proclaimed it a sign that Heaven had received the giants did his reputation recovered. Indeed, he soon became a local hero and tales of his miracles spread far. In time, Edcup became bishop of London and had placed beneath his throne, in his cathedral, the holy relic that was the Giant’s Key.
FIN.
**
Copyright 2018 Matthew A.J. Timmins
“Are you sure it’s him,” asked Magog.
Gog leant over the letter. “The blood is hard to make out, but it’s definitely signed ‘Humbug the Horrid’.”
Magog shuffled his feet and wrung his hands. “Does it say when he’s coming?”
“It says ‘on dread North Wind at bloody dawn’,” Gog straightened up and rubbed his bald head, “I suppose that mean immediately.”
Magog turned to the still-trembling messenger. “Is that true? Is he coming immediately?” But at the giant’s voice, the poor man yelped in fear and hid himself under the hearthrug. “Oh, dear! I’m sorry,” apologized Magog, terrifying the man further.
“We shall have to prepare the spare room,” said Gog, keeping a tally on his fingers. “And get in some more mead. And meat and cheese. We should hide the best dishes and find those skull-mugs that auntie gave us.”
Magog wrinkled his face in disgust. “Ugh! Must we?”
“He is our guest,” said Gog. “And our kin. Hospitality demands it.”
His brother pouted. “But he’s such a bore! First he’ll drink all the mead and make us sing his terrible songs, then he’ll wreck the house in a drunken rage which will upset his gout and we’ll all end up in a heap of broken furniture listening to him complain about his miserable foot! And the next day he’ll start again! It’s more than stone and bone can stand!”
“I know,” Gog agreed sadly. “But what can we do?”
“Faargh!” Magog stamped his feet in frustration. “I wished we’d never received the wretched letter.”
Gog stared at his brother and a guilty smile split his hairless face.
* * *
Within the hour the two giants were miles away. Fearing to be caught by their impending guest, they had gathered a few meager provision in a sack, grabbed up their hats and sticks, tossed the letter on the fire, and ran.
“But where are we going?” panted Magog. “We could hide in Hlut’s Tub.”
“It’s too cramped,” said Gog. “We’ll go south. It’s been ages since we visited the Lowlands.”
“I wonder if those Roman lads are still about?”
“Let’s go and see,” said Gog, slipping the house key into a pocket.
And so south they fled, down from the Highlands, across the moors, through the Dim Wood, till they came to the Dubious Marches where men where not unknown. It was then mid-summer and the brothers were hot and dusty from their travels when they came upon a deep briny river flowing into a bay.
With a cry of joy, Magog thrown down his stick and his bundle, stripped off his tunic and breeches and raced towards the water. “Frith and Fruth!” he shouted as he dove into the river, sending up a torrent of water.
While his brother frolicked, Gog searched the hills till he had found a dozen or so large, flat rocks. Then, in accordance with ancient giant-tradition, he carefully arranged them in an upright circle.
“Nice camp-stones,” said Magog approvingly, emerging from the water.
“Thank you,” said Gog, surveying his handiwork with exhausted pride.
“And I have caught us some supper,” said Magog, spilling nearly a hundredweight of fish and shellfish from his tunic.
Gog smacked his lips and rubbed his hands, “Well done, brother mine!”
Soon the giants had raised a roaring bonfire and were feasting and laughing. In accordance with ancient giant-tradition, they sang the songs and told the stories that were recorded in the stars and did not think of sleep till they had greeted the yellow moon.
And so Brother Edcup found them: stretched out beside a smoldering mound of ash, on a pebble-beach of seashells, snoring earthquakes.
To the chroniclers he is known as Saint Edcup, but in the days in which our story is set he is brother Edcup of Lindisfarne Priory. Brother Edcup had, in a vision, been visited by a great duck, whose four heads spoke with one voice. And the heavenly bird spoke thus: “one onion cooked until sweet and herbs fresh and full.” The Prior of Linsbert had sat long in thought and took council with the senior brothers before he revealing to Edcup the meaning of his vision. Edcup had been chosen, the prior explained, by Saint Urthwalda (whose family crest was the drake) to carry northward the Light of the Church.
And so, after many weeks, brother Edcup had arrived at the very border of the Wild North, where dragons still slumbered and fairies still danced and where monks where merely a traveller’s tale. All night he had approached the blaze of the giants’ campfire, thinking it some hellish conflagration and now – in the growing dawn – he followed the smoke to the standing stones. Pausing only to recite the Psalms, he strode boldly into the circle. When he saw Gog and Magog, Brother Edcup’s knees knocked with fear but his heart leapt for joy for he thought martyrdom a fine institution.
Fishing out the rough and splintering cross that he wore against his skin, Edcup brandished it at the sleeping giants. “Begone demons,” he cried. “Awake! Awake and begone! Awake, I say!”
In answer, Gog flailed one arm and Magog rolled upon his face, but they did not awaken.
Then Edcup took from his satchel his prayer book and began to read aloud the Holy Latin. When still his foe would not awaken, the monk took up a smoldering log and began to beat Gog upon his bald head. “Get up,” shouted the monk. “Get up you sluggard!” He dodged the giant’s sleepy swatting. “Get up, that I may banish you!”
Finally roused, Gog sat up with a roar. Magog, too, awoke with a snort. “What is it?” he cried. “Jack? Knights? Humbug?” The brothers scrambled to their feet, glancing wildly about.
“Ho, ho,” said Gog, when he spied Brother Edcup just outside the stone circle (his martyr’s zeal having cooled somewhat). “What have we here?”
“What is it?” asked Magog, rubbing soot from his eyes. “Another princess?”
“It’s a man,” said Gog.
“Are you sure? She’s wearing a dress.”
“Not a dress, but a robe,” said Edcup. “I am a monk.”
“A monk?” said Magog. “Is that some kind of wizard?”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Edcup
“Oh good,” sighed Magog. “I dislike wizards.”
“I am a warrior of Mother Church!”
“Never heard of her,” said Magog.
“Oh, bother,” said Gog, brushing soot from his face. “Another warrior.”
“Aye,” shouted Edcup. “A warrior for the Lord. And I command you monsters: begone!”
“We’re not monsters,” said Gog.
“Besides,” added Magog, “we’ve just arrived and we can’t go home yet because Humbug – that’s our cousin – is coming for a visit and we don’t—“
“Silence, servants of the Devil!”
“We are not servants of any devil,” said Gog, “We’re giants and we do not take kindly to rude strangers disturbing our sleep.”
“Stay back!” Edcup held his prayer book like a shield. “Take but one step towards me and the Lord will strike thee down with a thunderbolt.”
The giants stared down at the little man waving his book and his stick. They looked about for his lord. They looked up in the clear, blue sky. They looked at one another and shrugged. “We mean you no harm, monk. Come, share our breakfast if you wish.”
Brother Edcup considered the giants for a few moments. “Are you then servants of the Lord?”
“We are servants to no one,” Gog said proudly. “I am Gog and this is my brother Magog and we know neither you nor your lord.”
Edcup’s face brightened. “I will make you and your brother servants of the Lord!”
“Are you offering us employment?”
“I am offering you eternal—“
Magog suddenly jumped as if he’d been stung by a colony of bees. “Gog!”
“What is it, brother? I’m talking to the monk.”
“The sailor, Gog, the sailor who carried Humbug’s letter, we left him at the cottage!”
“Pits and holes!” cried Gog. “You’re right!”
“He’ll tell Humbug where we’ve gone.”
“You’re right.”
“And Humbug will come after us and he’ll shout at us and he’ll box my ears and pull my nose and…”
“Yes, yes, brother, you’re right. Now be quiet and let me think.” Gog began to pace and mutter to himself. “We could return home…no, Humbug may be there already…we could…no, no, someone might get hurt…Magog, we must hide.”
“Hide? Where? And for how long?”
“Yes, we must go far away and hide ourselves. But it needn’t be too long; you know how easily bored Humbug is. No more than 2 or 3 years.”
“Three years!”
“I should think. But where shall we go?”
Brother Edcup, who had been eavesdropping (for giants are easily overheard), spoke. “Brother giants,” he said sweetly. “If you were to accept the Lord as your savior and master you could take refuge in the Church.”
“We would be safe in this church?” said Magog.
“Most assuredly,” said Brother Edcup.
“And it’s big enough? We’re quite tall, you know.”
Edcup smiled. “There is room enough for all.”
“And what would we do, for your lord?” asked Gog.
“Very little,” said Edcup. “For it is written that the ‘yoke is easy and the burden light’.”
“Yoke?” said Magog. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Hush,” said Gog as he pulled his brother aside. They whispered together in the language of their kinsfolk.
Finally, Gog knelt on one knee and extended a finger towards Brother Edcup. “Monk,” he said. “We will enter your lord’s service in exchange for his protection. Touch my finger and we will swear it by the Stones.”
“No!” Edcup recoiled in horror. “I mean, that is not the Lord’s way. You must be baptized.”
Gog climbed to his feet and dusted off his breeches. “What do that mean?”
The monk pointed to the river. “I must immerse you in water and anoint you in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
<What does that mean?> whispered Magog in Giantish.
<He wants to swear by the River instead of the Stones> answered Gog. Then, in the Vulgar Tongue, he said to Edcup, “as you wish, monk. But I can’t swim.”
And so – with no small difficulty – Brother Edcup baptized Gog and Magog.
The new converts and the monk headed south, Edcup jogging along happily, the two giants plodding slowly and stopping often.
“Gog,” said Magog as the bothers waited for the monk to catch them up. “I’m worried. That sounded like no oath-taking I’ve ever heard. What did it all mean? Who is ‘the father’? And the ‘ghost’? I dislike ghosts, almost as much as wizards.”
“Yes,” his brother rubbed his beardless chin. “It was strange.”
“And what did he mean by ‘born again’? Are we going to grow young again? That’s fell magic. I don’t want to be a child again; we haven’t a nanny!”
“I don’t, Magog. I don’t know.”
As they sat about their first night’s fire, the giants questioned Edcup about his religion.
“Tell us,” said Gog. “About your lord.”
Edcup got a faraway look in his eye. “He is the creator of all things and Lord of all the Earth.”
“Oh,” said Magog. He was glancing nervously at the night around them for Edcup had forbidden them from raising a stone circle.
“Hm,” said Gog, poking at the fire.
The monk glared up at them. “Are giants so powerful,” said he, “that they do not tremble before the All-mighty?”
“We’ve met lords before,” said Gog. “Most of them ‘lords of all the Earth’.”
Magog nodded. “And all of them have claimed to be all-mighty.”
“Well, my Lord is different,” said Edcup crossly. “He is the Lord of lords and resides in Heaven.”
“Like Bish,” said Magog, recalling the star-stories of his ancient youth.
‘No,” insisted Edcup. “Not like your pagan ‘Bish’! The Lord looks down upon the world with love and compassion.”
“Like Bish,” repeated Magog, pointing to his stars.
“No,” shouted Edcup. “The Lord sits in judgment over all.”
“But Bish is in the sky,” reasoned Gog. “And nothing is above the sky.”
Brother Edcup was standing now and angrily waving his prayer book. “The Lord smites the wicked and punishes the sinful!”
“You’re right,” admitted Magog. “That’s not like Bish.”
Appalled at their ignorance, Edcup began to recite the catechism. He was just explaining the mystery of the Trinity when the sleeping giants fell like trees.
* * *
The land grew more civilized as the trio travelled south: wild hills and groves gave way to hedgerows and tilled fields. It had been generations since giants had trod the king’s roads and Gog and Magog excited no small comment as they came. More then one mobs or local lord came out to meet them only to be hastily reassured by Brother Edcup.
Soon word of the giant converts spread and the angry farmers and terrified knights were replaced by curious townsfolk who gasped and pointed and cheered. Priests and freemen welcomed Brother Edcup to their tables, while disobedient children smuggled barrow-loads of food to the giants who sheltered outside of the villages and towns.
At last the monk and the giants came to Lindisfarne Priory where Edcup was greeted by awe and jealousy by his brother monks. But they did not tarry long for a summons awaited them, from no less a person than the Bishop of London.
They were met at the city gates by emissaries of the bishop: a page in scarlet livery who escorted Edcup to his Excelleny and a steward in armor who led the giants to a fallow field far from the bishop’s palace.
“Th-this way,” stammered the terrified steward.
Gog and Magog followed the little man on his skittish horse, exchanging concerned glances as the land grew wilder. At last they came to a weedy field beneath a stony hill where a large pavilion had been erected. Beside the pavilion was a wagon of hay, a cluster of barrels, and two scrawny cows.
As soon as they reached the pavilion, the steward stammered out something unintelligible, turned his horse about, and galloped back towards the city.
“Wait,” cried Gog. “What is this?”
“Camp,” shouted the retreating man. “Provisions!”
In the morning – after an uncomfortable night, crowded together under the pavilion – Gog and Magog were granted an audience with the bishop of London. His Excellently was seated atop a towering scaffolding, that he might receive the giants eye-to-eye. Beside his throne stood Brother Edcup, smug in his humble robes, while at the rear of the platform stood two guards, their pikes nearly as wavy as their helmets. The bishop kept the giants waiting nearly three quarters of an hour as if he had some other business atop his temporary tower, but at last he summoned them forward.
Gog and Magog approached the tower, genuflecting and crossing themselves as Edcup had taught them (though Magog forgot the shape of the blessing and traced a triangle across his stomach).
“Giants of the pagan north,” said the bishop. “I welcome you to London and to the Community of God.”
“We thank your Excellency,” said Gog in his most courtly manner. “You have been most generous, but my brother and I have a few questions . . . about our accommodations.”
“Of course,” the bishop smiled graciously. “The ways of civilization must seem strange to wild creatures such as yourselves. I apologize for your housing, but as you can see,” he laughed and waved his bejeweled hand, “London has no caves large enough for creatures such as yourselves. The pavilion was, no doubt, a luxury unheard of in the Pagan North, but be not over-awed; it is pleasure indeed to provide such luxuries to my guests. I trust also that the provisions provided proved an uncommon feast. Such fatted calves were they not?”
“Your Excellency,” said Gog. “We do not sleep in caves nor do we eat cows.”
“Do you not?” The bishop cast a reproachful look at the monk. “I’m afraid we have nothing else. I have no heathen prisons at the moment and I will not deliver up Christian men to be devoured.”
Magog and Gog stood aghast. “Your Excellency! We do eat men! I meant only that we do not eat living beasts. We eat pies and soup and cheese. We are quite fond of beef–” here Magog tugged at his brother’s sleeve. “Ah,” said Gog, “Ah, yes, but not of the two cows at the pavilion. My brother has befriended them.”
“They’re names are Damona and Boann,” interjected Magog. “Boann has the blue eyes.”
“Pies,” said the bishop.
“If your Excellency pleases,” said Gog. “Beef or mutton or fish.”
“And mead,” added Magog.
“Pies,” repeated the bishop. “And mead.” Then he smiled and clapped his hands, summoning forth a hitherto unseen underling. “Tell the kitchens: pies for our giant guests, and mead.”
The brothers bowed. “Thank you, your Excellency.”
“Now,” said the bishop. “Let us turn to other matter. I heard with great interested of the miracle of your conversion.”
“Miracle?” Gog lifted his hairless brow.
The bishop did to seem to hear the giant. “How the Lord softened your savage hearts and spared the life of Brother Edcup.”
“Savage?”
“How the Gift of Tongues allowed him to comprehend your monstrous speech.”
“My brother and I speak English.”
“And how, after the blessed sacrament, Brother Edcup miraculously brought forth a feast to celebrate.”
“But . . . I caught those fish,” whined Magog.
“It is not wonderful that even the Titans of the Earth come to pay homage to Holy Mother Church?”
“Titans?” said Magog.
“Homage?” said Gog.
“I have prayed longed,” the bishop continued undeterred. “And I have determined the reason giants were sent to us.”
Their words exhausted, Gog and Magog simply stared at each other in bewilderment.
“Work proceeds,” said the bishop, “on a cathedral destined to be the greatest in all of Britain. Thousands of men are prepared to devote decades of their lives erecting this great church, but with the labor of two such giants as yourselves the cathedral will rise twice as high, in a tenth of the time (and a hundredth of the cost), and rival any in Christendom!”
* * *
“’Burden is light’ my fat toe!” grumbled Gog as he hefted another colossal granite block into place. Already offering up the next block, his brother merely grunted his agreement.
For a three-and-a-half years – interrupted only by the necessity of driving off a fleet of very surprised Vikings – the brother giants had labored on the bishop’s cathedral. Under the increasingly shrill and demanding instructions of the Master Builder (not to mention the Master Mason, the Master Sculptor, the Master Mortar Mixer, and the Master Roofer) they had worked dusk till dawn raising buttresses, hoisting keystones, and supporting vaults until the mortar set. At the end of each day they bathed in the Thames to wash away the grime and stone dust and trudged wearily back to their pavilion.
When the work had first begun, crowds would gather to marvel at the giants and praise them, but the townsfolk had grown accustom to giants and the only people who approached them now were angry labors who their presence had put out of work.
At last the spire was raised, the doors were affixed, and the second great glass window was installed (Magog had dropped the first window, sadly killing the Master Glass-maker, who ceased to shout at the flustered giant only when his own radiant masterpiece had sliced off his head). The cathedral was finished. To the Londoners it had seemed to raise magically in the blink of an eye; to the giants it had taken years of back-breaking labor. But blink or break, it was finished.
The bishop was jubilant and held a celebratory Mass in which he said much about the glory of the Church and very little about giants. Gog and Magog were too exhausted to care and watched the ceremony while leaning over the city walls.
“What’s he saying?” asked Magog.
“He’s thanking the Masters and blessing the laborers,” replied Gog.
“No thanks for us.” Magog snorted in annoyance. “Did you see the gargoyles on the southern tower?”
“Which ones?” asked Gog guardedly.
“Which ones? The ones carved like giants!”
“Now, Magog, we can’t be sure they were meant to be us.”
“Of course they were meant to be us! One is completely bald and the other’s as hairy as a goat!” Magog kicked a bugle in the wall.
“I’m sure Master James meant it in tribute.”
“Gog, he fashioned your nose like a lump of coal! And I look like the Hermit of Boar Hill!” He twisted his long beard. “I know it’s bit shaggy but that’s only because I’ve been living rough for three years…”
Gog patted his on the shoulder. “I know, brother, I know. Let’s go back to camp and see if supper is waiting.”
There were indeed a pair of wagon wheel-sized pies waiting at the pavilion. While Magog fed Damona and Boann, Gog built a fire against the autumn chill. But before the brothers could warm the pies, the grey clouds unleashed a stabbing rain that drown the fire and chased the giants under the pavilion. And so Brother Edcup found them: hunched under their tent, eating a cold supper.
Edcup arrived in a painted carriage with a servant to light his way. Hurrying from carriage to tent, he shook the rain from his great cloak, revealing a brilliant robes and a cross of silver. “Giants,” he threw wide his bejeweled hands. “I bring you the grateful praises of his Excellency!”
Magog mumbled something around his cold pie. “Good evening, Brother Edcup,” said Gog without enthusiasm.
“No longer ‘brother’, giant. I have left the priory and entered the bishop’s service. I am now Archdeacon Edcup.”
“Congratulations,” said Magog.
“Good evening archdeacon,” said Gog. “You are most welcome in our tent. Alas, I can offer you neither a chair nor mead since we have neither. And the pie’s cold.”
“And scant,” added Magog
“No matter, giant, no matter,” said Edcup, choosing not to understand Gog’s accusations. “You and your brother have done great work. The Cathedral is as his Excellency foretold, the greatest in all Christendom!”
“You’re welcome,” said Gog, rain dripping down his temple.
“The bishop and I are most pleased,” said Edcup, shooing away Damona, who was nibbling on his sleeve. “Indeed, his Excellency has sent me here to offer you both his blessing and to grant unto you any reward within his power to give.”
“Mead,” suggested Magog. “More pies? A barber?”
“Hush, brother,” said Gog. “We thank his Excellency and would ask only that he provide for us a house to live in.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Magog, knocking his colossal head against the pavilion. “A house! And a shed for Damona and Boann.”
Edcup, who had learnt much in the bishop’s service, smiled broadly. “A house? The bishop will grant such a favor gladly! Naturally, a house of sufficient size will require a great deal of time and money to complete. And of course, such work must wait for the year to turn. But come the Spring, I promise you, you will be provided with the materials for a fine house!”
Gog drew in his leg, which had wander out into the rain. “Is there no place we may winter?”
“Alas,” Edcup shook his perfumed head, “there is no building big enough.”
“What about the cathedral,” ventured Magog after a long silence.
“Yes,” said Gog excitedly. “What about the cathedral?”
The bishop’s assistant drew back in horror. “Giants? In the cathedral!”
“Why not?” said Gog. “Giants built it.”
“It is a Christian house of worship!”
“Why do Christians need such a large house? You are such a small people.”
“It is the House of the Lord!”
“I thought,” said Magog, “the Lord lived is the sky?”
“He lives also in the cathedral,” snapped Edcup.
“Perhaps,” offered Gog, “we could share?”
“No,” said Edcup. “It is the seat of the bishop.”
“We promise not to touch the bishop’s chair.”
“No!” shouted the red-faced Edcup. “You may not live in the cathedral! Do you hear? You are forbidden to enter it!”
“Very well,” said Gog sullenly. “We hear you.”
There were a few moments of silences as Gog fumed, Edcup composed himself, and Magog scratched Boann under her chin. Then Edcup gathered up his cloak and bid the giants a good evening. But before his carriage withdrew into the dark, he leant out the window.
“Good giants,” he said. “His Excellency has sent for you tomorrow in the forenoon; he has received word the Vikings mean to come again.”
The speechless brothers watched the carriage disappearing into the storm night. “Not more muddy Vikings!” said Magog, rubbing the scar on his knee. “Those boats were sharp!”
Gog splintered a barrel in his fist.
“Do you,” Magog hesitated. “Do you suppose Humbug has given up by now?”
“It’s possible…”
“And if not, well, he’s not so terrible, is he?”
“I suppose not…”
“And some of his songs are quite funny,” admitted Magog before singing out in an affected baritone:
I hack and I cough
To blow me head off,
I’m the dragon of Feverly rock!
My gullet is sore
And I wheeze when I roar,
I’m the dragon of Feverly Rock!
My wings are so weak
Something-something squeak,
I’m the dragon of Feverly Rock!
“Yes,” answered his brother. “I always did like that one.”
“Gog, I’m not happy. I want to go home.”
“Me too.”
“Let’s go home,” Magog said firmly.
“But we swore to serve Edcup’s lord in exchange for sanctuary from Humbug.”
“We’ve done that,” said Magog. “We built his lord a house – a very large house – and we don’t want sanctuary anymore.”
“Well, I suppose…” said Gog. “But we swore by the River.”
“So, let’s go back to the River and declare the contract fulfilled.”
Gog smiled at his brother.
* * *
And so the brother giants rose early the next morning and taking only Damona and the blue-eyed Boann (for Magog had grown quite fond of the cows) they turned their steps north. They walked for long days and had one or two mild adventures before they came to the fateful river. Here – after chasing away a gaggle of druids who were worshipping at their camping-stones – they hesitated and argued about the best way to proceed. Finally, they waded into the river and poured water over each other in their best-remembered imitation of Brother Edcup.
Magog threw wide his arms and said, “Father Sun and Holy Goat,”
“Ghost,” whispered Gog.
“Are you sure? Very well: Father Sun and Ghostly Goat, we swore by this river to serve you in exchange for your protection. Now we declare – by this same river – that the contract is fulfilled. We leave your service and thank you for your protection.”
The giants looked about, waiting for a reply. “Well, then, I guess that’s it,” Magog shrugged and walked out of the river.
“I’m chilled to my bones,” said Gog. “Help me build a fire.”
* * *
The cottage sat still and grey upon its flowered hill. The front garden was overrun with weeds and a stork had set his home upon their cold chimney.
“I don’t think Humbug is here,” said Magog, peering through a dark window.
“I don’t think anybody’s been here in years,” said Gog, knocking aside saplings on his way to the front door.
Magog joined his brother at the door. “That’s good. I’ll be glad to sleep in a bed again. Hurry and open the door.”
“Mire and muck,” muttered Gog, patting his pockets. “I think I’ve lost the key.”
* * *
When it was discovered that their giants were gone, all of London mourned the loss (save The Most Honorable Brotherhood of Stone-Movers) for they had become proud of their cathedral-builders. The bishop held Edcup responsible for the disappearance and the townsfolk agreed with His Excellency. Only when Edcup found Gog’s lost house key and proclaimed it a sign that Heaven had received the giants did his reputation recovered. Indeed, he soon became a local hero and tales of his miracles spread far. In time, Edcup became bishop of London and had placed beneath his throne, in his cathedral, the holy relic that was the Giant’s Key.
FIN.
**
Copyright 2018 Matthew A.J. Timmins