The Odyssey of Gog & Magog
The cold northern sun peeked into the cave and found the giant Magog turning a huge spit over a low but sprawling fire. Within the cavern, the smell of roasting meat and burning pine trees mingled with the slap of salt air, and the roar of the ocean vied with the snoring of the giant Gog. Though he wore the uniform of a castaway, Magog had done his best to remain civilized: his threadbare rags were hemmed and patched; his naked feet were clean and his nails trimmed; and his wiry black hair was washed and and his beard braided. The cave too, initially a mere shelter against the weather, had become, through much hard work, a crude but not uncomfortable dwelling: a flat boulder had been fitting into the mouth of the cave for a front door (now open to the morning air); a wide and shallow pit lined with seashells sat beneath a natural fissure and served for the hearth beneath the chimney; a great level stone stood for a dining room table (complete with a clean ship’s sail for a table cloth and a wild rose bush for a centerpiece); two carved and polished tree stumps did duty as chairs; goat skins made a fine carpet; and a nook in the cave wall made a admirable pantry, crammed with salted fish, dried seaweed, dozens of bird eggs, and skins of fresh water.
Humming quietly to himself, Magog removed the spits from the fire and slid the roasted beasts onto two giant turtleshell bowls. “Gog,” he yelled, “breakfast!”
After several increasingly violent calls to the table, the snoring was replaced by grumbling and the giant Gog emerged from the best bedroom (the back of the cave) and shuffled to the table, his eyes full of sleep and his hairless head still wet from his morning ablutions.
“Good morning, brother,” said Magog.
“Guf’mor,” muttered Gog.
Magog smiled indulgently and waited for his brother to eat himself awake. Halfway through his roasted goat, Gog’s eyes began to sparkle with intelligence and he recovered the power of speech. “Good, this,” he said. “What is it? It tastes a bit like goat.”
“It isgoat,” Magog said proudly, “but marinated in brine and then smoked. I’ve made a nice little smokery from a tidal cave down on the beach, collected some of the local herbs…”
“So that’s where you were when I needed you.”
“Gog, I didn’t mean—”
Gog pushed the half-eaten goat away. “It’s delicious,” he said flatly, “but it’s not getting us any closer to home. It’s been over a year and none of this,” he waved his arms across the cozy cave, “is getting us any nearer to home.”
Magog bowed his head. “I just didn’t want to live like savages.”
“Better hard-working savages than pettifogging . . . crumpets!” Gog stood up and stormed out of the cave. Then he turned, stormed back in and grabbed the remains of his goat. With a loud belch, he stormed out again.
Pensively, Magog finished his own breakfast. Afterwards he washed the plates in the nearby stream and stacked them neatly in the “pantry” before heading down to the smokery.
Magog found his brother on the other side of the island, carrying an armload of trees down to the water’s edge. Magog followed with his own logs.
“I’m sorry,” said Magog as he added his logs to Gog’s small pile. “You’re quite correct: the smokery was a silly notion. I’ve dismantled the racks and brought you the logs. They’re still perfectly good, though they do smell a bit . . .”
“Thank you, brother.” Gog nodded. “I know you’re only trying to make the best of things – as you always do – but surely you do not want to live out your days on this wet lump of rock any more than I do? And ‘no stone moves itself’, as they say.”
“Well,” confessed Magog, “when I heard you belch at the breakfast table, I knew we had to quit this island as soon as we could.”
“How so?”
“You would never had made such a noise in our own little home,” said Magog. “No, we must get back to civilization before we begin spitting and putting our elbows on the table. Now, how can I help?”
Gog stood shame-faced for a moment before shaking it off. “I’ve been trying to fashion a raft, but there are precious few trees on this island and most of those too small. I shall have to wait for them to grow.”
Magog twisted his beard. “I shall braid rope and weave sails and gather provision. Of course,” he said, “this means I won’t have much time to cook…”
Gog smiled. “Fear not, brother, I’ll not count it against you.”
With only a small sigh of regret, Magog abandoned his homemaking and redirected his efforts towards their upcoming journey; he spun mountains of wool and twisted miles of rope; he dried and salted months-worth of provisions; he stitched together an acre of sailcloth; while his brother waited impatiently for the trees to grow and ripped them from the soil as so as they reached one foelog (the height of a giant’s upstretched hand).
And so, for three years the brothers giant lived in an unadorned cave, with bare floors and no tablecloth and no curtains; they dined on simple meats and perpetual stew and had no bread nor wine; they had but one ragged shirt each; their fire was ill-tended and their cave hardly swept and never dusted. But, at the end of these uncouth years, they did have a wide sturdy raft, with a voluminous sail, two oars carved from whole trees, a simple tent against the elements, and a great store of food and water.
On a chilly Spring morning Gog stood at the mouth of their cave and studied the grey sky. “Magog,” he shouted, “today is the day. Get up, slumber-lump! It is time we were going home.”
After a few moments of stumbling and crashing, Magog emerged from the cave, still sleep-addled but carrying his haversack. “Truly,” he said, “do we leave today?”
“This very morning,” said Gog sagely. “The higher the clouds, the finer the weather.”
Magog looked at the dull April firmament and frowned; he could see nothing to distinguish it from any in the past fortnight, but Gog had come to fancy himself quite the weather-watcher over the past four years and so Magog merely nodded in agreement. “Right then, lead on, brother mine.”
Humming merrily, Gog strode down towards the beach without a backwards glance. Magog, however, found he could not so easily leave. With moist eyes, he looked one last time on the home he had secretly named the “Considerable Grotto”, after the egg that had brought them here. With a heavy sigh, he rolled the front door shut (for he could not bear that thought of dirty gulls hopping across the dinner table) and set off after his brother.
At the rocky beach, Gog and Magog carried the raft from the tidal cave where it was berthed down to the water’s edge. They likewise retrieved their provisions – the barrels of dried fish and salted meat, the casks of fresh water – and lashed them careful to the raft. When all was made ready, they pushed the raft into the surf. Magog felt the moment of their embarking called for some ceremony, but before he could think of any suitable pomp, Gog had hoisted the patchwork sail and Magog had to scramble aboard.
The wind was strong and steady and soon the little island they had struggled so hard to find – where the monstrous Trivet still slumbered atop its Considerable Egg; that had been their home-in-exile for four years – was a dark speck on the horizon. Despite the uncertain journey before them, Magog squinted at the sun-sparkled water and smiled at the salt spray that wet his face and dappled his beard. Gog, however, huddled under the tent and regretted his breakfast. A skilled weather-watcher he may have become, and a resourceful and determined castaway, but they had not been afloat a quarter of an hour before he remembered that he was a poor sailor.
Weeks floated by and Magog lay under the stars, one great hand stirring up a wake in the water. While his brother within the tent, the sun-burnt, salt-encrusted, and rag-bestrewn giant lazily searched the sky for the stories of his youth. “There’s Bish,” he muttered to the stars, “with the Stew Pot . . . and where . . . there’s the Pig. . . and the Horn. No, it’s a set of pipes, listen.”
It was a haunting song that drifted across the sea on a trail of moonlight. Clamoring to his feet, Magog swayed like a reed and could not decide if he wanted to be still and listen to the music forever or fly down the trail of moonlight and fall at the feet of the singer.
“The song. We must follow the song.” The sudden voice behind him did not perturb Magog in the least; he simply turned to his brother who stood before the tent, a smile on his face and an oar in each hand.
Magog took a proffered oar. “Quite right,” he said.
Together the brothers rowed the raft along the trail of moonlight, following the song.
“Who do suppose is singing?” whispered Magog after an hour.
“Quiet,” hissed Gog.
The pink dawn found them still pursuing the music. The moonlight trail had faded away but it had led them to a small emerald isle alone in the sea. Without word or pause, the giants landed their raft on the grassy shore and walked inland. Up they went following the music, through gentle pastures dotted with cumulus sheep and groves of flowering trees, till they came to the green crown of the island and an ancient temple of columned marble.
The wide, cracked steps of the temple were littered with treasure – gems and jewels and gold coin from the four corners of the globe – and Gog and Magog felt suddenly ashamed that they had brought no offerings. But the song, so near and so sweet, would brook no delay, so the giants hunched forward and bowed their heads and entered the temple. The music drew them through an antechamber forested with pink columns and carpeted with gold to a set of double doors, ornately carved and tantalizingly ajar.
Together the brothers threw the stone doors wide and gazed in rapture at the sight before them: a high, round chamber heaped with riches and crowded with statues all turned in adoration or supplication towards the center of the room. And in the center of the room: a dais; and upon the dais: a crystal pool of perfumed water; and within that pool: a woman of alabaster skin and flowing red hair. Her eyes downcast, she plucked the strings of a coral lyre and wove the notes together with her honeyed voice. Raising her fathomless eyes, she fixed them on her latest worshippers.
Gog and Magog rushed into her presence – shoving each other, wedging themselves in the doorway, and stumbling into room to throw themselves to the floor (smashing dozens of statues in the process). “My lady!” “My love!” “Queen!” “Goddess!” The giants yelled over one another with competing devotion.
The Singer fell silent; her hair swirled like fire, her eyes flashed like lightning; she reared up in her pool, revealing shining black scales below her waist. “Stop!” Her voice thundered through the temple. “Stop! What creatures are you?”
“I am Magog, your servant!”
“I am Gog, your slave!”
“We heard your song,” said Magog.
“We have come to worship you,” said Gog.
“What?” she cried. “You think I would have brutes and monsters for worshipers? I am the Daughter of the Earth and the Sea, The Siren of the Sea-girt Isle! Beloved by kings and sailors! Look what you’ve done to my statues! Get out!”
“But,” sobbed Magog.
“Your Majesty,” cried Gog.
“Get out!” she screamed, raising up her lyre and drawing her clawed fingers across the strings. The screeching din that drove the giants backwards. And when she dropped her jaw and wailed, the unrelenting cacophony chased the terrified brothers out of the temple and down to the waiting ocean.
The Siren’s scornful outrage battered the island like a hurricane. Magog wept as he pushed the raft into the waves, but Gog felt his shame and terror fanned into fury. “Wait, brother,” he laid a hand on Magog’s arm, “and prepare the boat.”
Alarmed, Magog watched his brother march back towards the storm, scooping up two startled sheep as he went. Astounded, he watched Gog thrust a sheep into each ear and disappear among the trees. Amazed, he heard the frightful caterwauling abruptly stop. And astonished, he saw Gog reemerge from the trees, return a pair of disgruntled sheep to their pasture, and scramble onto the raft.
“Gog,” Magog helped his brother onto the raft. “What happen? You’re covered with dust and rubble.”
Gog brushed flecks of marble from his shoulder. “She shouldn’t have said those things. The wicked harpy. She shouldn’t have made you cry.”
“Gog, what did you do?”
But Gog would say no more, only rowing with all his might till the island was lost over the horizon.
As the days grew and their provisions shrank, the brothers bitterly regretted the plump sheep, succulent fruit, and sparkling fresh water of the Sea-girt Isle (and to a lesser extent, the heaps of gold and gems, for even hermits can find a use for treasure). Soon, hunger and thirst had so subdued the giants, that when they saw land on the horizon, they could hardly be bothered.
Nevertheless, at the sight of a horned whale rising out of the water before them, Magog roused himself. The creature – which had a piggish face and scales that shone green in the dark light – snarled at the raft and waved its lance-like horn in the air. Magog had never seen such a whale and rather wished he hadn’t now. Backing swiftly to the tent, he thrust his head inside. “Gog,” he hissed. “Gog! Evil news: A –” Gog raised his green head from the basin where it lay, swiveled his crossed eyes towards his brother, and moved his white lips dumbly “—never mind, I’ll sort it out.”
Magog turned back to the strange creature and frowned; he had fished for whales for centuries, but he had no rod or net now. Furthermore, this whale was behaving very oddly: it had reared out of the water and was using its horn less like a lance and more like a ladle, to stir the water in front of the raft. Faster and faster, stirred the whale. “Curiouser and curiouser,” thought the giant. Only when the raft began to slip forward did Magog realize the truth: the whale had stirred up a whirlpool to drown them!
With a lunge, the raft shot forward into the vortex, pitching and spinning like a plate flung across a kitchen. Magog was hurled towards the drowning ocean, only avoiding his watery fate by clutching the mast at the last moment. (Within the tent, Gog was certain that Doom was upon him and prayed fervently to Stones and Stars and made several vows that he found difficult to keep in later life.) The whirlpool was an invert tornado of stinging salt and wailing wind, sucking the giants down to the crushing depth. And still the whale stirred. The tent was ripped away, revealing Gog prone upon the raft and clinging to the logs; the few remaining provisions, the oars, and what few loose items remained onboard were flung into the sea; the sail torn loose and flapped from the mast like a keening banshee; finally, the ropes began to fray and the logs began to splinter. With a thunderous crack, the mast broke under Magog’s hands. He staggered across the slopping raft, barely keeping his feet. Far above the swiftly disintegrating raft he could see the evil whale still stirring the whirlpool. Shouting a giantish shout of “Foorar!”, Magog hurled the broken mast like a spear up at the whale. Deeply it bit into the creature, sticking out of its head like a second horn. In a bloody spray, the whale flew backwards out of Magog’s sight.
Without the whale’s stirrings, the whirlpool began to weaken. Soon it was no more than a gently eddy, spinning the battered remains of the raft in gentle circles. Not far away, the body of the scaly whale floated in a dark and expanding pool, the limp sail still fluttering from the mast that rose from its head. The brothers still lived, but their raft was now little more than a few tree trunks lashed together, without sail or oars.
Pausing only to see that his brother still lived and was in no danger off slipping into the sea, and to grumble under his breathe, Magog dove into the water. Then, dragging the raft by a loose rope and the whale by the sail, he swam slowly towards the land on the horizon.
It was a haunting beach they landed upon, black sands draped in a salty fog and washed by white waves. But Magog was in no mood to haunted; he had only wit enough to cast his brother face-up upon the beach before toppling over with a mighty, wet crash.
He was roused from a comfortable dream by the uncomfortable shuffling of a crowd standing nearby in nervous silence. Magog brushed the hair and sand from his eyes and peered through the fog at a throng of bushy men in round helmets and metal skirts. “Bother,” he muttered. “Vikings.”
When prodding his brother produced no effect, Magog raised himself up on his side to face the fury of the Norsemen, although, on closer inspection, the throng’s fury seemed a bit malnourished and the Norsemen included not a few Norse-women and even some Norse-children. But regardless of their identities, each member of the mob carried a spear or sword or axe and the weary giant winced at the memory of Viking steel. He raised a hand in greeting and quickly lowered it again when the throng, like a startled hedgehog, leapt backwards while thrusting their weapons forward.
“Virtuous people,” he said in his politest Norse. “My brother and I wish you no harm. We are simply lost travellers cast upon your shores. We ask only your forbearance for a short time while we rest and recover, then we shall depart your land forever.”
Without turning their backs upon the giants, the throng folded in on itself and began a fierce, if hushed, debate. Heaving a weary sigh, Magog climbed to his feet in preparation for the regrettable violence to come. He positioned himself in front of the still-unconscious Gog and brushed his waterlogged hair from his face; he hitched up his ragged trousers and put of his most fearsome scowl. Perhaps I can frighten them away, he thought. Drawing a lungful of misty air, he bellowed out: “fee-fi-fo—”
“Look!” cried one of the Norsefolk. “They have slain the Maelstrunn!”
Silence settled on the mob as they lowered their weapons and inched closer. “Speak true, giant,” said a gaunt man, stepping out of the horde. “Did you slay the Maelstrunn?”
Magog glanced at the dead whale rolling in the tide and then back at the silent mob. “Yes?” he ventured.
When a cheer erupted from the Norsefolk, Magog let out such a sigh of relief that he blew several of the nearest children off their feet. Scooping up their sons and daughters, the bushy mob ran to the beach – giving the giants a wide berth – and gathered around the dead creature. Cautiously, in ones and twos, they ran forward and stabbed it then retreated to laugh and rejoice with their neighbors.
The man who had spoken had not rushed into the surf but remained where he was, scrutinizing the giants. Now he sheathed his gleaming sword and approached Magog with his arms wide. “Giant,” his voice was hollow but strong, “Ye have saved us. This fell beast has laid siege to this island for many years, drowning our boats and blighting our crops with its foul breath, till we had surrendered all hope and prepared for death. When we did see ye upon the beach, we thought ye heralds of our Doom and gave thanks that we would not starve but were to die in glorious battle.”
Magog goggled at the grim man before him. “Sorry,” he said without knowing why. “We’re not heralds, just castaways, as I said. I am called Magog and this is my brother Gog. He’s not ordinarily green.”
“I am Vilf, chieftain here, and on behalf of the people and in the name of the One-eyed Wanderer – who was himself son of the giantess Bestla – I welcome you to Ormsay island.”
Vilf was as good as his word. The people of Ormsay welcomed the giants into their village as heroes and gave them the feasting hall as their own. It was easily the grandest building in the village and though too low for the giants to stand in, it was long enough for them to lie in and served them well as a shelter-half. It was dry and snug and – when the villagers had removed the tapestries depicting Thor slaughtering giants – the brothers found it quite comfortable.
The Norsefolk, too, found the arrangement comfortable (certainly more comfortable than starving); with the Maelstrunn dead, the villagers could fish and farm again. What’s more, for the price of a feasting hall, they received the cheerful help of the giant castaways. Gog – once he had recovered his “land legs” – was able to clear and plough a hundred acres in a few days, while Magog – who was beginning to fancy himself an experienced mariner – took to fishing for whales (of the traditional kind). The village prospered; it was too late in the year for the crops, but the Norsefolk enjoyed all the bounty of the sea. And the whales which Magog caught (and which Gog butchered with a vengeance) provided not just meat but also bags, belts, coats, ropes, oil, grease, and bone for tools, utensils, and building materials.
Seasons passed. On a black bluff overlooking a quiet bay, Gog and Magog sat outside a hut constructed of bleached whale bones (they had returned the feasting hall to the villagers and moved to the other side of the island for a little privacy). They were playing Tosstone – flinging boulders into the sea and scoring points for distance, accuracy, and style – and talking of all that had befallen them since leaving Albion.
“This isn’t such a bad place,” said Magog, skipping a flat boulder across the cove.
“12 points,” said Gog, marking the tally. “No,” he grunted, hoisting a colossal stone above his head. “It’s not a bad place.” He hurled the rock over the water and watched with satisfaction as it landed directly in the center of Magog’s farthest expanding ring.
“Oh, good throw!” Magog clapped his hands before adding 11 points to his brother’s tally. “Yes, it’s a nice island, this. Certainly nicer than ‘Trivet’ island, though, of course, not as nice as . . . as that other island.”
“It’s your toss,” mumbled Gog.
“You know which I mean,” persisted Magog, “with the sheep . . . and the temple . . . and . . .”
Gog whirled on his brother angrily. “We agreed never to speak of . . . that place. Now,” he bent to select a boulder to hide his wet eyes, “it’s your toss.”
Magog took the stone from his brother. “Anyroad,” he said quickly, “these Norsefolk seem like a decent lot. For Men, that is.” He squatted low with the boulder between his knees, then, after a few deep breathes, hurled it upward with both hands. The giants watched the rock speed into the sky, upending an albatross and disappearing into the clouds. “Yes, it’s nice here, but . . .”
“You miss our little cottage,” said Gog.
“Yes,” sighed Magog. “I miss the back garden –”
“—and the front garden,” said Gog.
“The sitting room,” said Magog.
“—the inglenook –”
“—the breakfast table—“
“—the larder—”
“Gog,” said Magog hesitantly, “I know you’ve vowed never to set foot on another boat, but . . .”
“But you want to go home.”
“I do,” whispered Magog.
“I miss the cottage as well,” admitted Gog. “I suppose if it were a big boat and—”
At that moment, Magog’s forgotten boulder hit the bay with a thunderous splash, sending up a deluge of seawater.
“Ha!” cried Magog. “That makes 72; I win!”
“Rubbish,” said Gog, checking the tally. “You’ve 3 points to go.”
“Ah,” said Magog, wagging his finger at his opponent, “but you’ve forgotten the albatross.”
“You missed that bird by a mile,” said Gog. “It squawked like a duck and flew off.”
But Magog was adamant. “Since the reign of Ogias the Sad, a scattering’s been as good as a hit.”
“Humph,” snorted Gog. “Just because Ogias was too soft-hearted to kill a bird doesn’t mean anybody plays that way.”
“It is part of the Ancient Rule,” insisted Magog.
The brothers argued throughout the day and far into the night (for giants are quite particular about their Tosstone), their voices vaulting over each other, louder and louder, point and counterpoint. To better invoke precedent or inflict irony, the brothers reverted to their native tongue and soon the night quaked with Giantish rhetoric.
It was only the sound of laughter that broke the impasse. Startled out of a fierce debate over the lineage of dragons (for “hot words run crocked”, as giants say), the brothers turned to see Vilf and his housecarls arrayed for battle but leaning against each other, shaking with chortles and guffaws.
“Friends, friends,” laughed Vilf. “Ye are shouting.”
“Well, what of it?” stammered a red-faced Gog.
“The sky rings and the rocks tremble, a storm of strange harsh words terrorizes my people, I summon my housecarls and with grim looks and drawn weapons we rush forward to face this new doom, and what do we find? Magog and Gog squabbling like farmers over a lost cow. Now be still, good giants, and say what the matter is.”
The giants looked sheepishly at each other, embarrassment dousing their passion.
“We certainly didn’t mean to upset anyone,” said a contrite Magog. “We were . . . debating the rules of an ancient Giantish game.”
Vilf and his men grinned. “Ah,” said Vilf, nodding. “This we understand. We too, prize our highly. I will say but one thing and that is to offer myself as judge is your dispute if you should need it.”
“Thank you,” said Magog, “but that won’t be necessary.” He glanced at his brother. “We’ll call it a draw.”
“A draw? There’s not been a draw in six hundred – ow!” Gog rubbed his shin. “Yes, of course, a draw.”
“We’re awfully sorry to have brought you all this way in the middle of the night,” said Magog. “May we offer you a drink now that you’re here?” Magog caught his brother’s eye again and when Gog nodded in agreement, Magog said to Vilf, “There is actually something we would like to discuss with you.”
In the morning, the giants and the Norsemen emerged from the hut. They were hoarse from singing and sore from drinking, but not unpleasantly so.
“We will build it well,” Vilf was saying. “Gog, it will be big ship, and as steady as this island!”
Gog, who did not seem to find the island particularly steady at the moment, nevertheless grinned and said, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“More over, this island,” said Vilf, “this island will forevermore be known as Thursay.”
“Thursday?” Magog twisted his beard. “It’s Sunday, surely.”
“No,” chuckled one of the Norsemen. “Thur-say– giant-island.”
Magog blushed. “Oh! I say, that’s, that’s . . .”
“We will honor your names,” said Vilf, “and teach our children of Gog the Ploughman and Magog the Wurm-slayer.”
“’The Ploughman’?” grumbled Gog.
“We shall feast each year on the day that the sea-giants came to us.”
“I am not a sea-giant,” grumbled Gog.
“And this hut,” continued the chieftain, “this whale bone hut, we will make a shrine to your memory.”
“Oh, in that case,” said Magog, “remember to water the white dryas and feed the loons and the buntings, and there’s sometimes a family of white fox . . .”
The dawn of Midsummer was clear and cool; the gentle ocean was slowly withdrawing its tide from the black beach. Floating steadily some ways offshore was a colossal rowboat with a single sail and a roomy cabin. Once again Gog and Magog were in the chilly surf and once again the Norsefolk of the island were gathered on the beach, but now they were not arrayed in armor and brandishing weapons but wearing their finest and holding aloft torches or drinking horns. Magog held the boat steady as Gog clambered aboard; Gog, in turn, helped Magog onto the craft.
Vilf raised his spear in benediction and shouted, “Farewell, good giants! May the Father of Journeys see ye safely home! Remember your friends on Thursay, as we shall remember ye!”
Gog and Magog waved to the Norsefolk as the tide carried the galley farther and farther out to sea. Magog, particularly, shouted out farewells and thanks and last minute reminders to each of his island friends by name long after the mists had obscured the black beach. Finally, he heaved a bittersweet sigh, sat upon the bench, and took up the mighty oars (Gog had already withdrawn to the cabin with a worrying pallor).
The Norsefolk had used all their skill to build the giants’ boat: it was steady and slow, with a deep keel to cut through the roughest seas; a comfortable cabin to provide shelter from the elements; a huge, square sail to use when the winds were favorable and gigantic oars for when they were not. The boat served the giants well and by the time they had reached familiar shores – after one or two minor hurricanes and a slight misunderstanding with an academy of merfolk – Magog had become quite attached to the vessel and even Gog admitted that it was the least disagreeable boat he had yet encountered.
The familiar shores, when they reached them, were heartbreakingly familiar. Summer still lingered along the Scottish coast and long before they could see the green and purple hills, they could smell the grass and the heather. Magog jumped to his feet when he caught sight of the rugged tower of mossy red stone known as Wading Tom and Gog could not contain a joyful sob when saw the seal-strewn beaches and the gull-dappled cliffs of home. As soon as he could, Gog leapt into the water and waded ashore, laughing at the salty spray. Magog pulled hard at the oars and had soon tied the rowboat around Tom’s waist and was himself wading ashore. In their joy, the brothers laughed and shouted and embraced one another. Magog jumped up and down to prove to himself that the land was real while Gog tossed boulders high into the sunny sky.
As it happened, Wading Tom was just a few miles from their flowered hill and cozy cottage and Gog started in that direction at once. “Well,” he said when his brother did not immediately follow him, “aren’t you coming?”
“I’ll catch you up,” said Magog. “I must collect Damona and Boann first.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gog, unable to wait any longer and already striding homeward, “your cows. I’ll see you at home, then. Don’t be long. I’ll put the kettle on.”
FIN.
**
Copyright 2018 Matthew A.J. Timmins
Humming quietly to himself, Magog removed the spits from the fire and slid the roasted beasts onto two giant turtleshell bowls. “Gog,” he yelled, “breakfast!”
After several increasingly violent calls to the table, the snoring was replaced by grumbling and the giant Gog emerged from the best bedroom (the back of the cave) and shuffled to the table, his eyes full of sleep and his hairless head still wet from his morning ablutions.
“Good morning, brother,” said Magog.
“Guf’mor,” muttered Gog.
Magog smiled indulgently and waited for his brother to eat himself awake. Halfway through his roasted goat, Gog’s eyes began to sparkle with intelligence and he recovered the power of speech. “Good, this,” he said. “What is it? It tastes a bit like goat.”
“It isgoat,” Magog said proudly, “but marinated in brine and then smoked. I’ve made a nice little smokery from a tidal cave down on the beach, collected some of the local herbs…”
“So that’s where you were when I needed you.”
“Gog, I didn’t mean—”
Gog pushed the half-eaten goat away. “It’s delicious,” he said flatly, “but it’s not getting us any closer to home. It’s been over a year and none of this,” he waved his arms across the cozy cave, “is getting us any nearer to home.”
Magog bowed his head. “I just didn’t want to live like savages.”
“Better hard-working savages than pettifogging . . . crumpets!” Gog stood up and stormed out of the cave. Then he turned, stormed back in and grabbed the remains of his goat. With a loud belch, he stormed out again.
Pensively, Magog finished his own breakfast. Afterwards he washed the plates in the nearby stream and stacked them neatly in the “pantry” before heading down to the smokery.
Magog found his brother on the other side of the island, carrying an armload of trees down to the water’s edge. Magog followed with his own logs.
“I’m sorry,” said Magog as he added his logs to Gog’s small pile. “You’re quite correct: the smokery was a silly notion. I’ve dismantled the racks and brought you the logs. They’re still perfectly good, though they do smell a bit . . .”
“Thank you, brother.” Gog nodded. “I know you’re only trying to make the best of things – as you always do – but surely you do not want to live out your days on this wet lump of rock any more than I do? And ‘no stone moves itself’, as they say.”
“Well,” confessed Magog, “when I heard you belch at the breakfast table, I knew we had to quit this island as soon as we could.”
“How so?”
“You would never had made such a noise in our own little home,” said Magog. “No, we must get back to civilization before we begin spitting and putting our elbows on the table. Now, how can I help?”
Gog stood shame-faced for a moment before shaking it off. “I’ve been trying to fashion a raft, but there are precious few trees on this island and most of those too small. I shall have to wait for them to grow.”
Magog twisted his beard. “I shall braid rope and weave sails and gather provision. Of course,” he said, “this means I won’t have much time to cook…”
Gog smiled. “Fear not, brother, I’ll not count it against you.”
With only a small sigh of regret, Magog abandoned his homemaking and redirected his efforts towards their upcoming journey; he spun mountains of wool and twisted miles of rope; he dried and salted months-worth of provisions; he stitched together an acre of sailcloth; while his brother waited impatiently for the trees to grow and ripped them from the soil as so as they reached one foelog (the height of a giant’s upstretched hand).
And so, for three years the brothers giant lived in an unadorned cave, with bare floors and no tablecloth and no curtains; they dined on simple meats and perpetual stew and had no bread nor wine; they had but one ragged shirt each; their fire was ill-tended and their cave hardly swept and never dusted. But, at the end of these uncouth years, they did have a wide sturdy raft, with a voluminous sail, two oars carved from whole trees, a simple tent against the elements, and a great store of food and water.
On a chilly Spring morning Gog stood at the mouth of their cave and studied the grey sky. “Magog,” he shouted, “today is the day. Get up, slumber-lump! It is time we were going home.”
After a few moments of stumbling and crashing, Magog emerged from the cave, still sleep-addled but carrying his haversack. “Truly,” he said, “do we leave today?”
“This very morning,” said Gog sagely. “The higher the clouds, the finer the weather.”
Magog looked at the dull April firmament and frowned; he could see nothing to distinguish it from any in the past fortnight, but Gog had come to fancy himself quite the weather-watcher over the past four years and so Magog merely nodded in agreement. “Right then, lead on, brother mine.”
Humming merrily, Gog strode down towards the beach without a backwards glance. Magog, however, found he could not so easily leave. With moist eyes, he looked one last time on the home he had secretly named the “Considerable Grotto”, after the egg that had brought them here. With a heavy sigh, he rolled the front door shut (for he could not bear that thought of dirty gulls hopping across the dinner table) and set off after his brother.
At the rocky beach, Gog and Magog carried the raft from the tidal cave where it was berthed down to the water’s edge. They likewise retrieved their provisions – the barrels of dried fish and salted meat, the casks of fresh water – and lashed them careful to the raft. When all was made ready, they pushed the raft into the surf. Magog felt the moment of their embarking called for some ceremony, but before he could think of any suitable pomp, Gog had hoisted the patchwork sail and Magog had to scramble aboard.
The wind was strong and steady and soon the little island they had struggled so hard to find – where the monstrous Trivet still slumbered atop its Considerable Egg; that had been their home-in-exile for four years – was a dark speck on the horizon. Despite the uncertain journey before them, Magog squinted at the sun-sparkled water and smiled at the salt spray that wet his face and dappled his beard. Gog, however, huddled under the tent and regretted his breakfast. A skilled weather-watcher he may have become, and a resourceful and determined castaway, but they had not been afloat a quarter of an hour before he remembered that he was a poor sailor.
Weeks floated by and Magog lay under the stars, one great hand stirring up a wake in the water. While his brother within the tent, the sun-burnt, salt-encrusted, and rag-bestrewn giant lazily searched the sky for the stories of his youth. “There’s Bish,” he muttered to the stars, “with the Stew Pot . . . and where . . . there’s the Pig. . . and the Horn. No, it’s a set of pipes, listen.”
It was a haunting song that drifted across the sea on a trail of moonlight. Clamoring to his feet, Magog swayed like a reed and could not decide if he wanted to be still and listen to the music forever or fly down the trail of moonlight and fall at the feet of the singer.
“The song. We must follow the song.” The sudden voice behind him did not perturb Magog in the least; he simply turned to his brother who stood before the tent, a smile on his face and an oar in each hand.
Magog took a proffered oar. “Quite right,” he said.
Together the brothers rowed the raft along the trail of moonlight, following the song.
“Who do suppose is singing?” whispered Magog after an hour.
“Quiet,” hissed Gog.
The pink dawn found them still pursuing the music. The moonlight trail had faded away but it had led them to a small emerald isle alone in the sea. Without word or pause, the giants landed their raft on the grassy shore and walked inland. Up they went following the music, through gentle pastures dotted with cumulus sheep and groves of flowering trees, till they came to the green crown of the island and an ancient temple of columned marble.
The wide, cracked steps of the temple were littered with treasure – gems and jewels and gold coin from the four corners of the globe – and Gog and Magog felt suddenly ashamed that they had brought no offerings. But the song, so near and so sweet, would brook no delay, so the giants hunched forward and bowed their heads and entered the temple. The music drew them through an antechamber forested with pink columns and carpeted with gold to a set of double doors, ornately carved and tantalizingly ajar.
Together the brothers threw the stone doors wide and gazed in rapture at the sight before them: a high, round chamber heaped with riches and crowded with statues all turned in adoration or supplication towards the center of the room. And in the center of the room: a dais; and upon the dais: a crystal pool of perfumed water; and within that pool: a woman of alabaster skin and flowing red hair. Her eyes downcast, she plucked the strings of a coral lyre and wove the notes together with her honeyed voice. Raising her fathomless eyes, she fixed them on her latest worshippers.
Gog and Magog rushed into her presence – shoving each other, wedging themselves in the doorway, and stumbling into room to throw themselves to the floor (smashing dozens of statues in the process). “My lady!” “My love!” “Queen!” “Goddess!” The giants yelled over one another with competing devotion.
The Singer fell silent; her hair swirled like fire, her eyes flashed like lightning; she reared up in her pool, revealing shining black scales below her waist. “Stop!” Her voice thundered through the temple. “Stop! What creatures are you?”
“I am Magog, your servant!”
“I am Gog, your slave!”
“We heard your song,” said Magog.
“We have come to worship you,” said Gog.
“What?” she cried. “You think I would have brutes and monsters for worshipers? I am the Daughter of the Earth and the Sea, The Siren of the Sea-girt Isle! Beloved by kings and sailors! Look what you’ve done to my statues! Get out!”
“But,” sobbed Magog.
“Your Majesty,” cried Gog.
“Get out!” she screamed, raising up her lyre and drawing her clawed fingers across the strings. The screeching din that drove the giants backwards. And when she dropped her jaw and wailed, the unrelenting cacophony chased the terrified brothers out of the temple and down to the waiting ocean.
The Siren’s scornful outrage battered the island like a hurricane. Magog wept as he pushed the raft into the waves, but Gog felt his shame and terror fanned into fury. “Wait, brother,” he laid a hand on Magog’s arm, “and prepare the boat.”
Alarmed, Magog watched his brother march back towards the storm, scooping up two startled sheep as he went. Astounded, he watched Gog thrust a sheep into each ear and disappear among the trees. Amazed, he heard the frightful caterwauling abruptly stop. And astonished, he saw Gog reemerge from the trees, return a pair of disgruntled sheep to their pasture, and scramble onto the raft.
“Gog,” Magog helped his brother onto the raft. “What happen? You’re covered with dust and rubble.”
Gog brushed flecks of marble from his shoulder. “She shouldn’t have said those things. The wicked harpy. She shouldn’t have made you cry.”
“Gog, what did you do?”
But Gog would say no more, only rowing with all his might till the island was lost over the horizon.
As the days grew and their provisions shrank, the brothers bitterly regretted the plump sheep, succulent fruit, and sparkling fresh water of the Sea-girt Isle (and to a lesser extent, the heaps of gold and gems, for even hermits can find a use for treasure). Soon, hunger and thirst had so subdued the giants, that when they saw land on the horizon, they could hardly be bothered.
Nevertheless, at the sight of a horned whale rising out of the water before them, Magog roused himself. The creature – which had a piggish face and scales that shone green in the dark light – snarled at the raft and waved its lance-like horn in the air. Magog had never seen such a whale and rather wished he hadn’t now. Backing swiftly to the tent, he thrust his head inside. “Gog,” he hissed. “Gog! Evil news: A –” Gog raised his green head from the basin where it lay, swiveled his crossed eyes towards his brother, and moved his white lips dumbly “—never mind, I’ll sort it out.”
Magog turned back to the strange creature and frowned; he had fished for whales for centuries, but he had no rod or net now. Furthermore, this whale was behaving very oddly: it had reared out of the water and was using its horn less like a lance and more like a ladle, to stir the water in front of the raft. Faster and faster, stirred the whale. “Curiouser and curiouser,” thought the giant. Only when the raft began to slip forward did Magog realize the truth: the whale had stirred up a whirlpool to drown them!
With a lunge, the raft shot forward into the vortex, pitching and spinning like a plate flung across a kitchen. Magog was hurled towards the drowning ocean, only avoiding his watery fate by clutching the mast at the last moment. (Within the tent, Gog was certain that Doom was upon him and prayed fervently to Stones and Stars and made several vows that he found difficult to keep in later life.) The whirlpool was an invert tornado of stinging salt and wailing wind, sucking the giants down to the crushing depth. And still the whale stirred. The tent was ripped away, revealing Gog prone upon the raft and clinging to the logs; the few remaining provisions, the oars, and what few loose items remained onboard were flung into the sea; the sail torn loose and flapped from the mast like a keening banshee; finally, the ropes began to fray and the logs began to splinter. With a thunderous crack, the mast broke under Magog’s hands. He staggered across the slopping raft, barely keeping his feet. Far above the swiftly disintegrating raft he could see the evil whale still stirring the whirlpool. Shouting a giantish shout of “Foorar!”, Magog hurled the broken mast like a spear up at the whale. Deeply it bit into the creature, sticking out of its head like a second horn. In a bloody spray, the whale flew backwards out of Magog’s sight.
Without the whale’s stirrings, the whirlpool began to weaken. Soon it was no more than a gently eddy, spinning the battered remains of the raft in gentle circles. Not far away, the body of the scaly whale floated in a dark and expanding pool, the limp sail still fluttering from the mast that rose from its head. The brothers still lived, but their raft was now little more than a few tree trunks lashed together, without sail or oars.
Pausing only to see that his brother still lived and was in no danger off slipping into the sea, and to grumble under his breathe, Magog dove into the water. Then, dragging the raft by a loose rope and the whale by the sail, he swam slowly towards the land on the horizon.
It was a haunting beach they landed upon, black sands draped in a salty fog and washed by white waves. But Magog was in no mood to haunted; he had only wit enough to cast his brother face-up upon the beach before toppling over with a mighty, wet crash.
He was roused from a comfortable dream by the uncomfortable shuffling of a crowd standing nearby in nervous silence. Magog brushed the hair and sand from his eyes and peered through the fog at a throng of bushy men in round helmets and metal skirts. “Bother,” he muttered. “Vikings.”
When prodding his brother produced no effect, Magog raised himself up on his side to face the fury of the Norsemen, although, on closer inspection, the throng’s fury seemed a bit malnourished and the Norsemen included not a few Norse-women and even some Norse-children. But regardless of their identities, each member of the mob carried a spear or sword or axe and the weary giant winced at the memory of Viking steel. He raised a hand in greeting and quickly lowered it again when the throng, like a startled hedgehog, leapt backwards while thrusting their weapons forward.
“Virtuous people,” he said in his politest Norse. “My brother and I wish you no harm. We are simply lost travellers cast upon your shores. We ask only your forbearance for a short time while we rest and recover, then we shall depart your land forever.”
Without turning their backs upon the giants, the throng folded in on itself and began a fierce, if hushed, debate. Heaving a weary sigh, Magog climbed to his feet in preparation for the regrettable violence to come. He positioned himself in front of the still-unconscious Gog and brushed his waterlogged hair from his face; he hitched up his ragged trousers and put of his most fearsome scowl. Perhaps I can frighten them away, he thought. Drawing a lungful of misty air, he bellowed out: “fee-fi-fo—”
“Look!” cried one of the Norsefolk. “They have slain the Maelstrunn!”
Silence settled on the mob as they lowered their weapons and inched closer. “Speak true, giant,” said a gaunt man, stepping out of the horde. “Did you slay the Maelstrunn?”
Magog glanced at the dead whale rolling in the tide and then back at the silent mob. “Yes?” he ventured.
When a cheer erupted from the Norsefolk, Magog let out such a sigh of relief that he blew several of the nearest children off their feet. Scooping up their sons and daughters, the bushy mob ran to the beach – giving the giants a wide berth – and gathered around the dead creature. Cautiously, in ones and twos, they ran forward and stabbed it then retreated to laugh and rejoice with their neighbors.
The man who had spoken had not rushed into the surf but remained where he was, scrutinizing the giants. Now he sheathed his gleaming sword and approached Magog with his arms wide. “Giant,” his voice was hollow but strong, “Ye have saved us. This fell beast has laid siege to this island for many years, drowning our boats and blighting our crops with its foul breath, till we had surrendered all hope and prepared for death. When we did see ye upon the beach, we thought ye heralds of our Doom and gave thanks that we would not starve but were to die in glorious battle.”
Magog goggled at the grim man before him. “Sorry,” he said without knowing why. “We’re not heralds, just castaways, as I said. I am called Magog and this is my brother Gog. He’s not ordinarily green.”
“I am Vilf, chieftain here, and on behalf of the people and in the name of the One-eyed Wanderer – who was himself son of the giantess Bestla – I welcome you to Ormsay island.”
Vilf was as good as his word. The people of Ormsay welcomed the giants into their village as heroes and gave them the feasting hall as their own. It was easily the grandest building in the village and though too low for the giants to stand in, it was long enough for them to lie in and served them well as a shelter-half. It was dry and snug and – when the villagers had removed the tapestries depicting Thor slaughtering giants – the brothers found it quite comfortable.
The Norsefolk, too, found the arrangement comfortable (certainly more comfortable than starving); with the Maelstrunn dead, the villagers could fish and farm again. What’s more, for the price of a feasting hall, they received the cheerful help of the giant castaways. Gog – once he had recovered his “land legs” – was able to clear and plough a hundred acres in a few days, while Magog – who was beginning to fancy himself an experienced mariner – took to fishing for whales (of the traditional kind). The village prospered; it was too late in the year for the crops, but the Norsefolk enjoyed all the bounty of the sea. And the whales which Magog caught (and which Gog butchered with a vengeance) provided not just meat but also bags, belts, coats, ropes, oil, grease, and bone for tools, utensils, and building materials.
Seasons passed. On a black bluff overlooking a quiet bay, Gog and Magog sat outside a hut constructed of bleached whale bones (they had returned the feasting hall to the villagers and moved to the other side of the island for a little privacy). They were playing Tosstone – flinging boulders into the sea and scoring points for distance, accuracy, and style – and talking of all that had befallen them since leaving Albion.
“This isn’t such a bad place,” said Magog, skipping a flat boulder across the cove.
“12 points,” said Gog, marking the tally. “No,” he grunted, hoisting a colossal stone above his head. “It’s not a bad place.” He hurled the rock over the water and watched with satisfaction as it landed directly in the center of Magog’s farthest expanding ring.
“Oh, good throw!” Magog clapped his hands before adding 11 points to his brother’s tally. “Yes, it’s a nice island, this. Certainly nicer than ‘Trivet’ island, though, of course, not as nice as . . . as that other island.”
“It’s your toss,” mumbled Gog.
“You know which I mean,” persisted Magog, “with the sheep . . . and the temple . . . and . . .”
Gog whirled on his brother angrily. “We agreed never to speak of . . . that place. Now,” he bent to select a boulder to hide his wet eyes, “it’s your toss.”
Magog took the stone from his brother. “Anyroad,” he said quickly, “these Norsefolk seem like a decent lot. For Men, that is.” He squatted low with the boulder between his knees, then, after a few deep breathes, hurled it upward with both hands. The giants watched the rock speed into the sky, upending an albatross and disappearing into the clouds. “Yes, it’s nice here, but . . .”
“You miss our little cottage,” said Gog.
“Yes,” sighed Magog. “I miss the back garden –”
“—and the front garden,” said Gog.
“The sitting room,” said Magog.
“—the inglenook –”
“—the breakfast table—“
“—the larder—”
“Gog,” said Magog hesitantly, “I know you’ve vowed never to set foot on another boat, but . . .”
“But you want to go home.”
“I do,” whispered Magog.
“I miss the cottage as well,” admitted Gog. “I suppose if it were a big boat and—”
At that moment, Magog’s forgotten boulder hit the bay with a thunderous splash, sending up a deluge of seawater.
“Ha!” cried Magog. “That makes 72; I win!”
“Rubbish,” said Gog, checking the tally. “You’ve 3 points to go.”
“Ah,” said Magog, wagging his finger at his opponent, “but you’ve forgotten the albatross.”
“You missed that bird by a mile,” said Gog. “It squawked like a duck and flew off.”
But Magog was adamant. “Since the reign of Ogias the Sad, a scattering’s been as good as a hit.”
“Humph,” snorted Gog. “Just because Ogias was too soft-hearted to kill a bird doesn’t mean anybody plays that way.”
“It is part of the Ancient Rule,” insisted Magog.
The brothers argued throughout the day and far into the night (for giants are quite particular about their Tosstone), their voices vaulting over each other, louder and louder, point and counterpoint. To better invoke precedent or inflict irony, the brothers reverted to their native tongue and soon the night quaked with Giantish rhetoric.
It was only the sound of laughter that broke the impasse. Startled out of a fierce debate over the lineage of dragons (for “hot words run crocked”, as giants say), the brothers turned to see Vilf and his housecarls arrayed for battle but leaning against each other, shaking with chortles and guffaws.
“Friends, friends,” laughed Vilf. “Ye are shouting.”
“Well, what of it?” stammered a red-faced Gog.
“The sky rings and the rocks tremble, a storm of strange harsh words terrorizes my people, I summon my housecarls and with grim looks and drawn weapons we rush forward to face this new doom, and what do we find? Magog and Gog squabbling like farmers over a lost cow. Now be still, good giants, and say what the matter is.”
The giants looked sheepishly at each other, embarrassment dousing their passion.
“We certainly didn’t mean to upset anyone,” said a contrite Magog. “We were . . . debating the rules of an ancient Giantish game.”
Vilf and his men grinned. “Ah,” said Vilf, nodding. “This we understand. We too, prize our highly. I will say but one thing and that is to offer myself as judge is your dispute if you should need it.”
“Thank you,” said Magog, “but that won’t be necessary.” He glanced at his brother. “We’ll call it a draw.”
“A draw? There’s not been a draw in six hundred – ow!” Gog rubbed his shin. “Yes, of course, a draw.”
“We’re awfully sorry to have brought you all this way in the middle of the night,” said Magog. “May we offer you a drink now that you’re here?” Magog caught his brother’s eye again and when Gog nodded in agreement, Magog said to Vilf, “There is actually something we would like to discuss with you.”
In the morning, the giants and the Norsemen emerged from the hut. They were hoarse from singing and sore from drinking, but not unpleasantly so.
“We will build it well,” Vilf was saying. “Gog, it will be big ship, and as steady as this island!”
Gog, who did not seem to find the island particularly steady at the moment, nevertheless grinned and said, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“More over, this island,” said Vilf, “this island will forevermore be known as Thursay.”
“Thursday?” Magog twisted his beard. “It’s Sunday, surely.”
“No,” chuckled one of the Norsemen. “Thur-say– giant-island.”
Magog blushed. “Oh! I say, that’s, that’s . . .”
“We will honor your names,” said Vilf, “and teach our children of Gog the Ploughman and Magog the Wurm-slayer.”
“’The Ploughman’?” grumbled Gog.
“We shall feast each year on the day that the sea-giants came to us.”
“I am not a sea-giant,” grumbled Gog.
“And this hut,” continued the chieftain, “this whale bone hut, we will make a shrine to your memory.”
“Oh, in that case,” said Magog, “remember to water the white dryas and feed the loons and the buntings, and there’s sometimes a family of white fox . . .”
The dawn of Midsummer was clear and cool; the gentle ocean was slowly withdrawing its tide from the black beach. Floating steadily some ways offshore was a colossal rowboat with a single sail and a roomy cabin. Once again Gog and Magog were in the chilly surf and once again the Norsefolk of the island were gathered on the beach, but now they were not arrayed in armor and brandishing weapons but wearing their finest and holding aloft torches or drinking horns. Magog held the boat steady as Gog clambered aboard; Gog, in turn, helped Magog onto the craft.
Vilf raised his spear in benediction and shouted, “Farewell, good giants! May the Father of Journeys see ye safely home! Remember your friends on Thursay, as we shall remember ye!”
Gog and Magog waved to the Norsefolk as the tide carried the galley farther and farther out to sea. Magog, particularly, shouted out farewells and thanks and last minute reminders to each of his island friends by name long after the mists had obscured the black beach. Finally, he heaved a bittersweet sigh, sat upon the bench, and took up the mighty oars (Gog had already withdrawn to the cabin with a worrying pallor).
The Norsefolk had used all their skill to build the giants’ boat: it was steady and slow, with a deep keel to cut through the roughest seas; a comfortable cabin to provide shelter from the elements; a huge, square sail to use when the winds were favorable and gigantic oars for when they were not. The boat served the giants well and by the time they had reached familiar shores – after one or two minor hurricanes and a slight misunderstanding with an academy of merfolk – Magog had become quite attached to the vessel and even Gog admitted that it was the least disagreeable boat he had yet encountered.
The familiar shores, when they reached them, were heartbreakingly familiar. Summer still lingered along the Scottish coast and long before they could see the green and purple hills, they could smell the grass and the heather. Magog jumped to his feet when he caught sight of the rugged tower of mossy red stone known as Wading Tom and Gog could not contain a joyful sob when saw the seal-strewn beaches and the gull-dappled cliffs of home. As soon as he could, Gog leapt into the water and waded ashore, laughing at the salty spray. Magog pulled hard at the oars and had soon tied the rowboat around Tom’s waist and was himself wading ashore. In their joy, the brothers laughed and shouted and embraced one another. Magog jumped up and down to prove to himself that the land was real while Gog tossed boulders high into the sunny sky.
As it happened, Wading Tom was just a few miles from their flowered hill and cozy cottage and Gog started in that direction at once. “Well,” he said when his brother did not immediately follow him, “aren’t you coming?”
“I’ll catch you up,” said Magog. “I must collect Damona and Boann first.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gog, unable to wait any longer and already striding homeward, “your cows. I’ll see you at home, then. Don’t be long. I’ll put the kettle on.”
FIN.
**
Copyright 2018 Matthew A.J. Timmins