The Giant-Slayer

by Iain Lawrence

  The hunter had pushed up his sleeves. Jimmy could see on each arm a blue tattoo that might have been carved with a knife: on his left a fiery dragon, on his right a moon and two stars that seemed to twinkle as his muscles twitched.

  “See?” said Dickie. “See, I told you so.”

  That night in the basement, when the travelers had gone to their rooms, Fingal gaped as Jimmy emptied his pockets. Out came coin after coin, more than the boy had ever collected in one day in his cradle. A greedy look came to Fingal’s face in the candlelight.

  “Where’d you get all that?” he asked. “Did you nick it, boy?”

  “No, it’s from the travelers,” said Jimmy. “Khan gave me this one; the mule skinner gave me that one; that tall shepherd, he—”

  “For what?”

  “For nothing, Father. Just for listening.”

  Fingal cackled. He rubbed Jimmy’s hair. “That’s my boy,” he said. “Why, you’re made of money, aren’t you? Keep listening like that and I’ll tell you what: we’ll start your own cache. Why, we’ll start it right now.”

  Fingal went into the shadows and rolled out an empty barrel. It was just a two-gallon keg, the smallest there was, but to Jimmy it seemed quite huge. Fingal knocked off the top and stood it upright. He picked up the silver Marcus that Khan had given Jimmy and, with a flick of his thumb, sent it tumbling it into the barrel. It made a lovely, hollow sound as it bounced around the staves.

  “That’s for you, boy. Just for you,” he said. “From now on, every night, you’ll get a share like that. You might say we’re partners now, me and you.”

  So Jimmy the giant-slayer grew up in the parlor of the Dragon’s Tooth, hearing the tales of travelers. He tottered from table to table, his eyes just peering over the tops. He carried glasses back and forth, kept the lamps and candles burning, and made himself useful in every way he could.

  The travelers would cry out to him: “Jimmy! Over here!” and “Jimmy! Come and have a word!” Round and round he’d go, hoisted now to a minstrel’s lap, now to a woodsman’s massive thigh, and at each stop another coin was pressed into his hand, until he jingled like a Gypsy with every step he took. Fingal was astounded; he began to believe that he had, after all, got the better of the Wishman.

  Jimmy loved the parlor when it was full of travelers—full of smoke and talk and laughter. He never tired of the stories, even when he’d heard them six or seven times. At night he’d repeat them, word for word, in his little bed in the room that he’d shared with his mother.

  When he was twelve years old, Jimmy knew the lay of the land better than most of the travelers. While each of them had seen only a part of it, Jimmy felt as though he had seen every acre—from the depths of the deepest valley to the tip of the tallest mountain. He knew the weakness of the hydra and the manticore, how to hide from a giant or go hand to hand with a troll. He knew where the swamp was—or at least where it started.

  He had even heard tell of Collosso.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  THE TAX MAN RETURNS

  On Monday, after school, Laurie stopped at Wool worth’s.

  She had found long ago that the less money she had, the longer it took to spend it, and today she had very little. For nearly an hour she wandered through the store, up and down the aisles, past the lunch counter with its row of red-topped stools.

  Chip was no problem. She got him the newest Hot Rod magazine. And Dickie wasn’t much harder; one whole aisle was full of Davy Crockett stuff. There were Davy Crockett lunch boxes, Davy Crockett puzzles, Davy Crockett drinking glasses, Davy Crockett this and that and everything. Two little boys in coonskin caps kept pushing her aside to get at the flintlock rifles, the knives and powder horns. It made Laurie sad to watch them, and to think of Dickie lying just then in his iron lung. She chose a set of decals with pictures of Davy Crockett in black and red, fighting a bear on the first one and an Indian on the other.

  But Carolyn was hard. Laurie trekked round and round the store, past displays of five-cent earrings, through the pet section with the budgies and turtles and goldfish. But in the end she was back at the magazines, choosing the latest Silver Screen with Debbie Reynolds on the cover, and the teasing promise of “The Inside Story of the Ty Powers Breakup!”

  Laurie took these things to the hospital on her next visit. She didn’t ask for Miss Freeman but went straight past the desk and up to the room. No one even asked where she was going.

  On the fourth floor, she met the boy on the little wheeled platform, the one who had raced the wheelchair girl through the hall. This time he was alone, pushing himself in circles at the first bend in the hall.

  He twisted his neck to look up as she walked toward him. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To the respirator room,” said Laurie.

  “I’ll show you the way.”

  “I know where it is,” she told him. “I’ve been there.”

  But that didn’t matter to the boy. He paddled along with his hands, rumbling down the hall more quickly than Laurie could walk. When she lagged too far behind, he waited for her to catch up, swiveling round to watch her, then swiveling back again. His hands made slapping sounds on the floor.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Laurie,” she told him. “What’s yours?”

  “James,” he said. “James Miner.” He turned his platform around and pushed himself backward ahead of her. “Are you the one telling the story?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I listen?”

  “I guess so.” It made her uncomfortable to look down at the boy. She kept wanting to crouch at his level, and couldn’t understand why he didn’t seem at all embarrassed. She couldn’t imagine scuttling along the floor like a cockroach, with everyone staring down at her.

  The boy knew every turn so well that he passed round the corners without looking, swinging out to the wall like a race car. His hands paddled quickly to straighten himself.

  At the respirator room, Laurie stood aside while James wheeled himself through the doorway. He called hello to Dickie and the others, who greeted him as happily. “I came to hear the story,” he said.

  Laurie self-consciously produced her little purchases. “I brought you stuff,” she said.

  “Oh, boy!” cried Dickie.

  He loved his decals. Laurie had to hold them above his head for nearly five minutes while he told the story behind each picture, how Davy Crockett had beaten the Indian, and how he’d come to be fighting a bear. Dickie called it “rasslin’ a bar.”

  Chip was just as fond of his car magazine, though he wouldn’t let Laurie turn through the pages. “I want to save it for later,” he said.

  But Carolyn didn’t even pretend to be pleased with the Silver Screen. “I guess you can’t return a magazine,” she said. “At least you didn’t spend too much. So that’s good.”

  Laurie felt creepy inside but didn’t want to give up too easily. “It’s got a story about Debbie Reynolds,” she said.

  “Big hairy deal. Why should I care?”

  “You look kind of like her,” said Laurie.

  It was true, but Carolyn didn’t think so. “More like Heidi Doody,” she said, which wasn’t true at all. Both had long blond hair, but Howdy Doody’s puppet sister was a bizarre-looking thing.

  “I weigh sixty-five pounds,” said Carolyn. “Like a ten-year-old.”

  “You still look pretty,” said Laurie.

  “Yeah. Pretty ugly.”

  Laurie poked her glasses higher on her nose. She didn’t know what to do with the magazine. She couldn’t very well put it on top of the iron lung, as though on a great big coffee table. So it pleased her very much when James Miner asked, “Can I have it?” She said, “Sure,” and bent down to pass it to him.

  “Gee, thanks!” He tucked the magazine under his chest, then rolled himself out of the way, into a corner of the room. He spread it open on the floor and looked through the pictures.

  “Can we hear
the story now?” said Dickie.

  “It’s a free country,” said Carolyn. “Go ahead.”

  That was fine with Laurie.

  When Jimmy was twelve, the tax man returned to the inn. His carriage was even finer than before. Every inch of it was covered in gold, and half of the gold was covered again by emeralds, diamonds, and pearls. Six horses pulled it now, in a billowing cloud of dust, while a crew of four attended.

  At the front were the footman, thin and lean, and the driver in his scarlet clothes. On top rode a trumpet man with a silver horn that he blew at every bend and building, and on the back rode a wiper in a tall black hat.

  The carriage came swaying up the road with the harnesses jingling. Dust boiled from the wheels and the hooves of the horses. It clung to the sweat on the animals’ ribs, outlining every bone and muscle in smears of gray, so that it looked like a team of skeleton horses galloping down the road. The dust swirled so thickly round the carriage that only the heads of the driver and the footman rose above it. They seemed to ride in a bubble of smoke that moved along with a thundering, hammering sound. From its midst, the trumpet man blew a shrill and tingling blast.

  Jimmy stood at the door, watching. He could not even dimly remember the last time that the tax man had come, when he had lain gurgling in his cradle on top of the bar. But he knew from Fingal’s stories that the man had measured him and gone away with barrels of gold. And he certainly knew that his father had been furious that day.

  Jimmy called to him now, shouting through the door. “Father!”

  Fingal came in his apron, wiping his hands. He looked down the road and squinted. All he could make out were the heads of two black horses and a ball of dust that seemed to follow them down the road, as though the animals were trying to outrun a tiny, vicious storm.

  The carriage came right to the inn. The footman jumped down from his seat and opened the door. The wiper hopped from his perch, straightened his hat, and went to work with a cloth. He wiped down the carriage, turning a gray lump—one streak at a time—into a gleaming wonder.

  When everything was clean and bright, the tax man stepped out of the carriage in buckled shoes and white stockings. He carried his big black book into the parlor, to a table near the bar where the footman was arranging an ink pot and paper. He turned through the pages of his book, stopping where it said,

  One Fingal

  One Woman

  One baby, twenty-two inches

  The tax man dipped his quill in the ink. “Where’s the Woman?”

  “Gone to the village,” said Fingal, as though she might be back at any moment.

  “Where’s the baby?”

  “Right at your elbow,” said Fingal. Under his breath he muttered, “Are you blind?”

  The tax man looked at Jimmy. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no. This won’t do.”

  “What do you mean, it won’t do?” asked Fingal.

  “This won’t do at all.” The tax man set his quill back in the ink pot. He brought out his folding ruler, snapped it open, and measured the height of Jimmy the giant-slayer.

  “Thirty-two inches.” The tax man squinted. “Minus a quarter.” Then he folded the ruler again, picked up the quill, and made a note in his book. “I’m sorry to say that this will cost you rather dearly,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all.

  “I don’t understand,” said Fingal.

  “A child has to grow.” The tax man tapped the tabletop. “That’s the law.” He quoted a paragraph of a section of a chapter of an act. “I’m afraid the fine is rather hefty.”

  “Ah, well, that’s a problem now,” said Fingal, his little eyes narrowing like a rat’s. “You see, I have nothing. I’ve given it all to the boy.”

  “Everything?” said the tax man.

  “Lock, stock, and barrel,” said Fingal.

  Jimmy grinned at his father. They exchanged a wink. It was a wonderful feeling to be rich, if only temporarily.

  “So you have nothing?” The tax man looked suspicious. “Your son is wealthy, while you are penniless?”

  Fingal cackled. “That appears to be the state of it.”

  “Highly unusual,” said the tax man. “And, for you, somewhat unfortunate. You see, it’s the boy who pays the fine, as he’s the one in contravention.”

  “What?” said Fingal.

  “Well, it’s hardly your fault that he hasn’t grown,” said the tax man. “Is it?”

  Fingal sighed. He certainly wouldn’t admit that he’d brought a curse upon his own son. There was an enormous tax on curses.

  The tax man snapped his fingers to summon the driver and footman, the trumpet man and the wiper. All five went down to the basement, where the tax man began to levy his fine in barrels of coins. He stood aside, watching, as the men carted the barrels up the stairs and rolled them across the parlor floor. The wiper kept knocking his tall hat against the ceiling beams, so he was forever setting it straight.

  The tax man took every barrel but one. He took the knives and forks and spoons, four of Fingal’s shirts, and one stick of firewood. He even took the wooden dragon’s tooth that had hung twenty-three years in its chains.

  The carriage was loaded inside and out. Then the men climbed aboard and, with a snap of his whip, the driver pulled away. He cried out to the horses: “Gee up!” And the trumpet man blew his horn. “Gee up! Gee up!” shouted the driver.

  The carriage gathered speed, and the dust whirled up from the wheels. Then a thin arm poked out through a window, and a white hand waved goodbye.

  Fingal could hear his money jingling in the barrels. As soon as the carriage was out of sight he looked down at Jimmy and gave him a clout on the head.

  “This is your fault,” he said. “You little squirm, do you see what you’ve done?” His face was purple, his voice full of fury. “You’ve put me in the poorhouse!”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” said Jimmy.

  “Sorry? Why, you certainly are,” said Fingal. “You’re a sorry excuse, that’s what you are.” He was shouting now. “You’re a ruination. And a runt to boot. You’re a horrible runt of a ruination.”

  Jimmy shrank even smaller than he was. He looked as withered and bowed as a trampled sapling, and the words seem to fall like weights on his shoulders. Fingal was actually screaming, hopping up and down on the road.

  Jimmy started crying. “I am sorry, Father,” he said.

  “There’s no use blubbering,” shouted Fingal. “You great babby.”

  “I’m not a baby,” said Jimmy the giant-slayer.

  “Oh, yes you are,” roared Fingal. “A babby you were born, and a babby you’ll always be. I wish the gryphons had got you.” He spat on the road at Jimmy’s feet, then turned and stalked away.

  “He’s so mean,” said Dickie. “How can he say things like that?”

  “He’s a bit like my dad,” said James Miner. He was crammed in the corner, all but forgotten. On the floor in front of him, the magazine was still open. “Where’s that little boy’s mother?”

  “She went away,” said Chip.

  James nodded. “That’s like my mom.”

  To look at him, Laurie had to lean from the chair and peer under the curve of the respirators. “Why don’t you come closer?” she said.

  “Okay.” The boy tucked the magazine onto his platform and pushed himself across the floor.

  Carolyn watched him too. The boy skidded sideways on his platform.

  “That’s keen, that thing,” said Laurie. “It’s like that deal a mechanic uses, when he slides under a car.”

  “A creeper,” said Chip.

  Laurie laughed. “That’s what they’re called? Creepers?”

  “For mechanics,” Chip said. “For polios, they’re treatment boards.”

  James maneuvered into place. “It’s supposed to exercise my arms and legs,” he said.

  “It’s your mouth that gets the exercise,” said Carolyn.

  “Shut up. You’re as mean as Fingal,” s
aid James Miner. But he was smiling. “So what happened next?”

  Jimmy stayed where he was for a long while. He watched the glob of his father’s spit melt away into the dust, a dark stain like a black sunburst on the Great North Road. Then he went up to his room, drew the shutters on his window, and sat all alone in the gloomy shadows.

  That night, when it was dark, Jimmy the giant-slayer filled a small bag. He put in a few clothes, and a locket that had belonged to his mother. He made certain that the hunter’s charm was round his neck, though he had never tried to take it off. Then he crept down the stairs and out through the parlor, under the dangling chains where the wooden tooth had been.

  The moon was half full. Jimmy walked out to the meeting of the roads and stood right in the middle. To the east and the west were hamlets and towns, markets and shops. To the north were the woods, the mountains and swamp, the giants, the dragons, the gnomes.

  It seemed to Jimmy that if he was really a baby he would go east or go west. But if he was a man, or bound to become one, he had to go north instead. So that was the way he went, up the very middle of the Great North Road. In a few minutes he was among the trees, and in a few minutes more he could no longer see his own feet. The moon was hidden, the road invisible.

  Just half an hour of walking took Jimmy farther from the inn than he had ever been before. For the first time in his life he was alone in the woods at night. And every sound scared him.

  He heard shrieks and groans. He heard the snapping of twigs, the rustle of branches. He turned to the left; to the right. He looked up and down and all around.

  Every story that the travelers had told him came to his mind in terrible fragments. “They found his head in a tree, his feet in a river.” “The dragon turned him to ash as quick as a wink.” “They say his ghost sits by the road, holding his own bloody head.” Jimmy heard the voices of the travelers in his mind, and saw their faces loom before him. “Gryphons go for the eyes.” “A hydra can smell you a mile away.” “If a manticore comes after you, play dead. But if it’s a troll, run for your life.”