The Giant, O'Brien: A Novel

“It was in my mind.”

“Call it a progress, there’s a good man. Tour has a low sound about it.”

“Don’t say that word low. I dream by night that I see Patrick as tall as the treetops.”

The Giant leaned forward, and opened his hand. He clapped it across Joe’s chest, spanning it. “Send out Pybus for a tool of measurement.”

“What can you mean?”

“Look, Joe Vance. Come here to the table. Do you see this knot in the wood? Now, do you see there, what you might call a mark or score?”

Joe nodded.

“You see the space? A month ago, my fingers could not bridge it.”

Joe stared at him. “You’re growing, Charlie?” A sly grin crept over his face. “You’re growing?”

“My head is lengthening and stretching. I feel the pain deep in my bones, as if the close knitting of my skull were beginning to ease itself, beneath my scalp, and unstitch. I feel a pain in my jaw, as if the swing of it were to be tested, as if the swivel cannot support the greater weight that is to come. My feet are bursting from my boots, Joe. See here—I’ve had to slit them. My knee-joints and ankle-bones are oppressed.”

“Oh, good, good!” said Joe Vance. “By the private parts of Mary, this will give him a check, Mr. so-called Patrick Byrne!” His honest blue eyes were blazing. “Let’s have a drink on it,” he said.

In September, the days innocent of chill, they went to Bartholomew Fair. The Giant was confined indoors, as usual, but they told him everything when they got home. Dancing dogs and monkeys. Musical operas, a French puppet show with Mr. Punch and the Devil behind doors.

“We had some cabbage to eat at Pye Corner,” Pybus said, “and a slice of beef each. Joe treated us.”

“That was handsome of him,” the Giant said.

“We ought to go down, Charlie,” said Claffey. “Get you a booth.”

“What, like a dancing monkey?”

“It’s where the crowds are, and where the crowds are, that’s where the money is.”

Pybus blurted out, “Joe Vance says you are growing.”

“Do you not see the change in me?”

“We see you every day,” Claffey said. “If it’s gradual, we might miss it.”

“But it’s proved by the measuring stick,” Pybus said. The late sunlight caught his red hair and made a fire in it. “By God, Charlie, I’m glad I decided to come on this voyage. Our fame is assured. We shall ride in sedan chairs!”

“Carry one, more like. That’s an attribute of Irishmen.” He looked up, at Claffey. “So—you have your own notions of taking me to market, do you? You think you know better than my accredited agent?”

Claffey puffed himself up. “I certainly know this town, Charlie, I can say I know this town. What say we ship Joe back to Ireland to fight it out with Paddy’s people, and I take on managing you, at a reduced percentage?”

The Giant studied Claffey. Narrow grey eyes close-set. An unintelligent expression, but an avaricious one. “So,” he said, “did you bring anything for Mary, from your day at the fair?”

“Oh, he did,” shouted Jankin. “Oh, he did and I liked the Devil behind doors. Oh, he did bring her Cyprian Wash-Balls.”

“Come forward, Bitch Mary,” shouted the Giant.

Mary crept from her bedding. She stood before Claffey without meeting his eyes.

“Claffey means to pay you his proper addresses,” Pybus said. “He is advanced in the art of courtship. He don’t mean to force you against a wall, but wait till you’re ready and you give him the word.”

“That’ll be enough,” Claffey snarled, practically spitting in his ire. He took a shuddering breath—calming himself, so as not to split and rupture Pybus on the spot: only because, afterwards, the woman would have to clean the floor. “Mary,” he said, “I am giving you these Cyprian Wash-Balls, but on one condition.”

“And what is that?”

“I have seen you at the gate these nights, when I am coming in, talking with that whore that wears a green kerchief.”

“Bride is her name.”

“I want you to keep away. Never greet her more.”

“Because she piqued your vanity,” the Giant said. “She did so, that night in the cellar. She worsted you and Joe both.”

“Not for that,” Claffey said. “But because she is a whoremonger. The very tips of her fingers are creeping with disease.”

“I’ll do what I must, and when I must,” Bitch Mary said. “Till then, I reserve my opinion. Will that content you?”

“I don’t like it,” Claffey said. “But go on—there you are.”

“What is the use of these Cyprian Wash-Balls?”

“To keep your hands white.”