dawns inwards, and the poem is cracked open. He might have bathed in the five streams of the fountain of wisdom, and kept company with the night-visiting gods.
But instead it is fetch the water from the pump, the flat slimy water; it is the hit of cheap gin in the gullet, and Claffey’s fumbling feet on the stair. It is the Scotchman waiting, idly jingling the coins in his pocket; it is the animal-trainer, flicking his whip. The harpers play three strains: smile, wail, and sleep. But these nights as he lies awake, the deep ache springing from his bones, he hears the rattle of the nightwatchman, like the chattering of God’s teeth. He hears the wheels of the coach of death, rumbling over the cobbles, and he knows that if he were to stir and open the shutter, he would see the headless horses, and death’s coachman with his basin of blood.
The poet has his memorial in repetition, and the statesman in stone and bronze. The scholar’s hand lies always on his book, and the thinker’s eyes on canvas travel the room to rest on each human face; the rebel has his ballad and his cross, his bigot’s garland, his wreath of rope. But for the poor man and the giant there is the scrubbed wooden slab and the slop bucket, there is the cauldron and the boiling pot, and the dunghill for his lights; so he is a stench in the nose for a day or a week, so he is a no-name, so he is oblivion. Stories cannot save him. When human memory runs out, there is the memory of animals; behind that, the memory of the plants, and behind that the memory of the rocks. But the wind and the sea wear the rocks away; and the cell-line runs to its limit, where meaning falls away from it, and it loses knowledge of its own nature. Unless we plead on our knees with history, we are done for, we are lost. We must step sideways, into that country where space plaits and knots, where time folds and twists: where the years pass in a day.
June comes. The stinking streets. O’Brien tosses through the night, wringing the sheet, twisting it and soiling it with his death-sweat. He prays for mayhem to break out, for the rebels to take the field; he prays for the Whiteboys to come, swooping in, smashing with billhook and pike: Slasher, Cropper, Night Errant: Thumper, Madcap Setfire, and Captain Right. To the rescue.
Slig says, to the Spotted Boy, “Tell Kane. Not long now.”
Jankin is crying in the corner.
The Spotted Boy says to him, “If I were white like you and a free man, how would I earn my living?”
Says Slig, “Tell Hunter he refuses food. Tell him he persistently curses and swears. Tell him our guard is strong and our hearts are true. Tell him the price is five hundred pounds.”
Hunter says, “Do they want my blood?”
The Giant, raving on the floor, wishes him skulls and entrails strewn, wishes him cold winds and scalping blades: the fall of a house, the loss of heirs, an abundance of spectres, a rejoicing of crows. A high gallows and a windy day.
He says, “Did you ever hear of the army of men with cats’ heads?”
Jankin says, “Would you give us Ebinichebel, King of the Dog-Heads?”
The Giant says, “I am too weak for that vile Saracen.”
An hour passes. Slig and Con Claffey, they are bristling and alert. Says Kane, “Soon we shall swagger.”
As the evening cools, he rallies a little. He says, “There was once a race of people called the Astomi. They had no mouths. They lived on the smell of apples.”
Standing in the shadows, waiting for him, are Katherine Lineham and Ruggetty Madge, Teddy Brian and Redman Keogh: Cooley and Ryan and Thomas Dwyer, that came from Tipperary and had no coat to his back.
But he dies to the sound of What Is It, dragging its chain in the next room.
One day, about a week later—when the Giant’s bones, boiled brown, were already hanging in the workshop of the impoverished John Hunter—Pybus and Jankin were crossing Drury Lane, on their way to become drunk at the Fox Tavern. Ducking round a cart, Jankin was nearly bowled over by a spry black pig that shot from an alley. The pig checked its pace, darted a glance over its shoulder, and with its trotter performed a quick calculation on the cobbles.
A vast excitement swelled inside Pybus. “Toby!” he yelled. “It’s Mester Goss’s pig!” He made a lunge for it. The pig side-stepped him; but then it halted, and once more glanced back. It seemed to be smirking.
Jankin skidded to a halt on the cobbles. “Toby,” he yelled. “Toby, here, lad.” From under his coat he fished the halter that Joe had bade him prepare, for the day when the pig should arrive. Still Toby lurked, and shifted his feet, as if he knew something.
“By God,” said Jankin. “It has a look in its eye.”
Puzzled, Pybus replied, “Yes. So it does.”
The two men stood watching each other. “We could easy catch it,” Jankin said. “For look at it; it’s standing there, waiting for what will we do.”
“Yes,” Pybus said. “We could easy catch it.”
Thoughtfully, he rubbed his grazed knees.
“On for the Fox, is it?” Jankin said.
Pybus nodded. “On for the Fox.”
Toby, performing another rapid addition, wheeled smartly and trotted off towards Long Acre. Jankin and Pybus raised their hands in salute.
King Conaire had a singing sword. Do you know this? He was the son of a bird-god.
His head spoke after it was severed. Thank you, it said. Thank you for listening.
Put away the dark lantern and the hooks. Coil the rope ladder, and roll up the sacks. Clean your shovel before you stow it; you’ll be wanting it again.
I want a crow’s nest, and a magpie’s nest, and the branches of the tree they are set in. I cannot get a large porpoise for love or money. I want some eels and they must not come from a fishmonger, but straight from the river.
