Jack & the Devil
Sorita D'Este requested a story about a set of standing stones she visited in Wales, so here is one.
Now, when there were giants in the land, there was a great big fella known as Jack 'O'Kent, and he lived quite peacefully in a huge barn in Margate, because there's one thing about giants, they do love a nice dip in the sea. He was a fair-faced, cheerful giant who always had time to share a barrel or two of his homed-brewed ale, and never stole cows or frightened the children, but he did so like to boast. He was the strongest giant in the land, he'd say, and if only they'd let him play cricket for the county, he'd be the finest bowler that England ever had.
He'd sit down by the marina, skipping stones out to sea, until the townsfolk of Ostende sent a ship over to complain, and he had to stop. He still told anyone who'd listen that he could throw a stone clean across the country, though.
One Sunday, a fine-dressed gent showed up at Jack's barn, in a smart tall hat and tailcoat, with the fanciest moustache and shiniest boots ever seen in these parts. Now, most of the good people of Margate were in church, but Jack never could abide small spaces, and he was down on the beach, scuffing his heels in the sand and looking glumly at the rocks he was not allowed to pitch. The fine-looking fellow comes over, so I'm told, and he says to Jack;
"What's a handsome young man like yourself doing out on his ownsome on a Sunday? Haven't you got a sweetheart?"
Jack looks at his great sandy feet, and he shrugs, because, ah, that's a hard thing to ask a giant, when there's so few ladyfolk who'll consider one. So the man tries again to strike up some conversation.
"Isn't there something your heart desires, then?" Jack doesn't take too kindly to personal questions, and all giants are wary of fancy strangers, so he shrugs again, and mutters that he cares more for cricket than he does for ladyfolk.
"Why, that's the mightiest coincidence of them all!" cries the gentleman, his eyes and teeth sparkling in a wide, wide grin, "For I'm what they call a recruiter, and we're looking for a few more good men to play for the county!"
Now, Jack's eyes grow wide as fishponds, and he shakes the fellow by the hand and asks where he should sign, when the gentleman produces a great scroll of a contract, and a quill pen as long as his arm from somewhere inside of that coat of his. A smaller man wouldn't have been surprised, but when Jack saw that giant-sized pen, and the giant-sized paper, he got the inkling that the gentleman hadn't just been strolling along the seafront by chance.
He thought about what his old ma had told him, and before the fellow had a chance to stop him, the giant patted him gently on the head, and said "Alright then, but to prove you know your cricket, I'd like to place a wager."
The gentleman was a little taken aback, as he collected his crushed hat from the sand and tried to cover up his head with it, but he nodded, because he was indeed a fellow who could never resist such a challenge. "What'll it be?" he says, rubbing his hands. "I bet you," says Jack, "that you can't pitch one of these stones clean across the land, right out of England and into Wales." Now the devil (for Jack had felt the little horns under his slicked-down hair) starts up laughing, and he says "I can pitch a stone all the way to Iceland, but if it's Wales you're wanting..." and with that he picked up a stone taller than himself and I can't quite fathom how, but he threw it like a spear.
That stone flew over the people of Margate. It flew over the smoking stacks of London, over the dreaming spires of Oxford, over Cuckoo Wood, and stuck nose-first into a cow-pasture in Trellech.
Jack and the gentleman peer off into the distance, and Jack says "That's a fine throw, but now it's my turn," and he picks up another great slab of rock, about the same size as the first. He heaves it up to his shoulder, and off it goes, with a bit of a spin. Jack's stone flew over the people of Margate (still waiting for the Reverend White's sermon to finish, so they saw nothing) and over the smoking stacks of London, over the dreaming spires of Oxford, over Cuckoo Wood, and down into the same Welsh cow-pasture.
Jack and the Devil stood, rubbing their chins and squinting their eyes. "Mine surely went the furthest," bellowed Jack. "No, mine nearly hit the Forest o' Dean!" boasted the Devil, and the two fell to bickering. "Hey there, Mister," says Jack, in the end, "Why don't I go over there and take a look?" but the Devil sees he's chuckling behind his great right hand, so he says "No, Giant, I'll be the one that checks it, we don't want any funny business!" So with Jack blustering that he's a man of his word, the Devil leaps away in his bright-shiny boots. He bounds around the outside of London in a big old semi-circle, to save time, and he leaps over the dreaming spires of Oxford, he steps from treetop to treetop over Cuckoo Wood, and just before he ends up in the Forest o' Dean, he sets himself down amidst the puzzled cattle. He looks at the stones, but they're very much alike, and pretty darn close together. He paces between them, counting, and finally, he backs off a little way and tries to work it out by eye. Then Jack yells out across the whole of England, and across into Wales, "So, Mister, have you made up your mind yet?" and the Devil bellows back that he's standing right there, and he thinks...
But we never will know which of 'em threw the furthest stone, and which was the liar, because while he was asking, Jack had thrown a third stone. And a-while the Devil was starting to say what-we'll-never-know, God willing, that stone had flown over the people of Margate, and over the smoking stacks of London, and over the dreaming spires of Oxford, and over Cuckoo Wood. The Devil was staring at the two stones when the third and biggest one hit him such a blow that it sent him right back under the ground where he came from, and no doubt he found himself a passageway and sulked back down to the place he belongs. But we'll have to take Jack's word for it, for though I've never met another woman or man who saw the stones fly, I know two things are true. First, that three stones stand in Trellech, to this very day, and second, that the Devil never dares show his face around the sunny shores of Margate. Harold's Stones? Why, Hal Thomas was the name of the poor cattle-farmer. He never could shift 'em.
Now, when there were giants in the land, there was a great big fella known as Jack 'O'Kent, and he lived quite peacefully in a huge barn in Margate, because there's one thing about giants, they do love a nice dip in the sea. He was a fair-faced, cheerful giant who always had time to share a barrel or two of his homed-brewed ale, and never stole cows or frightened the children, but he did so like to boast. He was the strongest giant in the land, he'd say, and if only they'd let him play cricket for the county, he'd be the finest bowler that England ever had.
He'd sit down by the marina, skipping stones out to sea, until the townsfolk of Ostende sent a ship over to complain, and he had to stop. He still told anyone who'd listen that he could throw a stone clean across the country, though.
One Sunday, a fine-dressed gent showed up at Jack's barn, in a smart tall hat and tailcoat, with the fanciest moustache and shiniest boots ever seen in these parts. Now, most of the good people of Margate were in church, but Jack never could abide small spaces, and he was down on the beach, scuffing his heels in the sand and looking glumly at the rocks he was not allowed to pitch. The fine-looking fellow comes over, so I'm told, and he says to Jack;
"What's a handsome young man like yourself doing out on his ownsome on a Sunday? Haven't you got a sweetheart?"
Jack looks at his great sandy feet, and he shrugs, because, ah, that's a hard thing to ask a giant, when there's so few ladyfolk who'll consider one. So the man tries again to strike up some conversation.
"Isn't there something your heart desires, then?" Jack doesn't take too kindly to personal questions, and all giants are wary of fancy strangers, so he shrugs again, and mutters that he cares more for cricket than he does for ladyfolk.
"Why, that's the mightiest coincidence of them all!" cries the gentleman, his eyes and teeth sparkling in a wide, wide grin, "For I'm what they call a recruiter, and we're looking for a few more good men to play for the county!"
Now, Jack's eyes grow wide as fishponds, and he shakes the fellow by the hand and asks where he should sign, when the gentleman produces a great scroll of a contract, and a quill pen as long as his arm from somewhere inside of that coat of his. A smaller man wouldn't have been surprised, but when Jack saw that giant-sized pen, and the giant-sized paper, he got the inkling that the gentleman hadn't just been strolling along the seafront by chance.
He thought about what his old ma had told him, and before the fellow had a chance to stop him, the giant patted him gently on the head, and said "Alright then, but to prove you know your cricket, I'd like to place a wager."
The gentleman was a little taken aback, as he collected his crushed hat from the sand and tried to cover up his head with it, but he nodded, because he was indeed a fellow who could never resist such a challenge. "What'll it be?" he says, rubbing his hands. "I bet you," says Jack, "that you can't pitch one of these stones clean across the land, right out of England and into Wales." Now the devil (for Jack had felt the little horns under his slicked-down hair) starts up laughing, and he says "I can pitch a stone all the way to Iceland, but if it's Wales you're wanting..." and with that he picked up a stone taller than himself and I can't quite fathom how, but he threw it like a spear.
That stone flew over the people of Margate. It flew over the smoking stacks of London, over the dreaming spires of Oxford, over Cuckoo Wood, and stuck nose-first into a cow-pasture in Trellech.
Jack and the gentleman peer off into the distance, and Jack says "That's a fine throw, but now it's my turn," and he picks up another great slab of rock, about the same size as the first. He heaves it up to his shoulder, and off it goes, with a bit of a spin. Jack's stone flew over the people of Margate (still waiting for the Reverend White's sermon to finish, so they saw nothing) and over the smoking stacks of London, over the dreaming spires of Oxford, over Cuckoo Wood, and down into the same Welsh cow-pasture.
Jack and the Devil stood, rubbing their chins and squinting their eyes. "Mine surely went the furthest," bellowed Jack. "No, mine nearly hit the Forest o' Dean!" boasted the Devil, and the two fell to bickering. "Hey there, Mister," says Jack, in the end, "Why don't I go over there and take a look?" but the Devil sees he's chuckling behind his great right hand, so he says "No, Giant, I'll be the one that checks it, we don't want any funny business!" So with Jack blustering that he's a man of his word, the Devil leaps away in his bright-shiny boots. He bounds around the outside of London in a big old semi-circle, to save time, and he leaps over the dreaming spires of Oxford, he steps from treetop to treetop over Cuckoo Wood, and just before he ends up in the Forest o' Dean, he sets himself down amidst the puzzled cattle. He looks at the stones, but they're very much alike, and pretty darn close together. He paces between them, counting, and finally, he backs off a little way and tries to work it out by eye. Then Jack yells out across the whole of England, and across into Wales, "So, Mister, have you made up your mind yet?" and the Devil bellows back that he's standing right there, and he thinks...
But we never will know which of 'em threw the furthest stone, and which was the liar, because while he was asking, Jack had thrown a third stone. And a-while the Devil was starting to say what-we'll-never-know, God willing, that stone had flown over the people of Margate, and over the smoking stacks of London, and over the dreaming spires of Oxford, and over Cuckoo Wood. The Devil was staring at the two stones when the third and biggest one hit him such a blow that it sent him right back under the ground where he came from, and no doubt he found himself a passageway and sulked back down to the place he belongs. But we'll have to take Jack's word for it, for though I've never met another woman or man who saw the stones fly, I know two things are true. First, that three stones stand in Trellech, to this very day, and second, that the Devil never dares show his face around the sunny shores of Margate. Harold's Stones? Why, Hal Thomas was the name of the poor cattle-farmer. He never could shift 'em.