Giant in a zawn
A fissure opened like a huge mouth, a zawn in the rock, the sea crashed in leaving a dry cave at the very back. Here lived the Giant Wrath whose greatest pleasure was capturing those foolish enough to pass his lair. A lew rolled in over the sea, it was hard to find a way to untangle the water from the sky, the coast from the sea. This sudden change in weather, filled the Giant Wrath with glee. Wrath was tall and sturdy; muscles rippling along his arms and legs, his back stretched wide as a granite boulder. The giant grinned as he peered out of his holt, into the foggy sea. The barnacles clinging to his nose squealed as he shook out his long sea water sticky hair and he rubbed his greasy hands together in anticipation. The reason for his excitement was that a lew provided cover for Wrath and the possibility of a fishing boat sailing off course into his reach. The fishermen of Saint Ives knew only too well what happened to them if they ventured into water near the giant’s zawn. The narrow opening in the cliff was the theatre of the most macabre goings on you could never imagine.
Wrath knew he had to act quickly, he didn’t bother to take off his huge stinking boots, he waded straight into the sea, his strong hairy legs battling against the waves. Wrath could see very little; he lifted his head to the sky and smelt for prey, all he could smell was salt and foggy wind. Then he cupped a huge hand to his ear and listened, he heard the shouts of fishermen, they were close, closer than he could ever have dreamed of. Sure enough, a little seine boat had got lost in the fog, the huer’s shout had gone out and a lane of fish had been spotted along the coast. They had tried to avoid the mouth of the zawn but they were being blown off course with the wind.
They could hear the giant singing loudly as he splashed toward them, it felt like there was no escape. ‘I’ll ‘ave you fishermen,’ the giant roared. ‘I’ll ‘ave you for my tasty crib.’ He swished the sea with his hands trying to find the boat but the lew was thick and he could see nothing. The giant yelled in frustration; he could smell the fish on the boat he knew it was near, but he needed the lew to lift so he could find them. No one dared say a word aboard the little fishing boat, their fear froze them. Some were sick over the side. But these were no ordinary fishermen, these were Saint Ives’ finest lads. They had laid out the seine nets ready to catch a shoal of pilchards, seen off the cliffs at Portreath. All thoughts of pilchards had left their minds as they listened to the shouts of the giant as he tried to find them. They slid from one side of the boat to another as the giant made greater waves with his hands as he swept the sea.
‘Take the seine net,’ said a voice. ‘Throw it out and catch him unawares.’ ‘It will never fit the Giant Wrath,’ said a second, his voice shaking with cold and fear. ‘It’s big enough to catch a shoal of pilchards, big enough to catch a writhing mermaid. We can catch a giant, even if it’s our last throw of the dice.’ The fishermen laid out their seine net into the waves. There was no sign of their fellow boats, they would have to pray the net would fan out enough to catch the giant.
The giant felt a cluster of lobster clamp onto his leg, felt a cline gathering about his ears, a clam of sticky starfish stretched out over his eyes. He began to thrash about in pain from the lobster bites and he hopped forward clutching his leg, the lobsters held fast. He tried to see a way forward but he was blinded by the starfish spines, he tried to wrench them off his face, he realised in frustration the creatures were stuck fast. The sound of the birds whirling around his ears screaming and squawking was deafening and dizzying. Suddenly, Wrath began to wobble, he swayed and lost his balance and dived with an almighty crash into the freezing waves.
As Wrath fell, he felt something soft gather around him, something he had felt before at his fingertips when he had stolen and eaten the crew of another fishing boat, something the fishermen used to rake pilchard shoals from the sea. The giant laughed as he realised, to his surprise, that the net was gathering all about him reeling him in, a gigantic prey. ‘I’ll ‘ave you yet,’ he shouted into the fog. ‘I can see your toy boat now.’ Fine nets began tugging on his salty locks and pinching his barnacled nose, they wrapped about his clawed leg and his flailing arms and tightened over his granite shoulders. When he realised too late that he had been truly tricked and snared by his own prey, he howled in fury and embarrassment.
In all his days of hunting fishermen, Wrath had never dreamed he would be caught in their puny nets. ‘I’ll 'ave you fishermen of Saint Ives,’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll 'ave you for my lunch.’ But instead of the cries of fear and desperation he usually heard coming from the tiny boats in his clasp, he heard roars of mirth. ‘He’s hooked,’ a voice cried into the wind. ‘We’ll ‘ave you, Giant Wrath,’ shouted the fishermen. Wrath realised he had been well and truly beaten, with a hollow howl he tried to frighten them away, ‘You’ll join the huge pile of bones I’ve heaped in my zawn,’ he roared. But his threats were feeble.
In confusion, Wrath tussled and wrestled with the seine net, but the more he fought it, the more he became entangled like a huge helpless pilchard. The sea birds were winding the web about him with their great wings, a vast flock of herring gulls screaming in his ears. The fishermen were not entirely ruthless, they towed the giant back to his zawn and left him tangled in nets by the shore.
Just as Wrath was about to roll into his cave, there was an almighty rumble of thunder and golden lightning forked the cave. The roof fell in with a deafening crash of rock, leaving Wrath with a fissure in the rock to call home. From that day forth, Giant Wrath gave up eating fishermen. When he finally untangled himself from their nets, he promised the fishermen of St Ives he would behave himself and stick to catching smugglers instead.