“Do you really need the knight?” Gar asked.
“Of course we need the knight! Who else will lead the villagers against the giant?”
“That much, Axel can do,” Gar said.
“How ridiculous! A mere peasant, lead others against a monster? No one would ever believe it! The audience would boo us off the stage!”
“On the contrary, it’s completely believable,” Gar told him. “Try it. At the worst, the audience will be so surprised they won’t say anything at all.”
“It would be new, it would be alive!” Axel’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “Let me try it, Master Androv!”
“We haven’t much choice, have we?” Androv sighed. “Very well, lads—Axel shall lead the peasants against the giant. Now quickly, into costume and onto the stage, before the crowd tears us apart with impatience!”
A few minutes later, the boys, resplendent in tarnished tabards that had once graced a duke’s heralds, stepped out on the stage with trumpet and drum to beat a quick tattoo accompanied by a loud, if somewhat off key, fanfare. The crowd quieted a bit, and Androv stepped out on the stage to begin the prologue. “Hearken, good people! Attend and see! The tale of Gargantua on our stage shall be!”
A murmur of anticipation ran through the audience. Coll was in an excellent place to hear it, for it was his task to work his way through the crowd, keeping a sharp eye for rotten fruit and overly enthusiastic admirers of actresses, not to mention those overly fond of ale. Unfortunately, there was plenty of fruit and ale both, for the landlord’s serving maids were twisting their way among the spectators selling their wares—from one glance at a fruit tray, Coll could see Eotin was taking advantage of the opportunity to get rid of some of his outdated merchandise.
But it was so difficult for Coll to keep his eyes on the people about him when Ciare and Duse were stepping so lightly about the stage in their finery, discussing the horrible giant who was nearing their village. Their movements were graceful, their gowns low-cut, so Coll was hard-put to restrict himself to quick glances at the pretty actresses and spend most of his time watching the customers. Still, he managed it, seeing Androv come out to try to shoo the girls away, for the giant was coming. They shooed, but as soon as Androv had hurried away, they came back, giggling at the fun of lying in wait to see the giant.
Then he came, Gargantua himself, and the whole audience gasped with fright at the sight. So did Coll, stunned by the enormous size, the bulging naked muscles, and the horrifying mask. Then he remembered that “Gargantua” was only his master Gar, and relaxed—mostly; at the back of his mind was the nagging realization of something he had forgotten, that Gar really was that huge, that formidable.
Well, not quite that huge. He wore three-inch soles on his boots, and the mask rose up a foot above the top of his head, making him look far taller than he really was.
He shambled over to Ciare and reached out, caressing her hair. She stood trembling a moment, then screamed and ran—or tried to; Gargantua caught her arm, and she twisted against his pull, falling to the floor. Duse dropped to her knees, hands to her cheeks, and cried, “She’s dead! You horrible monster, you’ve killed her!” and ran screaming from the stage. Alone, Gar knelt, almost breaking his ankle in those thick-soled shoes, and reached out to touch Ciare’s hair again, then lifted her head, lifted her arm … Coll realized the giant was trying to make the girl dance with him again. When he realized he couldn’t, his shoulders sagged, and his whole body seemed one united expression of unutterable sorrow. The audience quieted, amazed at the monster’s tenderness, and heard one muffled sob.
Then Gargantua rose, fumbled in a pouch at his side, and brought out a mouse. Several women gave little screams, and several men gave exclamations of disgust, before they realized it was only a puppet. The little creature frisked to and fro on Gargantua’s palm, and he reached out a finger to pet it gently. His huge frame straightened; his whole body seemed to lighten, to cheer up. Restored, he put the mouse back in his pouch and stumped off the stage again.
Thus the story went—Gargantua always trying to be friendly, always seeking to touch in affection, but always destroying, never understanding his own strength. After each encounter, he sought solace by playing with the mouse again, even after three men banded together and came at him with flails. But at last he petted the mouse too hard, and it broke. Then Gargantua let out a howl of unutterable grief, sank to his knees—and rose with anger and hatred. It was then that Axel shouted to the other peasants, harangued them, telling them they must save themselves, and led a charge against Gargantua with swords, scythes, whatever weapons came to hand.
The giant turned to strike out against the pack. He hurled them from him, one after another, until they all leaped upon him together, flailing and stabbing. The audience went wild, cheering and booing—some for the peasants, some for Gargantua. At last, the mound of churning bodies stilled, and the men rose to carry the inert body of the giant off the stage.
Androv came back on, to thank the audience for their attention and admonish them to give the stranger the benefit of the doubt, then ending with a plea for applause. They gave him more than he asked for, and the company filed out to bow, Gar still in mask and buskins. Then, as the applause died, Androv called out, “Tomorrow, an hour after noon, the tale of the Imaginary Invalid! Good evening, friends!” He waved as the players left the stage, then followed them.
The applause ended, and the spectators filed out of the innyard, chatting with excitement about tomorrow’s play. Coll elbowed his way through them, hurrying to get back to the tiring house and see whether or not Gar had collapsed from the strain.
He hadn’t; he was grinning, the mask in his hands, as his fellow players heaped praise and acclaim on him.
“You were excellent, Sir Gar!” Duse stepped up right against him, eyes shining. “I have never seen so moving a giant!”
Gar laughed with pleasure. “Yes, but if you had seen my face, I’ll warrant you wouldn’t have been half so impressed! ”
“Oh, I’m sure we would have!” Elspeth crowded in, also right up against him. “Your every movement, your every grunt and growl spoke oceans of emotions!”
“Why, thank you!” Gar inclined his head, but kept the mask in his hands. “If I had been given a word to speak, though, I’m sure I would have shamed us all!”
“Well, you didn’t!” Dicea crowded in, too, closer than she ever would have dared if she hadn’t seen the actresses do it. “You were noble, overwhelming!”
“Really, most excellently done!” Androv stepped up, shooing the girls away, and clapped Gar on the shoulder. “It was a stroke of genius to have Axel lead the peasants! Did you hear how that audience cheered them? How did you know they would?”
“Why, I didn’t know, of course,” Gar replied, “but I’ve learned that no one likes to see anything so much as himself—if that self is disguised a bit.”
Androv nodded slowly, interest kindling in his eye. “Are you sure you’ve never acted before?”
“Not on a stage, no.” Gar was still grinning. “And I beg you, don’t make me do it again—at least not in any part that has lines.”
“Give the man a stoup of ale!” Androv cried, and steered him toward his clothing. “Come, pull on your garments, and let us tell you of the next work we have in mind for you. No, not on the stage, don’t worry; the Imaginary Invalid has no part for a giant.”
“I should think not!” Gar laughed, and the two of them were off to chat as Gar pulled his clothes back on. Disappointed, Dicea stepped over to Dirk, batting her eyelashes. “Shall you be a player, too, sir?”