Tom Hickathrift and the Smeeth Giant

England has never had a shortage of wild places.

The barren moorlands of the West Country, the rocky windswept peaks of the Pennines and the dark forests of Northumbria, are to name but a few. 

Yet, among all the wild places in the lands of the Anglo-Saxons, none were more primaeval and more feared than the fenlands of East Anglia. This labyrinthine wetland of swamps, marshes, small islands and half drowned forests, was a place where man, beast and wight alike made their uneasy homes.

To live in such a thankless place, a hardy race of people was needed, and the folk who lived there, the North Folk, were that resilient race. Scattered across the wetlands in small villages and settlements, these people often bore the brunt of many a joke from outsiders, who claimed they must have webbed feet to survive in such a place.

One village deep in the watery maze, on a small patch of dryland, was Wisbech, a haven of orchards and fertile fields surrounded by mire. Along a small country path just outside the village, stood an old wooden cottage, the cottage was showing its years, but in good repair. The cottage was home to Eadgiþa, a woman as ancient as the land she lived on.

For as long the elders of Wisbech could remember, Eadgiþa had lived there, tending her garden and fields. Each harvest, her smallholding yielded fruits and grains larger and plentiful than any other in the area, which was a constant source of bemusement to the other villagers. However, the years of this back-breaking work had taken their toll on Eadgiþa, and with each passing winter, she was getting a little more frail.

Fortunately for Eadgiþa, there was relief in her old age in the form of her son. Fifteen winters ago, Eadgiþa had become the scandal of the village when, to her, a boy was born. Who the father was and where he had disappeared to was a mystery, and despite the best efforts of the village's gossips, she would never tell... though once or twice, when pressed on the issue, she had cryptically mentioned the baby's father was not just father to him, but to everyone. She called the boy Tom, who even at the time of his birth was an unnaturally large size..

By the age of eight, Tom towered over the other children, already five feet tall, he was also strong, able to carry more weight than Eadgiþa’s donkey. At twelve, when asked to fetch straw from a neighbouring farm, he returned with half a ton slung effortlessly over his back. At the age of fifteen winters Tom stood over seven feet tall, eating enough food each day to feed five grown men.

However, despite his huge size and lumbering gait, Tom’s had a good natured personality and was well liked by the village folk of Wisbech. He might not have been the sharpest tool in the box, but his heart was every bit as big as his body, and he was always willing to use his unnatural strength to help his fellow villagers.

* * * *

It was on a blisteringly hot summer’s day that Tom’s first ever adventure began.

The sun was bathing the woods and fields around Eadgitha’s cottage in a yellow light, deer and ponies were running in the front fields, and Tom was engaged in his favourite pastime, lounging in a hammock beside the crystal clear stream not far from his home, when he heard his mother calling.

"Tom, come here, lad. I’ve got some work for you."

Tom, who had nodded off, yawned and stretched his gangly arms, nearly knocking over a garden chair. "What is it, Ma? Not another pile of stones to move? Or is it old Leofstan’s barn needs repairin’ again?"

His mother had the look on her face she always had when she knew Tom was about to make excuses to avoid work. The look that said I know all your tricks, I’m way ahead of you and their is nothing you’re going to be able to do to wriggle out of this one, my lad. "No, something a bit different this time. Alfric the brewer’s horses are sick, and he needs someone to deliver a cartload of ale to Lynn."

Tom scratched his head, thinking of his comfy hammock. "Lynn? That’s a long walk, innit? Can’t Alfric wait ‘til his orses get better?"

His mother looked at him sternly. "Tom, you know you eat like a horse, and I can barely keep you in clothes, they need to be specially made. I need the money, Alfric will pay a bag of copper if you complete the job. You’ll take that ale to Lynn, and you’ll do it today."

Tom groaned but nodded. "Alright, Ma, but I don’t fancy takin’ the long road. I can cut across Smeeth fen an I’ll be there in no time.”

His mother’s eyes widened in fear. "Don’t you dare, Tom! I don’t care how strong you are, you are no match for a giant, and Pæga is no ordinary giant. He’ll have you in his belly before you even know it, just as every other traveller he’s caught crossing Smeeth."

Tom laughed. "Ain’t no Eoten gonna eat me, Ma. I’ll be back before supper tomorrow, you’ll see."

His mother shook her head with worry on her face. "Tom, for once, listen to me. Take the long road. Promise me."

Tom sighed. "Alright, alright. I promise. I’ll stick to the road and keep off Smeeth Fen."

"Good lad," his mother said, patting his enormous arm. "And take care. I’ll have supper waiting for you when you’re back tomorrow evening."

Tom returned to the cottage, grabbing a few belongings and sandwiches his mother had made, and with a somewhat forced grin, he set off along the road toward Wisbech. It wasn’t a long walk, and in less than fifteen minutes, he arrived at Alfric’s alehouse.

Outside, a massive cart was being loaded with barrels, each taking two men to hoist onto the cart, but there wasn’t a horse in sight to pull it. Near the cart, he saw Alfric pacing and wiping sweat from his brow,

“Ah, there you are, Tom!” the portly Alfric called out, relief evident in his voice. “I was startin' to wonder if you’d fallen back asleep again.”

Tom grinned sheepishly. “Almost did, Alfric, but Ma wouldn’t let me. She’s got a way of keepin’ me busy, you know.”

Alfric chuckled, shaking his head. “Now, I hope you’re up for this. That cart’s packed full as there is a festival at Lynn next week, so enough ale barrels to keep the men of Lynn merry all night!”

Tom glanced at the cart, the barrels stacked sky-high. “Is that all?” he asked, scratching his head. “Looks like a light load to me.”

Alfric exhaled out a low whistle. “Doesn’t look like much, eh? That load would’ve killed me horses if they weren’t already sick. It’s enough ale to drown a tavern full of trolls, I reckon.”

Tom shrugged. “Well, you know me. I ain’t no horse. I’ll get it to Lynn easy.”

Alfric eyed Tom suspiciously. “Easy, eh? You better be careful, Tom. Keep to the road. Don’t even think about cuttin’ through Smeeth Fen. I know you’ve heard the tales.”

Tom laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Aye, I’ve heard 'em. Big, bad Pæga me ma’s already bent me ear bout him.”

Alfric’s face grew serious. “This ain’t no joke, lad. Pæga’s ferocity is not just some old elf tale. Keep your wits about you and stick to the main path. I’d like to see my ale delivered and you back in one piece.”

Tom nodded. “Don’t worry, Alfric. I’ll be back before you know it, and your ale’ll be safe.”

Alfric gestured to the now-loaded cart. “Good lad. Now get movin’. You’ve got a long way to go.”

* * * *

The journey to Lynn was not too hard, the road was good quality and well trodden as it was the only safe route through the fens. But the route was long, weaving around the Fenlands, avoiding marshes, bogs and especially a place called Smeeth Fen, almost doubling the length of the journey as the crow flies.

Around mid-morning, Tom set out from Wisbech... The sight of a boy pulling a huge cart piled with oak barrels the height of two men with ease was not an unusual sight for the folks of Wisbech, but to any visitor from another part of East Anglia, it would have been jaw-dropping. Tom pulled the cart along the road with ease and initially made good time, but while the load was not heavy for him, it was a hot day and a few miles up the road, Tom stopped for a rest, which quickly turned short nap and then a long deep dreamfilled sleep...

It was mid-afternoon when Tom awoke, jolting to his feet. He looked up to the sky and saw the sun falling to the west. At that moment he realised what he had done, he'd barely made a dent in his journey, Lynn was still more than twenty-five miles by road and the day was nearly over. Tom began to panic, not so much for the dangers on the road he would face, darkness was when the fens grew dangerous, and weargs, ylfe, and wights would be abroad but for the disappointment his mother would feel if he went back to Wisbech having failed in his task.

Tom sat for a moment and thought… Directly across Smeeth Fen, Lynn was only ten miles away. If he went that way, he could easily deliver his load before darkness fell… he pondered, remembering the promises to his mother and Alfric he had made.

All his life he had been told to avoid Smeeth because of the man-eating giant, but Tom reasoned that Smeeth Fen was huge and Pæga couldn’t be everywhere at once, so there was very little chance of him bumping into him realistically. Also, on a hot day like this, the giant would most likely be in his cave sheltering from the sun. Tom resolved that if he kept his wits about him he could quickly cross the fen and the giant would never know he had been there. With that Tom hoisted the cart, beer barrels and all, over his head, and marched onto Smeeth heading for Lynn.

It was slower going than he had first thought, while the bushes and trees slowed his journey a little, and he had to push over the odd tree to get by. It was wading through the mud of the marshland that was the real problem, his weight plus the cart’s weight making him sink deep into it as he strode.

For the first hour of his journey Tom made slow progress, despite his best efforts, the marshy terrain did everything in its watery powers to slow him down, however on the bright side, there was no sign of Pæga. Then something caught his eye. Ahead it was what looked like a trodden path. Tom had couldn’t believe his luck at such a find. It puzzled him how such a path could exist in the middle of a fen. However, taking it could double the speed of his journey. Tom carefully tested the path, stepping on it, and his feet barely sank an inch, even at the hefty weight of the seven foot tall boy carrying the ale cart. The path was made for something big and heavy like him to journey. So with a smile on his face at such good fortune, Tom set along it.

Tom trudged this dirt path for what seemed like hours, the soft squelch of his boots in the mud was the only sound that broke the silence of the Fenlands. Even though the path was a vast improvement on walking the wetlands, the muck and marsh still made Tom’s legs ache. The heat of the day still had not given way to the cool air of evening also. It was then Tom stopped dead at the sight of an old willow tree ahead.

The sight of the gnarly old tree was not what disturbed him, it was what was hanging from the branches that was in Tom’s gaze. Human skulls, several of them were hanging from the branches of the tree, swing back and forth in the breeze. And by the stench coming from the them, they were fresh kills, not ancient.

Tom considered turning back and abandoning his journey, but he was now only a few miles from Lynn, and the way back to Wisbech was four times as far. Also Tom reasoned a few skulls on a tree don’t mean the giant was near. It could easily of been something else not the giant who left them there and even if it was Pæga, he could easily have left them there because he was too lazy to carry them to his home miles away. Tom now reassured resolved to carry on along the path.

Twenty minutes further down the path Tom had put the willow tree completely out of his mind and began to whistle a joyful jig to break the silence of the fen, one his mother had taught him as a child. He knew Lynn was close, soon he would have his mother’s much needed money and be eating his evening meal in an alehouse in Lynn. When little way ahead, Tom froze. He stood motionless listening hard as he could. There was a feint sound coming from the distance, it sounded like a scraping noise, from instincts hone from growing up on the in th Fens Tom scanned the trees around with his eyes for any strange creatures, but saw nothing but a sea of green leaves.

After reassuring himself it was safe to continued his journey, Tom continued walking , this time more silently and cautiously. The path lead around a small bend obscuring Tom’s view of what lay ahead, until ahead the end of the bend emerged into a small clearing. On one side of the clearing, partially obscured by the thick underbrush, he saw a cave. Its entrance tall and wide, but dark, keeping whatever was inside hidden. The ground in front of the cave was scattered with human bones, which seemed to form a trail leading into the cave and coming from inside the cave was the scraping sound he had heard.

Tom now was perplexed as to what to do, could he sneak past the cave and continue on his way, find another way around by going back onto the marshy ground. But it was another feeling that won through, his curiosity...

Quickly overruling any fear Tom scratched his head and wondered what was inside... surely it wasn’t Pæga! That would be far too much of a coincidence in such a vast expanse. It’s probably a bird pecking or a fox crunching on a bone. Tom thought the sensible thing to do would be to check the inside of the cave, find out what was making the noise and then have a worry free walk on to Lynn. Sounded like a plan, he thought.

Tom carefully placed the ale cart on the ground and then cautiously walked towards the cave trying to get a glimpse into the darkness. As he approached, he called, “Hello, is there anyone in there?” in a polite voice.

He heard what sounded like movement from within.

He wondered if his presence had scared the poor creature inside, “don’t worry, I don’t mean you any harm,” he said as kindly as he could.

When suddenly! A thunderous voice boomed from the cave. “Who dares disturb my meal?” 

Tom halted, “whoops!” Thinking had he found the giant in its cave, quite unsure how that could have happened. Tom tried to think quickly, even though thinking quickly was not generally his strong point. His head filled with images of him parading through the streets of Lynn to cheering crowds with the giant’s head in his hands, after he had slain it while it was eating.

However soon the more sober thought of him picking up the cart and fleeing to Lynn came to mind. Tom quickly elected to do the latter. “Don’t let me disturb your meal Mr Giant, I’m leavin.”

Tom began backing away from the cave towards his cart. As he did from the cave emerged Pæga the giant, at least twelve feet tall and looking angry. Its eyes were bloodshot and its massive hands were clenched into tight fists.

Tom didn’t know what to do but managed to splutter out the words, "I’m Tom Hickathrift, and I’m deliverin' ale to Lynn, so no time to stop and chat”. With that he pulled his cart and headed away from the giant.

However Pæga with his huge gate quickly blocked the road, so Tom could not pass, and looked at him grinning wickedly.

“Now you’re a big one I think I’ll make a nice hot pot out of you; you’ll last for days. And you’ve brought me some ale to wash you down with, why thank you.”

Tom put the cart down and gazed up at the giant, it didn’t look the sympathetic kind of giant, asking politely to be let go was probably not going to work, so he decided bravado was the best strategy. "Hot pot? I think you’ll find me a tough meal to swallow."

“We’ll see about that.” The giant let out a booming laugh. Raising a massive hand the giant brought his heavy fist down on Tom’s head in a crushing blow… then looked confused. As his fist was being held mid-air a few inches above Tom’s skull by the boy's hands. Tom had caught the his hefty blow with all its force on its way down, seemingly with ease. The giant’s face widened with surprise. “What’s this? A boy with the strength to match a score of men?”

“I’ve met no man yet who could stop me,” Tom said, his voice low but now filling with conviction after his initial success. The giant growled and tried to wrench his arm free from Tom’s grip, his muscles straining. As he did Tom wrapped his arm around the giant’s waist, well as much of it as he could and began to try and wrestle the giant off its feet. As he did that the giant with it’s loose hand did the same.

For a couple of minutes Tom and Pæga wrestled, rolling about the ground, sometimes Tom on top, sometimes Pæga, but neither could get the advantage, until the giant stood up and backed off.

“You’re strong, boy. But strength alone won’t save you! I’ll be back with my club and then you’ll be for it”

The giant turned and stomped back into the cave.

As Tom watched him go he muttered to himself, scratching his head. “Well, a club, eh, that could be a problem. I could wrestle him all day, but a club is a different story.”

Tom realised he would need to find a weapon too if he was to have any chance against Pæga. Tom turned to his cart, looking on it for anything on it that might help, but there was nothing. He then scanned the surrounding fen in increasing desperation, when by chance his eyes fell upon the rear axle of the cart, and an idea sparked in his mind. With a grunt, he hoisted the cart above his head, pulling off the wheels and removing the axle. An eight foot long thick wooded shaft with an iron wheel fitting at each end. He broke the axle in half and with a rock hammered the iron wheel fitting into the shape of a warhammer.

When he'd finished, he proudly held his new weapon above his head, and gave it some test swings.

Tom didn’t have to wait long for Pæga to return. Soon he felt the ground beneath his feet start to shake and the Pæga charged out of the cave, waving a massive club, the size of a tree trunk, above his head..

The giant holding its club in front of it, spoke, "this is my meat tenderiser, tonight you'll melt in my mouth when I have you for my evening meal."

Tom held aloft his hammer, stopped... that meat tenderiser line was quite clever he thought and that he would need an equally witty reposte. He stood in deep contemplation for a moment, then an idea entered his head... "I'm gonna...gonna... er... MILL YER." he blurted out. 

Pæga looked puzzled. "Mill me!" his voice more confusion and than booming for the first time.

Tom thought for a moment, then tried to explain his joke. "I mean like a miller mills the corns... he um!... grinds them to powder..... Me ammer will mill you." Tom felt pleased with his explanation and everything was cleared up.

Whether Pæga got the joke is unkknown, as seeing Tom had lowered his guard while talking, Pæga rushed straight at Tom and swung the club down with terrifying force. Tom barely managed to get to his senses and raise his hammer in time to block the strike. The weight of the blow from the heavy club sent a shockwave through Tom’s arms, but they held firm, his feet sinking deep into the marshy ground.

After Tom's parry the giant withdrew the club to swing again. Tom took his chance, with a roar of effort, Tom swung the hammer and caught the giant’s leg, sending him stumbling. The giant’s bellowed of frustration shook the earth as he struggled to regain his balance. Tom, fuelled by adrenaline, dodged another powerful swing of the club and struck again, this time landing a hammer blow on the Pæga’s shoulder.

For several long sweltering minutes a back-and-forth ensued between Tom and Pæga with Tom’s nimble strikes beginning to take their toll. The giant’s movements were slowing, his growls becoming laboured.

Seeing the giants exhaustion Tom took his chance. He stepped back, waited his moment and then swung his hammer with all his might, striking the giant squarely in the forehead. The giant let out a deafening cry before crashing to the ground, its blood splattered body sprawling in the mud.

Pæga was down but not out, just dazed and scrambling to his feet, Tom quickly swung his hammer again, his muscles straining with the effort. The hammerhead whizzed through the air with a deadly accuracy, striking the giant in the side of the head with a sickening thud. This time, Pæga stumbled back, screaming in pain, but did not fall. The giant’s face screwed up with fury, and it swang its massive club toward Tom. But Tom was ready, he side stepped the blow and counter struck with the hammer. As the hammer hit Pæga’s skull a hideous crunch could be heard and Pæga fell to his knees..

Tom moved in for the kill. His hammer struck again splitting Pæga’s head open with a hideous cracking sound, and the giant crumbled to the ground, lifeless.

"Told yer, I milled, yer!" He blurted out, without thinking.

Tom stood for a brief moment contemplating what he had done, the blood rush still coursing through his body. His eyes scanned the fallen giant’s corpse, his mind still not quite grasping the magnitude of what he had happened. He’d killed Pæga! Tom felt both relief and elation, he held his hammer alot and proudly looked at his milling hammer.

* * * *

Tom picked up Pæga’s huge club with ease and threw it on the back of his cart. He also lovingly placed his hammer there and set off on his journey to Lynn. By the time he reached the town it was early evening. 

As he passed through the stockade gates of Lynn, a rumour quickly spread about the town, and the townsfolk began to gather. Drawn by the sight of a towering seven foot boy, his clothes torn and splattered with blood, his legs covered in mud from the marsh, a broad smile stretched across his face and waving colossal club above his head. 

Soon the word of his giant slaying reached the whole town, and by the time Tom reached Lynn town centre, half the town had assembled to cheer him. A well dressed man stood in the town centre and came to greet him, “You’ve done it, lad,” the Thegn of Lynn declared, grabbing and rapidly shaking Tom’s hand, “You’ve rid us of Pæga!”

Tom was a little bit embarrassed, he’d never been the centre of such attention before. He wondered what to say before blurting out. “Aye, I have, and I’ve brought your ale too.” At his words a cheer erupted from the gathered townsfolk.

Later that night a hastily made feast was held in his honour and tankards were downed to song and dance. Another was held the next night when he returned home to Wisbech a hero. And soon across the whole of East Anglia his name was known.

* * * *

The story of Tom Hickathrift does not end here. Tom became a guardian of East Anglia, a protector whose courage would be tested time and again.

In further adventures Tom Hickathrift would go on to mill even greater foes with his hammer, and protect the land from monstrous creatures that threatened it. His name is still celebrated by the people of East Anglia today, in the names of places and ale houses.