Swimming through layers of storied memory, the giant clutched at fragments of words and images. Were they pieces of a true tale that belonged to him? Or were they slivers of the spell that pinned him down?
Imdha toir torudh abla,
Imdha airne cen cesa,
Imdha dairbre ardmhesa.
Plentiful in the east the apple fruits,
Plentiful the luxuriant sloes,
Plentiful the noble acorn-bearing oaks.
Fado, fado.
Once upon a time, long, long ago…
… there was a Mountain Kingdom that curved like a chain on the blue throat of the sea. It was a place of dark forests and windy peaks, of sunny glens and rushing rivers. The lakes and streams brimmed with trout and silver salmon. The trees rang with the song of bright birds.
The King of the Mountain, the King of the Woods, was tall and broad-shouldered, of courteous speech and gentle manner. He did not care for war or battle. His chief delight was to roam the hills in the company of wild creatures, great and small. In the light of day, his peals of laughter rolled over the highlands like summer thunder. In the shadows of the evening, he swam in cool waters under the moon. Oh, how tranquil was his world! How green its valleys! How sweet the air and clear the waters!
And when springtime thawed the white frost of winter and everything living bridled with new joy, the Mountain King's people would call out to him.
"Will you not marry?" chirmed the birds.
"Will you not take a wife?" hummed the bees.
It was a question they always asked and one to which his answer never wavered.
"I am waiting."
Then falling silent, he would gaze upward into the glimmering night, and hope would dim his eyes till he was almost blind.
