The Last of the Giants
Our voyage northwards to the Oregonian border from Sacramento was one of great effort these past few weeks. While the trainline was fine enough, the rugged terrain of our chosen destination made necessary the usage of fine horses for each of our motley band of ten. John, our Indian guide from the region, warned us of the perilousness of these mountain valleys in winter, how the Indian Giants were still not fond of White folk and would be quick to finish our excursion abruptly should we anger them. Not dismayed by this possibility, we made our stop near Mount Shasta, a supposed home to these Indian Giants. Previous giganthropologists in the area knew of how elusive this race of giants had grown to be with the great push westward, but what we didn’t know was how they’d always been this way, even with the natives. From attacks on hunters, lumberjacks and miners throughout the Cascades, we’ve learned that the Indian Giant is a hairy man, like the Woodwose of Central and Northern Europe, but as territorial as the Snowmen of Siberia. We were prepared for anything, from large caliber rifles to offerings in the style of the Shasta and Klamath. One night, while camping within eyesight of the volcano, which admittedly is not hard to miss in the moonlight with its snowy cap, we heard the hollers.
Trees were smacked, cracked like matchsticks. It was distant, but still shook us. The voices carried aptly through the valleys.
John was particularly vigilant, not to say none of us were at that point. It was him who suggested that we leave offerings for the giants down the hill, by a large rock we passed. Taking both him, myself, and one of the men who goes by the name Jacobo, we made the short trek through snow to the rock with torches in hand, food stuffs in our bags, and determination in our hearts. We splayed out salted meats on the rock, emptying cans of beans, jams, and vegetables in bowls besides them. John placed feathers and smoked salmon there as part of his own personal offering, knowing his efforts would guarantee the group’s safety. As we rejoined our group by a now snuffed out fire, we could see a small train of about five large dark and hairy figures trudge through the snow. With binoculars we could tell they were the giants that had announced their presence earlier, or at least associated. Our cameraman Saul managed to take a photograph of the giants in the moonlight, though they were too far away from us for it to be well defined. That night we took turns on watch around the reinvigorated campfire, being sure to be careful.
Over the course of the next few days we trekked over the old trails that led through these California mountains of Siskiyou county until we finally reached our destination right on the border. When we arrived, we came across a bustling lumbersite and a small town called Williamstown. Williamstown’s sole purpose was to supply said lumber to companies on either side of the border, transporting the logs by travois and onwards by train. It was here that we found the region’s last Menhir Giants, the Keuntalek family. We were greeted at the head of the town by a crowd of onlookers, before them were the Keuntaleks. Among the Keuntaleks was the head of the family, Mr. Hector Keuntalek, an elderly giant of about 150 or so, his wife Mrs. Laura Keuntalek née Trelawny, age 143, his two sons Mr. Colin and Mr. John, both 65 and 50 respectively, and his daughter Ms Trinity, age 30. As is custom among their people, these first names of theirs are only public names; their true names in their language generally kept secret from non-giants and outsiders. I did not pry about these names, as it is best to organically learn them and be told in confidence.
We greeted them in the customary Menhir Giant way, raising our arms in the sky as if praising the sun and saying the phrase “Kaijo, Anzinnaku Erakizalek!” or “Greetings, Builders of Old!”
The Keuntaleks, in unison, raised their arms as well. They answered as expected of them: “Onogi etolia ematen dizgu,” which translates to “We welcome you.” With these words, we joyfully approached the giants with open palms quickly shaken in hands that dwarfed ours. They speak in a West Country English, with injections of Cornish and Basque here and there, but given the amount of time their family has spent in the Americas it was no bother.
The old giant Hector could not stand very well on his own anymore, so he shook our hands with his right while he propped himself up on a cane fashioned from a log. He invited us to dinner at their longhouse, at the far end of the town, which we gratefully accepted. We had a photo taken with them, with the Keuntaleks standing tall behind us. With the crowd slowly dispersing afterwards we made our way to the gargantuan building in the forest, right by a little stream that ran quaintly past it through the land they claimed their own. The doors opened to a great dwelling, supported by a row of logs erected to a ceiling easily thirty or forty feet in the air. The hearth at the center was, and is, a great reprieve from the cold winter. Mr. Hector beckoned us to sit with them by the fire, which was tended to by the young Miss Trinity. Mrs. Laura came about us with a traditional meal of hunter’s stew, bread, and beer. While all ten of us travelers could be fed with whatever they had many times over on our own, their own bowls were modestly sized. It was over this meal by the hearth that I came to ask if I may begin an interview with the family, which was immediately given the blessing of Mr. Hector. I took notes of this interview, and I shall transcribe them here.
“Now, Mr and Mrs Keuntalek, where were you born and raised?”
Mr. Hector: “I were born in Liskeard, Cornwall.”
Mrs. Laura: “I was a Saint Austell Girl. Cornwall, as well.” Note that this was coupled
with a nod.
“That name, Keuntalek, that’s an old one, yes?”
Mr. Hector: “Aye, older than any Englishman I’ll tell ye that.” Mr. Hector laughs with this.
“How long have you two been in America?”
Mr. Hector: “We’ve been ‘ere for ‘bout ninety or a hundred years or so, since yous smallfolk ‘ere broke away from the old country.”
Mrs. Laura: “Aye, it’s been quite the time. I remember those days well. America was the great light in the west, were it not.”
“How old were you both when you arrived, and where did you first find yourself living?”
Mr. Hector: “Well I were ‘bout fifty or sixty depending on whene’er we first came o’er, Laura ‘ere was ‘bout forty. We were very young then, just been married under arrangement by our fathers an’ mothers. To answer the end o’ that question, we arrived in North Carolina, so we worked there in North Carolina.”
“From my understanding, such a young marriage is relatively common among your folk, yes?”
Mr. Hector: “Aye, at least it were. Everyone did it, no excuses. Best matches made that way, considering e’eryones related some’ow. Small population, and all…” “Were you working on the coast Mr. Hector?”
“For some time, aye, per’aps. Seven or so years. Worked all along the coast there. Worked with them hoigh toiders as you Americans call ‘em.”
“They must have sounded very familiar to your ears.”
Mr. Hector: “That they did ser. That they did.”
“And Mrs. Laura?”
Mrs. Laura: “Oh I didn’t need to work much, just did me womanly duties is all.”
“You both obviously didn’t stay long there on the coast, what changed?”
Mr. Hector: “Well it were that an opportunity to move westward opened up for us. ‘Twas the year 1809, before your stint with the old country. Laura and I were given an offer, ya see, for work in them Appalachians out in the backcountry. I’d do work for one o’ them moun’ain men, do work on ‘is ‘omestead out in Cherokee lands. The sort of work that demanded tallfolk muscle, ya understand. We were the first of us tall folk out in them moun’ains. Idea were that if them Indians saw a tall bloke like me ‘ammerin’ posts with me bare hands, they’d leave that there ‘omestead be.”
“Well, did it work?”
Mr. Hector: “Not in the way ol’ ‘Omesteader MacKenzie wished. Them North Cherokee ended up lovin’ me the same way they’d love one of their own braves. MacKenzie weren’t in bad relations with them, just didn’t want any of their conflicts boilin’ over into his own land. Not that that even would ‘ave ‘appened in the first place considering only one of their tribes lived in the region, paranoid lad.”
“Can you elaborate on your relationship with this group of Cherokee?”
Mr. Hector: “Aye, aye, they were good folk they were. Gave me the nickname ‘Sulkaloo,’ or somethin’ along those lines. Apparently it be the name of one of their own tall blokes, some hairy feller who talks to animals and such. I didn’t mind it, just never got to meet the real one. Well, not there at least. Anyway, them Cherokee were good folk, never gave us trouble. They invited us over for supper e’ery now and then, good cooks too. Back then we knew some of their tongue, but don’t ask us to repeat any of that. We can’t remember any of it. We were there to see them make their own writin’ script, what an experience that was. Met Mr Sequoyah ‘imself when he came to visit us so called ‘Sulkaloo and Tall Wife.’”
Mrs. Laura: “He was very well spoken, if I may say so meself.”
“That’s quite the interesting man to meet. Was there anyone else you ended up meeting in that timeframe?”
Mr. Hector: “I believe we did end up meeting a Mr. Boone, ol’ feller was one of them moun’ain men. Went out of the way to find me and shake me ‘and.”
“Just how long were you folks out there?”
Mr. Hector: “Oh, well, up to about 1838.”
“That’s when the government moved all the Cherokee west, yes?”
Mr. Hector: “Ye, it were a bad ordeal. Many friends forced o’er the mountains an’ o’er the ol Mississippi. Lost many along the way. Couldn’t ‘elp but be full of wroth towards dem soldiers, an’ dat Mr. Jackson feller. Same to Wool, Scott, and Van Buren.”
He raised his voice here, and his hands began to tremble into fists. “The Cherokee… they were good people. They tried.”
Mrs. Laura put her hand on his back to comfort him. He eased up as she rubbed his shoulders.
I nodded to this. “I understand. It was a tragedy. None of the Indians deserved it. Though, you said you were full of wroth, did you do anything against those soldiers in the removal?”
He hesitated, nervous. Mrs. Laura appeared nervous as well. Mr. Hector only shook his head here and waved his hand. I took it as a sign to move on to another question.
“What happened after the removal?”
Mrs. Laura: “Well, it were right after that that we could no longer work for Mr. MacKenzie. Unforeseen circumstances. He understood, and he aided us in securing passage to the west as soon as he could. We had to say goodbye to many good people.”
Mr. Hector nodded along with this. He seemed to have composed himself. “As it were then, where did that long trip west take you?”
Mr. Hector: “Through Osage country. Then onto Kansa and Missouri country. Then Pawnee country. Two Kettle country, Cheyenne country, Crow country, the whole lot of it. Through the moun’ains and over we went. We followed the Snake River to the Columbia, then made our way up the Willamette up to ‘ere. Had Colin on the way here. Then John. Young Trinity was much more recent, did not expect her joinin’ us.”
“How’d you find yourself working here?”
Mr. Hector: “I got meself an offer from Mister James. Settlers were looking for hired muscle in those days, what better than a tallman. Settlers also needed lumber, no one swings an axe better than I.”
“Like ten men, eh?”
Mr. Hector: “Like twenty.” He grinned pridefully at this. “Not anymore, though. Colin and John do that for me now.”
“What do you do nowadays, then?”
Mr. Hector: “I’ve been trying to arrange a marriage for my children is what. Too few of us around, distances too vast here.” He sat back. “Takes all me time, can’t even tend to the garden out back.”
Mrs. Laura: “The best prospects are the Trelawneys, my kin, down the Willamette. They only have daughters though, and we worry young Trinity won’t find a husband until late.”
Ms. Trinity: “I’ll find someone, don’t you two worry.” She was tending to the fire when she said this. A smile graced her fair face.
Mr. Hector: “None of them lumberjack boys you fancy so much.” He scolded her. “None!”
We laughed together.
Mr. Hector: “Too expensive to feed us anyway. Cheaper to get a machine to do our business anyway, ferrying logs and whatnot. Thank God, our current employer refuses to do away with us. I only worry for the others of our kin.”
I called it an end with the interview for the night, and we ten men enjoyed the hospitality of the tallfolk. Later on, after many mugs of ale and mead, I stood outside with Colin and John to smoke a cigarette. From what they told me, their father had an encounter with American soldiers back during the Cherokee removal. They’d ambushed a hero of the Cherokee people, beating his wife and killing their infant son. Allegedly, Mr. Hector took matters into his own hands and ripped in half two of the soldiers. One escaped, and this Cherokee hero thanked Mr. Hector for having done what he did. That man took his family into the mountains, where the United States made that man, called Charley in the brothers’ recollection, the scapegoat for the deaths. When the news of the capture and execution of this man and his family reached the ears of the Keuntaleks, Mr. Hector was devastated. Mr. John said that his father took up drinking to try to drown his guilt, only through great effort on Mrs. Laura’s part did he stop the poison.
We’re to stay with the Keuntaleks for another few days, aiding them in their chores and taking notes on their stories. There are many yet to be retold. I pray that we may be able to grant justice to these people, these ancient friends of man.