The following is a folk tale I wrote 11 years ago, which I came across recently. I took The Hidden Man's name from the song, although the character here is not based on the character in the song. Nevertheless, I think there is a subtle Foxx influence in the tale, which is why I have posted it. It needs some filling in, but here goes:
There once lived a giant in an almost forgotten Britain where big green vegetables grew in abundance. He was formidable, athletic, and had the strength of many. However, Plenderleath - for 'twas his name - seldom, if ever, used his prodigious power to benefit his community. On the contrary, he was feared and loathed throughout the realm, as he abused his physical prowess and would steal goods that he coveted from anyone he chose. If he felt hungry he would use his enormous wooden club to slay any beast that tickled his palate. His sexual energy and manhood were phenomenal and he would take any maiden he desired: an action which usually caused the mutilation of the ill-starred wench. But Plenderleath was not bothered by the misery that he caused, and he lived life as he alone saw fit.
One night as Plenderleath slept in his ancient mound there came a knock at his door. The giant grumbled and went outside to see who this nocturnal visitor was. Standing in Plenderleath's forecourt was the figure of Starley, an itinerant potter. Plenderleath glared down at Starley and was about to admonish him severely for waking him at such an unearthly hour when a cloud moved from across the gibbous moon and a moonbeam revealed an uncanny glint in the potter's eye.
'What is it?', asked Plenderleath, uncertainly.
'Well, Mr Plenderleath', began Starley, I travel far and wide selling my earthenware pots and have done so for many years'.
Plenderleath had an urge to interrupt and send away this little man whom he regarded with contempt. But the look in Starley's eye and the earnest patter which flowed from his mouth left the giant strangely mute.
Starley continued: 'In all these years of travelling I had never met anyone as tall as you. But, last week, as I peddled my wares over on the Eastheadland, I came across a giant - a giant as tall as you sir. Maybe taller. I talked with him, and he said that he was undoubtedly the tallest man in the world'.
'A man taller than me?', growled Plenderleath, you silly little...' He looked down and saw that Starley had vanished. Plenderleath retired to his mound vowing to see to the crafty potter and his balderdash in the morning.
But the next day, when Plenderleath went to call on Starley, the potter was not at his usual lodgings. Plenderleath searched nearby villages and trackways and asked everyone that he met if they had seen Starley, but no-one seemed to have seen the potter since the previous evening. However, it was clear that before his disappearance Starley had been spreading rumours, since everyone that Plenderleath spoke to asked him the same question: 'Could it be true sir, does there live on the Eastheadland a man taller than you?'
The more that Plenderleath was asked this question the angrier he became. As the days went by and there was still no word of Starley, Plenderleath started to worry that Starley might have been speaking the truth and that one day this mysterious rival giant might head west and usurp his position as the mightiest and most feared person in the realm. At length, Plenderleath could stand the uncertainty no longer; and so he determined to journey to the Eastheadland to search for and to kill his rival.
The sky was overcast on that morning when Plenderleath set off along the cursus towards the Eastheadland. He followed the timeworn tramlines for many miles over the plains until at last he came to the Henge of Fveron, where even giants pause to reflect and to pay respect. From there the going became more strenuous, but Plenderleath's tenacity and huge stride were a match for any terrain he encountered. Over the open grasslands, through fields of thick vetch, and then past the wilderness to the vast rolling meadows he strode, never stopping to rest. He came upon villages that he did not know, and as weariness wracked his whole body his legs dragged and he knocked down and trampled many houses. Once, he even left a towering sanctuary a sprawling ruin. And with destruction came death; and as villagers tended to the torn and mangled they nodded their heads sadly, for it was foretold what would be, and, indeed, what had to be.
Plenderleath did not care about the great suffering and devastation that he had caused. Nor was he much bothered by his own pain, because he now possessed that distinctive brand of determination that only the truly fired can know.
At last, on a quite beautifully clear night, Plenderleath arrived at the gentle downs of the Eastheadland. The full moon and the glimmering stars cast a frosty cloak upon the landscape. Plenderleath looked about himself to see if there was any sign of his rival. But the only sound and movement on that still night came from the shimmering sea as it caressed the shore far below the cliffs. Worn out, Plenderleath lay down, cuddled the hillside, and rested his head upon a turfed dome of death. He slept.
When he awoke it was daylight. Plenderleath looked up and saw birds swooping and wheeling over the downs. A gentle breeze brought the sound of holy bells across a valley to his ears. It was Sunday the thirteenth - the festival of Fveron. Plenderleath clasped a handy white staff, pulled himself to his feet, and took a step forward. Promptly, he collided with something soft, yet unyielding, and all at once he realised the unnatural horror of what stood before him. He was face to face with a fellow giant. Or rather, his adversary stood face and chest with him, since he stood a good head and shoulders taller than Plenderleath. But although he exceeded Plenderleath in height, in other ways he was less than half the man that Plenderleath was: for here stood a man in outline only. His head and body were a featureless void. He had no eyes. No ears. No mouth. His hands were fingerless, yet he still somehow managed to clutch two huge staffs, one of which Plenderleath had used to help himself to rise to his feet. Plenderleath looked deep into his rival's body and finally came to know what he had feared, but half expected. The outline had no heart.
Suddenly Plenderleath jumped frantically into action. He reached for his club and brought it down time and again on the outline's head. But the blows proved to be futile, and when at last Plenderleath stopped to draw breath there was not a single mark on the outline. Plenderleath let his club drop to the ground and stared and stared in wonder at this truly singular foe. As he did so the outline started to bulge and sweat, and something started to materialise in the space where the outline's heart should have been. It was the head of Starley. And Plenderleath now recognised that the diffident potter was none other than the Hidden Man himself.
The Hidden Man gazed at Plenderleath with mournful eyes. Plenderleath was terrified and transfixed at the emergence of the Hidden Man suspended there in the transparency of the outline.
'Oh Plenderleath!', exclaimed the Hidden Man, at length. 'You of such power, such strengh. You who know good from evil and health from sickness and joy from misery. You love Life, yet assist Death. You who take the flesh, but spurn the crop. You who rape, kill, hurt and abuse. I, I the Hidden Man, I weep for you. For are you not my brother? Sent to lead the British from fear'.
And Plenderleath stared into the tearful eyes of the Hidden Man and started to remember back through countless years. He recalled a golden time when he was known as Fveron, and was loved by all the people for his great beneficence. But untold years had slowly soured the heart of Fveron and he had abandoned his assigned task. Fveron had become Plenderleath and now brought only woe where he had once brought only joy.
The Hidden Man addressed Plenderleath once more: 'I brought you here to show you what heights of endurance and strength you can reach when you are set a challenge. Plenderleath, you still have all the power that you always have had, but just like this mere outline - you have no heart. Without a heart you can do no good. And so it is that I will send you back west where you will remain on the hill overlooking your home. You will hunger, but you may not eat. Your lust will remain ever unsated and your ire will burn for year upon year. But you will walk again, Plenderleath. For when once again you have a heart, then from these staffs shall this outline form his own heart. He shall have life, and he will journey west to free you from the spell. Together you will work, and Britain will once more be delivered from a fearful curse.' With these words the Hidden Man vanished, Plenderleath was transported home, and the outline fell to the ground.
And so it is that on the hill overlooking the village that came to be known as Cerne Abbas there lies a giant. He fumes and he rages inside, but he cannot move. His club is held aloft and his desire is plain to see. Yet one day he will at last be calm, and a heart will form where now there is just grassy green. Then the outline at Wilmington will come to raise him to his feet and Fveron will once again guard these Isles.
