Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum

Being a giant’s wife is a pleasing life for me. My husband’s stature is great and his heart even greater. The issue is, and I’m going to go into this, he ain’t half pea-brained. Or should I say bean-brained?

We live a quiet life on our farmstead in the clouds. My husband works the land where he tends to enormous crops of beans, and coddles our golden hen. Seeing how we live peaceful lives, we bother no one, you see. Well, almost. The truth is that while I am a devout vegetarian (big beans, porridge, and golden eggs are enough for me), my husband needs meat for he toils the field and pampers the hen all day. You may disagree with his diet of boys but tell me this: would you condemn a fox for snatching a hare or a lion for tearing down a gazelle? I imagine not.

My story begins one bright morning in the clouds. While I was cooking my porridge, I heard my husband’s rhyming on the wind:

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,

I smell the blood of a salesman.”

I peered out of the window to see my husband haggling with a small old man amongst our field of giant beans. Once their talking was done, my husband thump, thump, thumped! up to our tall white house.

“What did that old man want?” I asked when my husband dropped a bag of gold upon the table.

“He offered me this here bag of gold so long as I promise not to eat him for my tea.”

“Is that all?”

“That is not all, my dear wife. I’m no fan of the taste of old men —too much gristle— so I told him it wasn't a fair offer for him.”

“Oh?”

“Hence I gave him a handful of our beans.”

I nearly dropped my ladle into the porridge, “You gave him our beans that grow so tall? You ain’t half daft. You should have taken that bag of gold and left the offer be.”

”It’s no matter, my love, for I’d rather make an honest deal than be a cheating scoundrel. It’s only fair that I trade him beans that are said to make the grower rich for a bag of gold.”

“And what if those beans grow into great big stalks down in the mortal realm?”

“Even if they do, I’m sure this whole affair won’t bite me on this great big behind of mine.”

The next morning, while my husband was out in the field and I was cooking my porridge, a most curious boy showed up on the doorstep.

“I am most hungry for my mam was most mad at me last night and I went without any supper. Not even a morsel has passed these lips of mine,” The boy said.

“And why was that?” I asked.

“She was cross with me, you see. I’d—“ The boy stopped when my husband’s footsteps rocked the clouds under our feet.

Thump. Thump. Thump!

“Quick! I need some breakfast before that great big giant comes.”

“If you want breakfast so bad, breakfast is what you’ll be. That giant is my husband and he likes nothing more than eating cheeky boys like you.”

“Your giant husband’ll like eating me better if I’m fattened up by a bowl of that porridge,” He grinned.

And lo and behold! My husband’s rhyme reached our ears:

“Fee-fi-foo-fum,

I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

“Quick, in the oven with you,” I shoved the boy in and slammed the iron door shut. I glared at him as I caught him peeking from the grill just as my husband stomped on in:

Thump. Thump! THUMP!

He wriggled his big nose-y and bellowed out his rhyme:

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,

I smell the blood of an Englishman.

Be he alive, or be he dead,

I’ll grind his bones to make my bread,”

“What are you talking about, you smell the blood of an ‘Englishman’, dearest husband of mine? Surely you’re still sniffing last night’s supper of roasted boy with boy soup and boy salad with boy bone croutons. Now sit yourself down there, see, and grab yourself a bowl of this porridge.”

“Porridge? I’d much rather crunch on the bones of a boy or two.”

“I’ll not be having that from you. The doctor said for you to keep an eye on your diet with your cholesterol so high. So porridge it is for you else the doctor’ll give you a good telling off and rightfully so.”

With a huff, my husband slumped into the chair which groaned and ricketted under his mass.

“Have you counted that gold you got from that old codger yet?” I asked as I set his breakfast down. There was a creaking from the oven so I hissed at the curious boy to keep still.

“Now that’s a grand idea, sweet pea. I’ll count out the gold in this here bag and later I’ll go to market and see what wondrous instruments I can find and play for you.”

My husband gobbled up his porridge. He began counting out his gold —one, two, three— but yawned and, putting his feet up on the other chair, was soon snoring soundly while both chairs creaked to his nasal melody:

“zzzZZee-zzzZZi-zzzZZo-zzzZZum,

Off to the Land of Nod I come.”

I opened the oven door and whispered, “Now out with you, you curious boy. Best be getting on and don’t you dare linger. Straight out of the door with you before my giant husband wakes from his nap and chews you up.”

I went back to stirring the porridge and, when I looked up and saw the curious boy had gone, I saw that the gold bag had vanished, too. I exclaimed this to my giant husband for him to wake up.

“No matter,” He shrugged, “See here, dearest wife of mine. We still have three shining gold pieces which are enough for me.”

Days and weeks passed peacefully. Our golden hen continued to lay her golden eggs which we ate each day: Sometimes hard-boiled, sometimes scrambled, sometimes fried. And then one morning, as I was making an omelette using a good many of our golden eggs (for my husband has the healthiest of appetites), a curious boy arrived upon our front door.

“Good morning,” He sang, “For isn’t it a wonderful morning?”

I narrowed my eyes for I was suspicious of this boy.

“I’m so hungry I could eat all day and never stop and then still have some room left over and go at it all again. Could I grab some breakfast?”

“Out with you, you strange lad! Last time a boy was here, if I remember right, our bag of gold went missing. A curious coincidence if you ask me. So curious that it seems to me as if you may be that very same boy.”

“A curious coincidence but surely just a coincidence. How would you know I’m that same boy? I may be innocent after all. Now pass me some omelette and I’ll explain my tale.”

My frown deepened but I enjoyed a good tale and I wondered why this boy looked so similar to the first. I flipped the omelette and placed it upon a plate. It was at that very moment my ears pricked up to my husband coming home:

Thump. Thump. Thump!

“Into the oven. Quick you’d better be for my husband loves nothing better than the taste of suspicious boys like you.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” The boy grinned as he got into the oven. I was about to turn those odd words over in this head of mine, but my husband stomped on in.

Thump. Thump! THUMP!

He beamed as he slumped into the chair at the table, “What a wondrous morning it is, for you have my omelette all ready for me. But my most delightful sweet, this portion isn’t nearly enough for one so big as me.“

My husband whistled and our golden hen strutted on over. At my husband’s request, “Lay!” out came half of half a dozen —one, two, three— of her shining golden eggs which my giant husband presented to me. All of a sudden, his big nose-y twitched and he broke out into his giant’s rhyme:

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,

I smell the blood of an Englishman.

Be he alive, or be he dead,

I'll grind his bones to make my bread.”

I had to say something fast for I needed my husband’s attention away from the boy in the oven; I love a good tale, you see, and that boy had promised to tell one to me. So I said to my giant husband, “Since when could you tell from where a boy hails from the smell of their blood?”

“Since I was yay high,” He put his hand out to the height of an elephant.

I nearly let escape a sigh, for my husband had a habit of taking words too literally, “Tell me, dear husband. How can you tell the smell of an Englishman?”

“Easy,” He said, ”They smell different to a Frenchman.”

“How can you tell the smell of a Frenchman?”

“Ah! Now here’s the trick!” He rubbed his chin, “They smell quite different to a Welshman.”

”So how can you tell the smell of a Welshman?”

“They smell different to a Scotsman.”

”And how can you tell the smell of a Scotsman?”

“Different to an Englishman, of course.”

“And so we go full circle, dearest husband of mine. Pray do explain, how does an Englishman smell?”

“My sweetest petal, isn’t it obvious? They smell with their nose!”

I zipped my lips shut for I had no patience to carry this farce any further. But when I looked away from our chatting, I saw to my shock and horror, the golden hen had vanished. I checked the oven and so too had that devious boy!

I lamented over the next few days and weeks. I groaned apologies to my husband but he patted me with his giant hand and told me not to worry. Every morning, I told myself I would not allow any boy in for breakfast lest it be that devious lad.

It was early one morning that, to cheer me up, my husband took up his promise to me to go to market and acquire a magical instrument with the three gold coins we had left. After some hours, I felt a funny tingling on the breeze, the same I had when that boy had demanded breakfast. But having not spied him on the doorstep, I continued with my morning duties until—

Thump. Thump! THUMP!

There was my giant husband back from market brandishing a shiny object in his meaty hand. I craned my neck to see but no sooner had I than his big nose-y twitched and he began his rhyme:

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,

I smell the blood of an Englishman.

Be he alive, or be he dead,

I'll grind his bones to make my bread.”

I did not care for sniffing out nationalities of boys, but I trusted my husband’s nose for it had never led me astray before.

With my hands firmly upon my hips, I declared, “I’ll wager it’s that wicked, cruel boy who stole your bag of gold and our golden hen. Enormous darling of mine, since you left to market before you’d eaten, I suggest I cook you up that horrible lad.”

“A wonderful idea,” My husband licked his lips.

We stomped on over to the oven and I prized the door open. But to our surprise all that was left was last night’s roast of boy.

“Don’t worry yourself, my plumpest dumpling. We must be both sniffing things thinking that boy that’s caused you so much stress is about,” My husband said.

I untangled my lips from their deep frown as surely my husband was right and how kind he was to assure me so.

“I bought this magical lyre for you. Come sit beside me, my suet pudding, and we’ll listen to its sweet music and surely that’ll send our worries away.”

So I sat down and he gave me a sloppy kiss with his big lips.

“Play,” He said and the lyre’s syrupy song with just a few notes —one, two, three— sent us a-dozing. And my husband snored in his giant’s rhyme:

“zzzZZee-zzzZZi-zzzZZo-zzzZZum,

Off to the Land of Nod I come.”

All of a sudden, my giant husband and I awoke when the lyre’s song ceased and with a twanging it cried, “Master! Mistress! Master! Mistress!”

Upon opening my eyes wide, Lo and Behold! What do we see? But that malicious boy had come to steal from us our magical lyre. So I shouted at the top of my lungs, “Get that big behind of yours up, giant husband of mine! And gobble up that horrible boy! For he cheats and terrorises the pair of us as we try to pass our peaceful lives above the clouds. Go forth, giant husband of mine, and gnash on those twiggy bones of his before he reaches the mortal realm!”

My husband leaped to his feet. But how fast and swift that boy was even with a lyre playing its dissonance under his arm. It was a race indeed for my husband’s strides were great but the boy was far more cunning as he dodged and ducked and dived. I ran with all my might to follow the chase but I was far too slow. Finally, I arrived at the beanstalk that grew from the mortal realm and saw that my giant husband was climbing down to catch up with the lad. But my husband was clumsy and the lad had already reached the ground. To my horror, I saw the boy with his mother who was brandishing an axe.

“Back up here with you, husband!” I called, “For that nasty boy’s mother is about to chop down the beanstalk and you’ll likely break your crown.”

But it was too late! That wicked woman hacked at the beanstalk and my husband went a-crashing down into an enormous heap.

“Husband! O husband!” I called when the mother and boy had gone away, “Do you still breathe?”

There was twitching and the giant’s moans drifted up to me:

“Eee-Ow-Ouch-Um,

Out sprouts a bruise on my great big bum.”

With more rumbling groans and roaring grunts, my husband’s mass shifted and I saw his broken face look up at me, “Oh my heaven! My angel! Go to those bean crops of ours and pick for me a handful of giant beans. Then with care, chuck them down to me. I’ll plant them in the ground here and —please wait for me for I shan’t take long— I’ll be back up in the clouds with you. You see, despite the deliciousness of crunching on the bones of boys, I’d much rather pass peaceful days eating porridge and beans with you. Never do I hope to smell the blood of any foul Englishmen ever again.”

So I threw down some giant beans and I waited and waited until one day my husband’s giant’s rhyme drifted up to the clouds:

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,

Up this beanstalk to my love I come.”