Norman Thackeray obsessively wiped the bar at the Mouldy Finch pub with his grey rag, a ritual he performed with almost religious devotion. He’d scrubbed it a half-dozen times in the last three minutes, always in a counter-clockwise motion, as he’d been taught by his father.

Norman, a reed thin man with greying ginger hair that made his head look like a worn eraser on top of a pencil, was the landlord of the pub in Yorkshire’s Holme Valley. He navigated between the many pints on the bar to continue his cleaning, as The Finch was full tonight for the festivities. He noted with quiet approval that all the pints were atop coasters – his regulars had been well trained by the combined efforts of Norman and the late Mr. Thackeray, who had drilled manners into the place as firmly as the floorboards. There was no plaque listing the rules by the door, but everyone in the valley knew them well enough.

Boots would be wiped before crossing the threshold no less than three times, empty glasses were to be returned to the bar rather than abandoned on tables, and chairs must be pushed in properly when a man stood. Norman guarded these customs as faithfully as any family heirloom; they were, to his mind, not mere rules but the proper order of things, and The Finch would not feel like The Finch without them. Passerbys, which were rare, had commented that the rules were a bit daft, but the Mouldy Finch was one of the few places for a proper pint anywhere in the valley, so they followed them all the same.  

It was a Friday night, a little after seven, in April 1920. It was also ‘Eten Night,’ the annual date when giants were said to roam the Yorkshire hills and valleys. Locals had been noting the date for centuries, but in recent decades the custom had fallen out of fashion, belief in such folk tales thinning with the times. Norman himself didn’t really believe in such tall tales, either, but he did trust the power of a special event to bring in the punters.

Norman had been planning his Eten Night party for weeks. He’d gotten Mrs. West at the cafe down the street to do up a load of “giant” steak and kidney pies for the occasion, and she was selling them tonight at a table in the back for a shilling a piece. Norman was splitting the proceeds of the pie sale with her, which he thought was more than fair – especially since she’d already downed a bottle of white wine after Norman said her drinks were discounted.

The landlord had also hung red and white bunting throughout the pub, opting for a patriotic look so soon after the end of the Great War. He didn’t really know what appropriate “giant” colours would be and he had the bunting left over from the Peace Day celebration after the Treaty of Versailles. The regulars, upon entering, said they made perfect sense for Eten Night – red for the giants’ bloodied eyes, white for their gnashing teeth – and Norman, content with his frugal decision, leaned into the idea that it had been his plan all along. 

“Another pint if you please, Norman,” said Alistair Clegg, a day shift manager at a nearby woolen mill, who was at his usual spot at the bar. “I need to wash down this pie, it was quite scrummy.”

Clegg, an oval faced man with kind green eyes somewhat obscured by his dirty bifocals, raised the empty plate to show Mrs. West at the back of the room. She raised her wine glass to toast another satisfied customer.

“One second Clegg, just need to make a round of the tables,” Norman said as walked into the main pub area with his ever-present cleaning rag.

The pies were going fast. Norman didn’t usually sell food at The Finch, not wanting the bother. If he sold food, he’d have to hire someone to help him. And Norman didn’t want any help as they’d just be underfoot and not able to work to his exacting standards. Besides, the lifelong bachelor Norman was no cook. He knew lagers, ales and whisky, not sirloins, spices and seasonings. If he couldn’t regularly offer quality fare, he wouldn’t bother.

Norman’s pub was on the north end of Honley, England, where the soot black stone homes and grey buildings started to give way to the dark green and brown hills of West Yorkshire. The structure had been around since the 18th century and, from the outside, looked like two stone houses that had been joined, which it was. It had been a public house for at least two hundred years and had been run by a Thackeray for the last hundred. Norman’s father was landlord before him and his grandfather ran the place prior to that. Norman had grown up in the small rooms above The Finch and had never lived anyplace else.

The pub did a steady business, selling mostly mild ales and whisky. Although there were a few dedicated drinkers of Theakston’s Old Peculier, a strong, dark ale that was Clegg’s favourite.

“Use the coaster if you please Patton,” Norman said as he picked up several empty pint glasses from the tables. The scolded customer moved his glass with a nod. Coasters were not mere decoration; they helped keep stains off the tables from unsightly rings and expensive replacements. Glasses in hand, Norman walked behind the bar and deposited the empty pints into his sink with care to not chip or scratch a single one.

The Finch was more than a source of income for Norman. It was a place of small, welcome certainties. He had built up a steady trade by serving his customers what they came to the pub for – pints and predictability – trivia night on Wednesdays, darts league on Thursdays. That’s why the Great War was so upsetting – it upended life throughout England, even in this little rural pub. Norman had lost three regulars – young men who’d left Honley and never returned. He had kept their names on the chalkboard listing the pub’s darts teams. Norman didn’t think he would ever erase them.

Norman refilled Clegg’s pint, and placed the ale on the coaster in front of his loyal regular. The Finch, for all its strict rules and rituals, was a bulwark against the unpredictability of the world, and Norman was eager for Eten Night to go on in a calm, measured order…

SLAM!

The front door of the Finch burst open, sounding like a thunderclap. Two large, frantic young men staggered in, clinging to each other. Their heads brushed the low beams of the ceiling, and their shirts were torn and tattered. One stumbled into a table, sending a pint crashing to the floor, shards of glass scattering  like sharp snowflakes.

“Hey up!” shouted Norman as he scampered from behind the bar with a broom.

You could count the number of pint glasses that were broken in the course of a year at the pub on one hand and still have fingers left over. Everyone knew that Norman treated the barware as protectively as his own appendages. 

“You can’t come in here like this,” Norman said to the men as he furiously swept up the broken glass. 

Startled patrons looked over to see what the commotion was about. Standing in front of the two hulking young men, the bony Norman looked like a straw stuck between two bottles of beer. 

“We’re sorry sir,” the larger bloke said with an audible burp.

 He had tousled black hair and three days’ growth of stubbly beard on his boyish face. The other one was massive as well, but just a bit shorter and looked even younger. He had the same mop of unruly black hair but no whiskers.

“Could we stay in here for a bit please. Do you have a room where we could clean up?”

Norman was about to chuck them out but noticed the taller one had a King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry tattoo on his right forearm. The distinctive French Horn and White Rose badge was immediately recognizable.

“You served in the war, son,” Norman noted.

“Aye. Soon as I turned 18.”

The tall lad didn’t look to be too far out of his teens. Against his better judgement, Norman relented. If this fellow had fought for King and Country he could give these two the benefit of the doubt, for a little while at least.

“Alright, there’s a small room in the back,” Norman said as he pointed the way. “But mind your steps.”

The pair lumbered toward the room, bumping several tables along the way but thankfully not causing any more glassware to tumble down. Norman resumed sweeping. He kneeled down and put his head to the floor, looking for any sparkly, stray glass flicks he may have missed. 

WHACK!

The pub’s front door opened loudly again- could nobody enter quietly tonight? Norman wondered. A short, rotund woman rolled in. She was firmly on the older side of middle age, with shoulder-length hair that was a rowdy mix of black and white, as if salt and pepper were erupting from her head. She wore a conservative, ankle-length dress so black it threatened to drain the colour from any surrounding objects.

The woman rotated toward the bar, and Norman noticed she was carrying a large, brown corduroy bag, almost like a travelling salesman bearing a briefcase full of wares.

“Hello,” the woman said to Norman. 

She had a distinct, working class London accent, which stuck out like a cowlick in this provincial Northern village.

“Hello ma’am,” Norman replied, still crouched next to the glass. Oddly, he was more unnerved by this diminutive, doughy woman than he was by the two massive oafs who’d careened into The Finch shortly before. She radiated the air of someone who didn’t lose many arguments.

“Did two young lads come in here? Big chaps, black hair?”

“Yes ma’am. They are back in the clubroom,” Norman said, pointing the way.

The woman nodded, walked to the room, went in and shut the door behind her.

Norman carefully lifted the last of the spilled pint glass shards into his hand and paused to allow himself a quiet thought: perhaps this would be the most irregular excitement he’d have to deal with tonight. The rest of the evening, he hoped, would pass without incident.

####

Lita Wallis stood inside The Finch’s cramped club room, assessing the two men in tattered shirts with a critical eye. She had already endured enough of the evening’s disasters –  waylaid in a dreadful little pub in some forgettable town – but now she sensed a very angry giant was in the woods nearby, and she had to set straight these hopelessly useless men. 

“You two are a bunch of numpty sods, you know that, right?”

“M-Mrs. Wallis,” said the older bloke, his eyes bulging with surprise. “What a-are you doing here?”

  Mrs. Wallis was well known among the demimonde of werewolves, giants, faeries, hobgoblins, elves and other creatures most people believed didn’t exist, but most certainly do. She was a witch, but more than that, she helped the demimonde solve problems when they arose. And she acted as an unofficial rozzer for the fey, making sure nobody got out of line. 

“You’ve upset half the Yorkshire demimonde tonight, Colin Ward,” Mrs. Wallis said to the older, taller young man. “Bounding through the moors, frightening the faeries. And you’ve made a few giants right bleeding mad. Those behemoths are very slow to anger. But, as you know, I. Am. Not.”

Mrs. Wallis’ eyes bore into the two young men with the intensity of a pneumatic drill. They had battled vampires, but right now they’d rather be facing off with the undead than having to explain themselves to this diminutive magic woman. She pressed her finger and thumb to the crook of her eye and let out an exasperated breath.

“At least you two had the good sense to transform back into humans before you came into this boozer,” Mr. Wallis continued. “But word got back to Oliver Readman.”

Both men’s eyes widened nearly to the size of tablespoons at the mention of the leader of England’s werewolves, a stern taskmaster, who lived not far away in Huddersfield. 

“That’s right, Andy Ward,” the witch said to the younger man. “Oliver Readman asked me to find you both to keep you from causing anymore trouble. So, to start off, tell me what’s going on with the giant I sense out in those woods.”

Colin Ward ran a hand through his unkempt black mane before responding.

“See, it’s like this Mrs. Wallis. It’s Eten Night and all. Andy and me figured we’d come down ‘ere and run with the big guys. A bit of fun is all it was.”

 “So why are you hiding in the back room of this little pub?”

“Well, seems a couple of the giants got a little upset.”

“Why?”

Colin Ward turned toward his younger brother, passing the explanatory baton.

“So… I nicked something off one of them,” Andy Ward said meekly. He produced a large, green stone from behind his back. It was bigger than his hand. “It was hanging from his belt. You know how giants like sparkly things.”

“It’s a green sapphire,” Mrs. Wallis said.

“Yeah,” Andy Ward continued. “When he discovered it was gone he weren’t too happy. Started chasing after us like, tearing up trees and tossing boulders. Well, we scampered down into the town. And yeah, of course we changed back into humans before we ducked in here for a bit.  Hoping the giant won’t find us.”

Mrs. Wallis walked closer to the two young men, who stepped back as far as they could. They would’ve backed through the wall if they didn’t think that would anger the witch even more.  The short, stout witch was like a bowling ball, ready to knock down the tall pins that were the brother lycanthropes.

“We can’t have giants traipsing through towns. Don’t you think, Colin and Andy, that the regular folk might notice that?” She had it firmly in mind to roll up the nearest newspaper and give the twin pups a sharp smack.

The pair nodded.

“Honestly, you werewolves are the dimmest bulbs in the demimonde. Just this month I’ve had to convince a centaur to stop grazing at night in London’s royal parks and needed to evict two gnomes from Windsor Castle, but that’s nothing compared to keeping tabs on you shapeshifting pillocks.”

Mrs. Wallis paused, then smoothed out the folds in her dress. Colin thought it looked like someone ironing out the wrinkles in a large black balloon, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” the witch said.“We’re going to hide you two in here for a while and hope the giants cause no bother. We’re going to go back out into the main pub area and you are going to behave like you’re young men getting a few drinks in on a Friday night, not wild beasts.”

The werewolves nodded again.

“As for that sapphire…” Somewhere in the back of her mind, Mrs. Wallis was already weighing how she might hand the gemstone back to the giants without ending up flattened in the process. “… we’ll figure that out shortly. But for now –”

Mrs. Wallis produced two very large shirts and two ties from her corduroy bag, items she’d brought along because she knew lycanthrope transformations always shredded a good pair of clothes. 

“Ties?” Andy said, sounding more 8-year-old than 18.

“Shut your gob.”

The young men put on their plain blue dress shirts, and the witch helped each fold their ties, which were from St. John’s College, Oxford, a school Mrs. Wallis had a loose association with. They were dark blue, with distinctive red and yellow stripes. She doubted anyone in this pub would recognize the neckwear’s provenance, which was just as well, as neither young werewolf looked like Oxbridge material. She cinched the ties tightly around their necks, causing both to put fingers between their shirt collar and necks to try to loosen them. 

“Alright, we’re going out into the main room,” the witch announced. 

“Behave yourselves and we might all get through this night alive.”

####

The club room door opened and Norman saw those two large young men and that short, intimidating woman walk out. The youngsters were now wearing ties, not necessary for The Finch, but looking better than when they stormed in, Norman figured. The woman came to see the landlord as the young men snatched two empty seats at the end of the bar.

“Two pints of lager for those two down there. And a glass of whisky for me please. My name’s Lita Wallis, everyone calls me Mrs. Wallis.”

“Would you prefer white wine ma’am. I’ve got a bottle behind the bar.” 

Norman didn’t get many women in his establishment and thought perhaps she didn’t know he had wine, though there was less now that Mrs. West had been sucking it down all night.

“I most certainly would not, but thank you,” Mrs. Wallis said.

Norman poured the pints first, bringing them down to Colin and Andy. He put coasters before them, then carefully placed the glasses on the mats.

“Use the coasters please, lads.”

The young men nodded, then eagerly took large first gulps.

“Norman likes us to use coasters,” Clegg told the pair.

Norman served the glass of whisky to Mrs. Wallis.

“There are coasters on the bar and the tables, if you please.”

“Certainly,” Mrs. Wallis told the landlord. She handed over more than enough money to pay for the drinks. “And one for yourself,” she added. “This is a lovely establishment you have here,  Mister…”

“Thackeray, but call me Norman.”

Norman beamed at the compliment. Mrs. Wallis knew few men were immune to flattery. So far, so good. The witch walked back over and stood behind the undercover werewolves.

“Where are you from chaps?” Clegg asked Colin and Andy as he leaned toward them.

Both answered simultaneously: “Leeds.”

Clegg smiled. Not locals, but Northerners at least.

“What brings you boys here?”

“Went out in the wilds for… a hike,” Colin said. “Figured we might do a bit of hunting.”

His younger brother Andy downed the rest of his pint in one huge gulp, then put it down on the bar. The sound of glass on the uncovered mahogany immediately set off Norman’s internal alarm.

“Coaster, please.”

Andy, with some difficulty, managed to put the pint back on the coaster.

“What do you boys like to hunt?” Clegg asked.

“Done a bit of pheasant shooting myself from time to time,” said Owsley Bonham, a balding, retired plant mill worker who sat at the other end of the bar nursing a lager.

“Mostly red deer stags, especially under a full moon,” Colin said.

“And vampires!” Andy shouted. “We like hunting vampires.”

Colin kicked his brother under the bar.

“Vampires?” Clegg asked.

“Vampire stags,” Colin said. “That’s just what we call ‘em that are out there at night.”

“Ahh,” Clegg said as he sipped his Old Peculiar and moved farther away from the pair.

Mrs. Wallis inched closer to the brothers so she was now standing directly behind them. Andy waved his empty pint glass in the air, trying to get the landlord’s attention.

“Put that down you prat,” the witch said in the werewolf’s ear.

Mrs. Wallis made a more casual motion for Norman, who, impressed by her tip last round, came to their end of the bar quickly. 

“A half for this one please,” she said. “He’s on a bit of faster schedule than us.”

Norman nodded and returned a short time later with the half-pint of lager. He picked up the empty pint glass, then put the new drink down on the coaster, holding it there for an extra second to emphasize that this was the proper seat for glassware in The Finch. Mrs. Wallis paid him.

Colin turned around and spoke quietly to the witch, taking advantage of the din of conversation in the crowded pub to not be heard by others..

“Can’t you go out and scare any giants away with your magic?”

Mrs. Wallis’ expression conveyed contempt and condescension in equal measures. Paradoxically, giants were the most reclusive creatures of the demimonde, and among the best at blending into their surroundings when they wanted to. That these two lycanthrope louts had managed to anger at least one was a testament to their irksomeness, the witch figured.

“No Colin Ward, I can’t. Anything I did would be too bright and loud to deploy in this town. What have I always told you about being out in the regular world.”

“Don’t draw attention to ourselves.”

“Correct.”

THUD!

The sound, like a cannon ball dropping onto a flat surface, was Andy striking the pub’s floor after falling backward from the bar in his chair, which broke into several pieces under his 15-stone weight. Andy had also lost his grip on his glass, which soared above him. Colin, amazingly, was able to catch the half-pint container in midair before it also struck the ground.

Clegg, Bonham and the other regulars were gobsmacked at Colin’s athletic feat. Norman went to shout but he, too, marvelled at how Colin had managed to catch the glass, preventing it not only from breaking but also not spilling a drop of lager on The Finch’s floor.

Norman walked out from behind the bar and saw the broken bits of chair under Andy. They looked like large pieces of kindling ready for the pub’s fireplace.

“My father… made these chairs,” Norman’s voice cracked as he knelt down to inspect the damage, cradling one of the broken pieces as if it was a sick puppy.

“I’m very sorry about this. It’s just been a stressful night for the lads,” apologized Mrs. Wallis. 

Norman’s fixation gave Mrs. Wallis the opportunity she needed to take Andy and Colin to another area of the pub, near the darts boards. The blokes sitting at the table nearest the darts stood up and waved goodbye to Norman as they headed for the door. They obviously didn’t want to stick around to see what might transpire next with the burly duo and this odd woman in black. Norman collected the remnants of the broken chair and placed them in a small, neat pile behind the bar. Each fragment reminded him of the afternoons he had spent as a boy, watching his father hammering and sanding chairs into being, shaping them with patience and exacting hands. Norman pressed his lips together and forced himself to stay calm, taking a slow breath and adjusting the coasters on the bar as if nothing had happened. He would not let another accident unravel the order of The Finch, not tonight, not ever.

####

Over the course of the next two hours Mrs. Ward sold the last of her pies and there was a raffle for two tickets to the next Huddersfield Town football match – quite the prize as the team was having a cracking year. Clegg scored the tickets and was so pleased at winning he bought his fellow regular Bonham a round – a rare occurrence indeed. 

“I tell you what Clegg,” Bonham said as he took a large sip of his pint. “I figure those two rowdy blokes need a lesson taught to them. Those two over there sitting with that woman in black.”

Clegg looked at the burly pair of young men, then fixed his friend with an incredulous stare. 

“I’d rather swim the English channel Owsley,” Clegg said. “Look at those two, they’re as big as trees and could snap us like twigs. And we’re a bit old to be challenging anyone to a fight. Also, that’s one of Norman’s rules – absolutely no punch-ups.”

“Not a Barney Clegg, darts. We’ll show ‘em up right good. Come on man, time to play for the honor of The Finch.”

“Alright, one second. Let me get more of my pint down me.”

At the table near the darts board, Colin fished out three more cigarettes from a pack of Player’s Navy Cut, a brand popular with soldiers who’d served in the Great War. He handed one to his brother and another to Mrs. Wallis. No more matches? Colin searched the table for one more usable match before Mrs. Wallis whispered a few words under her breath – witches only need wands to cast spells in children’s books. She then touched the end of each cigarette with her index figure and they lit instantly, their tips glowing like tiny suns.

The werewolves started puffing away, as did Mrs. Wallis, who inhaled deeply before blowing an ashy white cloud that temporarily hid her behind a vapor shroud. When the smoke cleared she saw two of the older men from the bar standing before them.

“Hello boys,” Bonham said. “Fancy a game of darts?”

“You bet,” Andy answered loudly as he stood up, knocking the table with his knee. Colin again managed to catch a pint glass before it fell over, but lager spilled on the surface. Clegg and Bonham stole glances at Norman behind the bar, knowing such a mess would greatly vex the landlord. Sure enough, he was heading to the table with his rag. He quickly wiped the table before being called back to the bar by Mrs. Ward, who wanted another glass of wine. The bloody woman must have two hollow legs, Norman thought.

Clegg and Bonham – greying, paunchy and well past their physical prime – stood next to Colin and Andy, who even in their drunken state radiated physical vigor.

“Best two out of three, boys?” Bonham asked as he eyed the dart board in front of him.

“You’re on!” Andy said.

A small crowd of most of the remaining regulars had gathered near the darts area, wanting to see how the local duo fared against the outsiders. The first game went quickly, with Clegg and Bonham winning easily. Undaunted, a very inebriated Andy went to the dart board to retrieve the arrows for game two.

 “Bugger!” Andy shouted.  

He was staring at his right hand, out of which stood a dart. The thing seemed to be sticking halfway through his hand. Colin looked back at the table, gesturing to Mrs. Wallis that he didn’t know how this mishap with his drunken brother had happened.

“Ha. You’ll not get double points for a dart through the hand lad,” Bonham said.

At that moment Andy’s eyes popped wide open, his back arched and his jaw started to extend. The noise his body emitted sounded like stone being smashed into gravel.

“Oh no,” Mrs. Wallis said softly. “He’s transforming.”

“Is that lad alright?” Clegg asked, voice trembling.

Great pain – like that from getting a dart stuck through your hand – could cause lycanthropes to change from man to beast. Had Andy been sober, he would’ve had wits enough to prevent this. But in his drunken state it looked like he was heading back into the wild kingdom.

Mrs. Wallis waddled quickly over to Andy and whispered: “If you become a wolf in here, Andy Ward, when you are human again I will transform you into something small and furry and feed you to a barghest.”

The mention of the huge, ghostly black dogs of English lore focused Andy’s attention. He turned his drunken mind toward halting and reversing his wolf conversion. He started rocking back and forth, caught mid stream between human and animal. He backed into the dart board, which fell to the ground with a thwack. 

 “ARRRRRRRGH,” Andy cried as he desperately tried to stop nature from taking its course.

“What is happening?” asked Norman, clinging to his bar rag.

Andy’s shirt ripped, his shoulders arched even more. He pitched forward right into a table filled with drinkers. The mahogany structure collapsed like it was made of cardboard and the pints and whisky glasses fell down after it, breaking with a sound like cracking ice.

Frightened regulars backed far away from the mayhem.

Mrs. Wallis rumbled toward where Andy lay. She wasn’t worried the lycanthrope would actually hurt anyone. It was a cardinal rule among Albion’s werewolf pack that they do no harm to people who did not pose a direct threat to them – an edict from the Wolf Council that had been in place since the time of King George IV. But should Andy complete his transformation from man to wolf in The Finch the witnesses would tell a tale that would be remembered by their great grandchildren. That was just the sort of attention Mrs. Wallis worked so hard to prevent.

When the witch reached Andy she was relieved and astonished to see that he was now completely back in human form. His shirt was in shreds by his side, but he had managed to reverse his lupine transformation.

The men who had been at the table walked briskly toward the door, telling Norman they’d settle their tabs later. Norman walked over to the scene, as did Clegg and Bonham.

“He’s… epileptic,” Mrs. Wallis explained, wondering if she’d have enough cash on her to pay for all the damages.

“The sounds he was making were otherworldly,” Clegg said. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Clegg finished the last of his pint, then grabbed Bonham by the arm. They joined the small stream of regulars who were heading for the exit, having had more than enough excitement for the night.

“The Western Front was probably more peaceful than it’s been in here tonight Norman,” Clegg said as he scurried away. 

The landlord followed him, reaching his pub rag out like it was a lasso he could use to rope his customers back. “Hold on, it’s not even last orders yet,” he cried to no avail as all the punters left the pub.

Norman returned to the bar and slammed his hand down on the surface, the sound echoing through the emptied room. 

“Enough! All of three of you!”.

Norman’s shoulders raised and his chest heaved. Glasses on the floor, his father’s chair broken, and now the reckless guests had scared off the last of his customers on a special night

“I’ve had it!” His voice, normally measured and careful, rose until it carried like a bell through The Finch. “Get out! Every last one of you!”

He stormed toward the door, flinging it open, and leaned into the frame. Colin, Andy and Mrs. Wallis froze, wide-eyed, not moving. Norman’s jaw tightened. “I said GET out of MY home!” He stepped into the street, planted his feet, and jabbed a finger toward the cobblestones. “Out! Get OUT here! Now!”

Without compliance, he stopped. The trio he was trying to evict had their gazes locked on a point far above Norman’s head. 

“What?” Norman whispered, before turning around.

Towering over the slender ginger landlord, was a giant. Norman, looking like a carrot planted directly in front of a towering Douglas fir, felt his heart stop as he looked up at the fabled creature dressed in tattered light-blue denim overalls and scuffed black boots that came nearly to Norman’s shoulders. The giant peered down at the little man, his enormous brown eyes – huge as hubcaps – squinted, and he reached a large hand to the top of his bald head.

“Them,” the giant said as he pointed inside at the brothers. “Found them” he continued in voice as deep as a fathomless lake. 

The giant straightened in the dim glow of the street, looming higher against the dark sky. Norman’s eyes followed the rise of shoulders broad enough to shadow the cobblestones, and he caught sight of the slow curl of enormous fists, each one the size of a barrel, knuckles whitening in the night. A chill wind stirred, rattling the pub’s windows as the giant shifted his weight. Norman realized with dawning horror that the roof of The Finch was about to meet those terrible fists.

“No, WAIT!”  Norman moved to block the giant’s assault. This sudden show of defiance surprised all assembled, none more than the scrawny landlord.

“What do you think you’re about?” Norman said sternly. “T-There’s no fighting in my pub – inside or out. I’ll have you know my family has run this establishment for generations! Not as old as the hills, but close, mind you.”

Spiky black hair stuck out just above the giant’s ears on either side of his head, the thatches as big as small garden hedges. He scratched the tufts above his right ear, then spoke, the words coming out slowly, like honey dripping down from a spoon.

“They stole something from me.”

Norman took a trembling step forward, raising his hands slightly as if to ward off the giant’s wrath while also signaling calm. “Now, now – hold on a moment,” he said, his voice quivering but carrying just enough authority to be heard. The giant’s enormous brown eyes narrowed, focusing on the tiny man below. Norman could feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of a body built to crush barns and chairs alike, yet he forced himself to stay upright, planting his feet and drawing on every ounce of the authority he’d learned behind The Finch’s bar. “I’ve managed unruly patrons, broken chairs, and spilled pints,” he continued, his voice rising with a strange mix of pride and desperation, “and I can manage this too. Just… let me help.”

Mrs. Wallis turned to Andy, who pulled the green sapphire from his pocket and rolled it across the floor to the edge of the doorframe. 

Norman took the sapphire and handed it to the giant who delicately retrieved it from the man with its massive mitt. Norman hiked his pants up over his hips, then put both hands behind his back.

“That’s settled. If I give you a beer, will you go away?”

The giant nodded. Norman walked into the pub, leaving the witch, the werewolves and the giant, hovering in uncomfortable silence. Norman quickly returned, wheeling a wooden cask out on a steel dolly cart. He set it down before the giant.

“This is a keg of Old Peculier. As fine an ale as there is, ” Norman said.

The huge creature reached down and picked up the cask, which in his hand seemed almost as small as a shot glass. He poked the top out with his pinky finger, then drank down the beer with a loud slurping noise. He looked down at Norman and smiled, before gently placing the container at the landlord’s feet. The giant turned around and slowly walked away, out of Honley and into the surrounding Yorkshire hillsides.

When the giant was out of sight, Norman fainted in a heap at Mrs. Wallis’ feet.

####

One Year Later

Norman never told anyone about seeing a giant. He already had a reputation for being a fusspot, he didn’t want to add fantasist to the list. He slipped back into his beloved routines, trivia and darts nights and weekly whisky, lager and ale deliveries. And since Eten Night had proved popular, even with all the mayhem, he decided to stage it once again.

This evening Mrs. Ward was back at the table with her pies. Norman had stocked extra white wine, not wanting to run out due to the pie seller’s impressive capacity for the plonk. He also used the same red and white bunting to decorate the pub from the year before, taking extra care to adorn the area around the darts boards. Clegg and Bonham, of course, sat at their usual spots at the bar. 

All was right inside The Finch.

Just as Norman finished cleaning a set of pint glasses he heard a fresh set of punters cleaning their shoes. Good, good the landlord thought. When he looked up to greet the new arrivals he saw that short, round woman from last year, dressed in black, with those rowdy, large lads to either side of her. The blokes’ hair was cut neatly, they were cleanly shaven and they wore ties.

“Hello Norman,”

“Hello, Mrs. Wallis,” Norman said. 

Over the past twelve months, the peculiar woman had stopped by the pub several times, telling the landlord she had business to attend to in the area. She never explained what she did, exactly, but she would have a whisky or two and chat amiably with the skinny barman.

Norman had also appreciated that she had helped him after he passed out from fear after convincing that giant to bugger off last year. She’d made him tea and even given him the name of a man up in Huddersfield to send the bill for damages to – an invoice that was quickly paid.

“I brought the lads back for a couple of pints on Eten night,” Mrs. Wallis said. “I think you’ll find them much improved.”

The strapping duo wore beaming smiles, like kids who’d brought home good marks in school.

“Two pints of lager please,” said Colin.

“And two coasters.” Andy added.

With a smirk, Norman served them lager and gave Mrs.Wallis a whisky. The blokes sat down at an empty table, but the woman in black remained at the bar, her long, tangly black and white hair nearly touching the wooden surface.

“I’ve got to tell you Norman I’ve come to appreciate a place like this and a man like you,” she said before sampling her whisky.  “My life is, let’s just say,  unsettled. Can you imagine trying to babysit unruly oafs – and worse! I say, I’m getting just a bit old for that sort of thing. The Finch is a nice oasis of calm.”

Norman’s smile reached both ears. He wiped the bar in front of Mrs. Wallis to give it an even cleaner gleam.

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Wallis, I truly do.”

The young men remained at the table for several rounds. They dutifully used coasters and pleasantly chatted with the other drinkers. The bigger one even played a game of cribbage with old John Utterthwaite, who was nearly 90 and had been one of Norman’s father’s best customers. In fact, the pair were so polite and clean cut they could’ve passed for Mormon missionaries.

“You could say they’ve transformed, hmm?” Mrs. Wallis mused with a smile.

When Mrs. Ward knocked over a glass of white wine – alright, two bottles is her limit – the container smashed on the floor. Norman was rankled, but he’d mellowed a bit about true accidents of this sort. “One second Mrs. Ward.”

Before he could grab his broom and dustpan the older youngster appeared behind the bar.

“Let me handle this Norman.”

Colin grabbed the broom – which looked like a small stick in his massive hand – and the dustpan and headed for the mess. He wiped it up, even bending down to the ground to make sure he’d retrieved all the glass wreckage. He deposited the remnants in the proper bin, then handed the cleaning tools back to the landlord.

“Thank you, son,” Norman said.

Colin nodded at Norman, then looked at Mrs. Wallis at the bar, who gave him a nod of approval. A short time later Mrs. Wallis and the boys got ready to leave The Finch. Colin and Andy approached Norman and both shook his hand – gently.

“We’re off Norman, maybe see you next year,” Colin said.

Andy lightly tapped the landlord on the shoulder.

“And thanks for standing up for us last year,” he said. “You’re a weedy little guy, but you’re big where it counts.”

Norman puffed up a bit. Mrs. Wallis settled their bill and winked at him as the trio made their exit.

“Well, at least there were no darts through the hands this time Norman,” Clegg said before he tucked into his Old Peculier again.

At closing time the last of the customers exited and Norman went through his nighttime cleaning routine – sweeping the floors, placing the chairs on the tables and giving the bar one last, counterclockwise wipedown. 

 But there was another thing left. Norman waited a few minutes, then heard it: three gentle raps on the pub’s roof. He walked outside and looked up at the giant, looming over him like a tsunami wave.

“Hello Edgar.”

“Wes hal Norman. Good to see you again.”

Edgar had taken to coming by the pub, long after closing, once a month. He’d developed quite a taste for the Old Peculier. Norman was nervous at first, but the mammoth man proved to be very good company. Norman was amazed at how quiet Edgar could be – and the giant always made sure to visit when nobody else was about.

He’d sit down behind the pub next to Norman – who still would have to crane his neck upward to see him – and drink his keg. Edgar had lived in the Holme Valley for hundreds and hundreds of years and would talk about what it was like before the buildings and towns came to be and how he didn’t really much care for change, preferring to spend most of his time in lonely caves and forgotten valleys. Between sips of the keg, Edgar spoke of his fondness for Yorkshire’s starry skies and his sadness that these new electric lights were making it harder for him to see the twinkling array. 

“See you next month Norman.”

The giant finished the last of the ale and handed Norman something wrapped in a scrap bedsheep before standing up to his full 25-foot height.

“Of course Edgar. Good night.”

Norman went back inside the pub, doused the lights, and walked up to his small bedroom on the stairs he’d trodden his entire life – each floorboard squeak a comforting sound.

Norman opened an old wooden chest where he kept his birth certificate and family mementos. He added another item, unwrapping the giant’s fabric to reveal a brilliant blue sapphire. He placed it next to the other gemstones Edgar had given him for his monthly beers – dark green, sharp yellow and pure white crystals that shimmered like a candle’s flame. 

The landlord grinned.

Norman was born at The Finch – and like his father and grandfather before him he’d die here. He was happy in his self-contained world. But he was especially chuffed that his little domain had now grown larger. The world was a bigger and more mysterious place than most people knew. Even if he spent his entire life in this cozy corner of it, Norman reveled in the knowledge that there was so much more.

He shut his chest of treasures, turned out the light by his bed, put his head down on the pillow and dreamed of clean pubs and happy customers.