Of my travels among the giants of Brobdingnag, of my dear nurse Glumdalclitch and subsequent adventures in the courts of the King and Queen of that country, I have already said much.
There was one adventure, however, which has remained locked in my memory these many years, unrevealed for fear of Church and State's -- and consequently their subjects' -- judgments upon an old man. The hypocrisy of these estimable institutions, and that of the majority of my fellow Englishmen, cannot be doubted, nor can their power to turn this sinner's remaining years into an unspeakable misery.
And yet my memories retain their heat and taut flesh, even as my blood cools and my skin sags like that of an emaciated horse on its journey to the knacker's yard.
Exhausted from a day spent entertaining the King and Queen and their retinue of courtiers, advisers, maidservants and manservants, and other sycophants of uncertain function, I fell back on the Brobdingnagian bed made especially for me, and struggled from my shirt and britches, leaving them where they lay in a most untidy manner.
Donning my nightgown and slipping beneath the sheets, I fell instantly asleep only to awaken in perhaps less than two hours. Shouts and yells, coming as if from a distance somewhere below my window, disturbed my slumber. There were two voices: the shouts those of a man, the yells of a woman. The palace lights were dim, and it seemed the household was otherwise abed. In spite of my fatigue, I determined to investigate.
Hoping I would not encounter a cat, rat or other vile creature, I contrived to scale the curtain to the window and, through a hole in one of the leaded panes, lowered myself to the ground by means of a ball of twine I had purposely left there on an earlier occasion. I wore naught but my shoes and nightgown, and as I reached the ground wished I had thought to garb myself in warm clothing, for there was a chill in the air which could surely freeze such a tiny mortal.
The noise of conflict, I realised, emanated from a storage room off the kitchens. The door, with ill-fitting hinges and warped wood, permitted me to slip beneath. When I emerged on the other side my gown was blackened with mud and most unpleasantly wet, for in the darkness I failed to notice the pool of murky water which had gathered there.
My momentary discomfort fled at the extraordinary sight that greeted me there. Next to a man's cordouroy-clad legs, I saw the most delicious limbs of a woman, revealed in their glory, first to mid-thigh, where her gleaming white hose were red-gartered, thence to where her thighs kissed and at last to a firm pair of buttocks which rose in perfection, like the half-moon mirrored in a celestial looking-glass. Those poor buttocks were at this moment being assailed by a long and cruel switch, wielded by this uncouth-looking fellow.
The girl, or woman (which of these I could not say, as the unfortunate was bent over a table, her head on a sack of flour, hidden beneath a cascade of fair hair), the female, I say, screeched in counterpoint to the swish of the torture instrument's descent. Those beautiful cheeks were now blushing hotly, stripes from the switch marring their beauty.
"That'll teach you, my girl." The man, who seemed to enjoy his task even as he snarled at his victim, grinned between strikes. "Steal from the kitchen again and I'll..." (and here he punctuated his words with blows) "...have...you...thrown...out!"
"Oh, Gawd, Sam'll. Not that, please," came the muffled but sweet voice of the girl (for I now knew her to be that, perhaps nineteen or so). "Thrash the life out of me if you like, but don't send me 'ome."
Incandescent with rage at the ruffian's assault upon this defenseless maid, I quickly scanned for a weapon. My eye fell upon some scattered kitchen utensils which must have rocked off the table during the girl's punishment, among them a paring knife. Placing the knife's handle over my shoulder and bracing my hands against the heel of the blade, I launched myself forward and plunged the knife deeply into the brute's ankle. The blade skidded against bone and must have struck well, for the blood spewed like a venting whale. Its redness mingled with the brackish water that soaked my nightwear.
The man bellowed like an enraged bull and gazed in amazement, first at the knife buried in his ankle, then at me, his small assailant. The giant was about to land me a kick which would have surely finished me, when I shouted a warning: "Stop! Would you strike the Queen's favourite? She'll have you beheaded."
"Blimey!" said the girl tearfully as she pulled aloft the bloomers which had tangled around her ankles, and dropped her petticoats and skirt to conceal her sturdy nether limbs. "It's that Gulliver fellow. I seen 'im once."
"I'll kill you, little man," said the torturer, moving menacingly towards me. He lowered his astonishingly ugly countenance so near that his fetid breath alone almost toppled me from my feet.
"Best not, Sam'll... 'e's right. The Queen'll have you topped if you lays a finger on 'im. She loves the little feller."
"Well," he replied, with a befouling exhalation. "Yer blessed majesty 'ad better keep a close eye on you in future." He tugged the knife blade quickly from his leg, "...else Old Towser'll be 'aving a special treat for 'is dinner one night."
It was at this moment I realised that a huge hunting dog, with teeth like skewers, was quietly examining me. The beast was chained to a coat hook, but strained at the length of chain, baring its teeth. Clearly, it had been there during the commotion, and its unearthly silence unnerved me more than growls or barks would have done.
"Towser ain't got no voice box, see. Never 'as 'ad since a pup. An 'e'll rip anyone else's out soon as look at 'em." The oaf grinned at me. "Revenge for not 'aving any of 'is own, see?"
With that, the man grabbed the animal's leash and stormed out, allowing the beast to first push its wet snout within an inch of my no doubt colourless face. I was frozen with terror, and only dared breathe once the door latch fell back and our tormentor went whistling away in the darkness.
"Poor fing," said the girl. "Yer all scared and filfhy. Come now, Belinda'll clean you up nice."
Belinda placed me gingerly into a wicker basket and carried me to her simple quarters. Her room contained but a small bed, a dresser, a chair, a table upon which sat a vase of dried cornflowers. In a small fireplace, coals glowed weakly. She placed me on the table, then went to add coals and wood to the fire. In no time, there was a decent, comforting blaze crackling there.
Belinda, being youthful, had a fine complexion, unmarred by the clogged pores I had seen upon the other giants as if under a magnifying lens. Indeed, I found myself so taken with this girl, that her presence and lavender scent all but made me swoon. From her washbasin she brought me a thimble filled with water which she placed into the basket next to me.
"Better give yourself a wash, good sir," she commanded. "Else you'll catch a chill," and so saying she plucked my night attire away as if unsheathing a birdcage to daylight. I realised in that moment, too, that she had no more regard for me than if I had indeed been a canary and not a full-grown man, albeit one of diminutive dimensions.
Somewhat offended, I threw the cold water upon myself, shivering with its impact, and looked about for something with which to dry myself. Finding nothing, I shouted: "Miss Belinda, would you be so good as to...?"
But the girl anticipated me, and used a corner of her apron to dry me, pressing the garment against me in the manner of your author applying blotting paper to the ink in which his tales are fashioned. Her first press nearly dashed me to the ground, for I was no larger than a candle in relation to her hand. At this the girl pealed with such a delightfully mellifluous laugh that I instantly forgave her the insult upon my modesty.
