When the Giant Breathed

In 2023, the island known in County Kerry as the Sleeping Giant, named for its resemblance to a man lying on his back, exhaled. Those first few people to see it were quick to dismiss the notion they must have seen mist rising or a flock of gulls. For, as they explained, they had seen the chest of the Giant sink, then rise. In only a few hours, the people of the Dingle Peninsula on the west coast of Ireland, just east of the island, had nearly all seen for themselves that the Sleeping Giant had indeed exhaled. And continued to do so throughout the day and into the evening.

When a length of brownstone that could only be an arm slowly inched into view on the westerly side of the island, even the oldest Dingle men in their drinks, whose brows were furrowed in a never-ending scowl of suspicion, suddenly raised the tips of their caps, eyes widening in deep alarm. The Sleeping Giant was breathing, and it was no longer sleeping.

Schoolchildren were rushed home, restaurants closed their doors and turned off their gas, the pubs stayed open, and the fire towers set up 24-hour watches with binoculars and floodlights aimed at the Sleeping Giant who inch by inch over the course of a week lifted a great earthen hand up above the curve of its belly. In the towns on the small peninsula, villagers rushed from house to house to trade news and misgivings. As they ran across thin cobblestone streets, their heads were tugged toward the island as if beckoned by the slowly rising rock.

When another brown tract of land rose from the sea on the easterly side of the island, and five hard fingers breached the turquoise surface of the sea, the wind picked up. The weather could change from one street to the next on a normal day in Dingle, but three weeks after the Sleeping Giant first exhaled, a cold wind began to pound steadily from the direction of the island.

Every day, the Giant rose farther out of the Atlantic, and every day, the gale winds blew fiercer. Shutters clapped, and handkerchiefs were ripped out of people’s pockets. Sheep, oblivious to the growing shadow in their farmers’ lives, were blown like white tumbleweeds across the pastures. One shrewd farmer tied bricks of peat to his herds’ hind legs. This worked for only a few hours before the animals decided their weights were tastier than the grass and ate away each other’s anchors. The farmer came out later that night to see his sheep pinned against his far gate, baa-ing indignantly.

After four weeks, the Sleeping Giant was sitting up, its head bowed to its chest as if still drowsy. Some on the peninsula fleetingly thought to call the taoiseach in Dublin but decided that as the problem was off their shores, it was theirs alone to endure.

The Iveragh Peninsula to the south thought the same. When a constable from a seaside town peered north one night and saw the Sleeping Giant bent over, twice as high as normal, he said to his wife, “They’ll be having trouble up around Dingle, I imagine.” The Irish government would not have been much help anyway. Irish Rugby was preparing for the quarterfinals of the World Cup, their eighth visit, and most folks had their focus invested on the pitch.

The villagers’ disquiet turned to dread when on the fifth week, the Sleeping Giant’s head turned toward them. Neighbors stopped visiting each other’s homes, the only gesture of community was blinking flashlights from slatted windows. Even the pubs were silent, drinks ordered with finger raises rather than words. There were no songs. The wind was too loud. And every night, the young children cowered together under the sound of gnashing and grinding as the Giant rose ever upward.

When the Sleeping Giant rose to its feet, bent in a squat, rain, hail, and wind smashed into the peninsula with hurricane force. Families moved beds into basements, preparing for when the Sleeping Giant finally stood. Generations of Dingle families looked out over the ocean to see their friendly island. Now, to find out it had been a monster in the mist, many were surprised to find strands of betrayal mingling with the nest of fear and worry cocooned in their chests.

Six weeks after the Sleeping Giant first exhaled, at midnight, the wind died. Families in their basements awoke, shocked by the sudden silence. Men and women in the pubs put their drinks down and looked over bent shoulders as moonlight peeked through the boarded-up windows and painted their faces. And then a mighty roar.

Cracking stones erupted, winds screamed over the island like banshees, and rain drummed angry as a military tattoo. Every light on the peninsula was extinguished and fathers and mothers held their children, and those in the pubs held their drinks and occasionally each other.

The next morning, to everyone’s shock, the sun rose. One brave child sprung from his bed and raced outside. His mother screamed after him but when she went out, she fell silent. Just as everyone did that morning. Fences were twisted into balls, windows were shattered, and fish lay all over the streets, some still flopping. But the damage was not total; only one man died. The farmer who had tied peat to his flock had tried the same trick with cement blocks only to receive a kick from a fed-up ewe right to his temple.

Out on the ocean, the Sleeping Giant was gone. The people smiled at each other, but only because they were supposed to, they had survived the danger after all. But in their hearts, something ached. There was a hole in their ocean where an island once stood. They cupped their eyes, searching for the monster who had made its home along the same blue-and-green coast that they themselves had loved so well.