Gargantua of the Alps

The story

At Breuil, a long time ago, there were no hotels, no cable cars, no tarmac roads. There were only the shepherds' huts, a few stables, a sea of grass and, above everything, the great pointed mountain.

And there was Gargantua.

He was a giant, and a really big one. When he walked, you could hear his step all the way down the valley. When he sneezed, the shepherds held on to their hats. He knew those valleys well, because he passed through often, and one day, on his way back from Zermatt, he came down to Breuil.

That was when he saw a girl.

She had a beauty that nobody in the village could have described. She was standing outside a hut, shaking out a cloth, and she did not notice at once the shadow growing over her. When she raised her head, the giant was already there, as big as a bell tower, with a red face and the air of someone who does not quite know how to say certain things.

Gargantua fell in love at once. He was a giant, yes, but tender-hearted. Only, giants are not good at asking permission. He picked her up in his arms and carried her away among the mountains, with long strides, and hid her in a place where nobody would think of looking.

When the shepherds realised the girl had vanished, a single cry rose in the valley.

They all gathered, the people of Breuil and those of the nearby villages. They split into teams, lit torches, called her name into every ravine. Nobody was afraid of the giant that day. Or rather, they were afraid, but they went all the same. They searched for days, walking side by side on every path.

And Gargantua, in his hiding place, heard those voices. They began softly, from far away. Then they grew louder, closer. In the end they were everywhere.

The giant looked at the girl. She looked at the giant.

"There are so many of them," he said.

"Yes," she answered.

Gargantua sighed. A sigh so big it moved the clouds. Then he gave in. He took a sledge, set the girl on it with care, as one carries something fragile, and brought her home, dragging her over the snow.

When the people saw her return, a great noise broke out, a mixture of shouts, tears and laughter. A feast was organised, and the whole valley came to the feast. Gargantua too, who for once sat in a corner, with his long feet sticking out from under the table.

This story did not end up in books. It ended up in the carnival. Every year, at Breuil, the White Lady and Gargantua come down into the village among music and fireworks, and people wait for them in the square as if they did not already know how it ends.

At Courmayeur, on the other side of Mont Blanc, another story of Gargantua is told. A story of the last time.

It is said that, before dying, the giant left precise instructions: how to divide his body among the valleys he had crossed. To the Aosta Valley went a tooth. And the tooth was to be planted in the ice of Mont Blanc.

There was a reason. In the valley, in those days, people were suffering. Not from the cold and not from hunger, but from the pranks of the goblins. Little mischievous spirits who scattered the tools, emptied the buckets, tangled the tails of the animals. One trick, then another, and another still, and people could bear it no more.

One day a man arrived whom nobody had ever seen. He came from very far away, they said, perhaps from the East. He was a wizard. And, seeing the weary people, he took pity on them.

Nobody asked him who he was. Doors opened as he passed, dogs did not bark, children looked at him from behind their mothers' skirts. He walked the valley from end to end, slowly, murmuring words nobody understood. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He only repeated them, and kept on walking.

Then the spirits of the side valleys heard. They came out of the woods, the gorges, the crevices, in black clouds, like flocks of crows. They joined the goblins of the plain. There were so many that the sky grew dark, and for a while it was like night in the middle of the day.

The wizard climbed, and the swarm followed him. Below, in the villages, people stood still in their doorways and did not say a word. All you could hear was an enormous rustle, as of a thousand wings, going upwards. He climbed Mont Blanc, in the middle of the ice, where a huge prison had long been prepared, made especially for them. The spirits entered one at a time, driven by a force they could not refuse. When the last was inside, a door of rock closed behind him. For ever.

Today, they say, that prison is the Dent du Géant, the Giant's Tooth: the tower of rock that rises above Courmayeur. The spirits are still there, and they never stop trying. They push, they beat, they look for a way out. But the wizard's spell has never been broken.

When the wind is strong on the ridges of Mont Blanc, there are those who say they can hear them. Then they pull their coats tight and smile, so as not to seem too serious.