The Viinistu Estonian Art Museum, which I just told you about, has a special room that hasn’t been mentioned yet. This former water tower with rusty walls used to host temporary exhibitions. But for a few years now, it’s been home to a single master: after his death in 2020, the entire studio of Jüri Arrak, one of the greatest figures in modern Estonian painting, was moved here.
Right in the middle of the studio stands the easel with Arrak’s last, unfinished painting. Around it, the curved walls are filled with more works featuring Arrak’s signature twisted figures.
Like most Baltic artists, Jüri Arrak grew up on surrealism and Dali. His absurd figures, characteristic fraying, mask-like heads, and bold symbolism all bear their influence.
Among the recurring strong symbols is a red bird, sometimes with one head, sometimes two, flying forward mechanically like a bomber plane—or sometimes back and forth—across the Estonian sky. This image, Red Flight, was the first piece that caught the eye of Jaan Manitski, the collector who assembled the Viinistu collection, along with Arrak’s own explanation, becoming the collection’s very first painting.
According to Arrak, the red eagle, whether one-headed or two-headed, symbolizes the Russian tsarist or later Soviet power looming over Estonia. In this sense, it appeared as a symbol of the enemy in several earlier works created during the Soviet era, like the Suur Tõll paintings below. Similar meanings are carried by other red beasts, such as the dragon slain by this unconventional Estonian Saint George.
Arrak created numerous paintings, altar pieces, animations, and book illustrations in this distinctive style. But across Estonia, his most famous work is the 1980 cartoon about Suur Tõll, or “Great Tõll,” the legendary giant hero and protector of Saaremaa Island. The image shows him alongside his wife—and the enemy he must fend off—fitting perfectly into the symbolic world Arrak had been building.
This wildly popular cartoon, where the enemy keeps attacking the Estonians over and over, doesn’t shy away from blood and destruction. It’s not a Hollywood-style feel-good story with hardly anyone dying—just like in Estonia’s history, countless lives were lost. One review notes: “Who knows how many Estonian children tossed and turned in bed, haunted by terrifying soldiers and dissonant cave-like songs after watching it?” That’s probably exactly one of its key messages.
In 2014, the cartoon was turned into a book with Jüri Arrak’s illustrations and text by Andrus Kivirähk, capturing the mood of Estonian folklore. I’ll show this first to make the concise video story clear—after all, being made in 1980, even the few spoken lines are in the enemy’s language.
This is the story of Great Tõll.
Why was he the Great Tõll? Who knows! Why is a lake a lake, and a pine a pine? Why is earth earth, and stone stone? It’s always been this way, since time immemorial, and nobody’s surprised.
Why was he “Great”? Simply because he was enormous. Really enormous. It wouldn’t have made sense to invite him over—he wouldn’t fit in any house. Not even in the yard. Heck, not even through the garden gate. Sure, he could have stepped over the fence easily, but he’d have crushed a barn or a sauna in the process. And let’s not even talk about the chickens, roosters, and cats. But Tõll would never have wanted that—he was far too soft-hearted.
But really, what sense would there have been in inviting Tõll over? You don’t invite the sea to a party, do you? Or a juniper grove? They’re perfectly fine just where they are.
If you like, you could set off yourself and go see them. I went too, to see how Tõll plowed his land. I didn’t get too close—I didn’t want to disturb him. Watching from afar was more than enough. The plow was so huge you could see it from a distance, even beyond the forest. Almost like the sun or the moon.
He even had a horse, even bigger than him. A real wonder. I have no idea where he got it. But then, where do the waves of the sea and clouds in the sky come from? They just are.
And Tõll had a wife too, called Piret. She was just as big as Tõll.
She worked at home or in the garden. When she watered the cabbages in the evenings, you could hear the splashing all the way across Saaremaa.
I don’t know what the horse was called. Tõll never called it by name. He wasn’t a talkative sort. Wherever he went, or when he worked, he always sounded like the sea crashing or the wind rustling the tall trees of a forest. Sometimes soft and sleepy, like on a summer evening, but sometimes loud and fierce when Tõll got angry. Then it sounded like a storm raging over the sea, wind snapping ancient trees, lightning striking the limestone cliffs.
But that rarely happened. Tõll was peaceful by nature.
Tõll sometimes helped people too. Of course, it didn’t make sense to run to him for every little thing. If someone lost a hat, Tõll definitely wouldn’t go looking for it.
Even if you shouted, “Tõll, Tõll, my hat’s lost!” he wouldn’t have even glanced at you. He’d calmly keep on with his work—building a house or digging potatoes—humming softly like a summer meadow where the bees gather their honey. He wouldn’t scold you for bothering him over nothing: “Go find your hat yourself, I’m neither your servant nor your page!” No, he simply wouldn’t have noticed you at all.
After all, if you shout at the sea, “Sea, sea, my knife’s lost!” the sea won’t even twitch an ear. The waves lazily lap the shore, as if you and your lost knife didn’t even exist. Rabbits won’t carry the gun for you. Adults have no time for such trifles.
So when an old man came to Tõll complaining about his illness, or a farmer’s wife saying the wolf had carried off her lamb, or a family hoping for dry weather to make hay—it was all pointless. Tõll wouldn’t have paid attention, wouldn’t have gone hunting wolves in the forest. And he couldn’t influence the rain either—he wasn’t big enough to stop the clouds.
No, the clouds floated right above his head.
Because Tõll wasn’t some kind of miracle worker, witch, or wizard like they say exist in other countries. No, not at all. Tõll was a simple man. A peasant like any other. He worked hard all day, sweat dripping from his brow onto the freshly plowed earth.
In the evening, he’d go home and eat whatever his wife, Piret, had cooked. And eat he did, with a healthy appetite—at least a barrel of soup and six loaves of bread at once. Well, he had the size for it! Then he’d lie down and sleep like a fur blanket.
But while Tõll slept, Vanapagan, the Old Pagan, got to work.
After all, he lived right there too. But he had no land or anything else. He didn’t care for work, spending his days lazing around, eating berries, or maybe fishing in the lake. That’s how lazy people live. But at night, when the honest folk were asleep, he got busy with mischief. He’d grab huge stones from the shore and fling them across Tõll’s freshly plowed field. Scatter the neatly stacked haystacks. Knock over the perfectly set-up fence. Then he’d dash back into the forest, chuckling.
In the morning, Tõll grumbled a little louder than the waves hitting the cliff, but he didn’t chase Vanapagan. He gathered the stones, rearranged the haystack, and rebuilt the fence. It took a bit of time—but not nearly as long as it would for an ordinary person. After all, Tõll was Great.
The Old Pagan watched from the bushes, fuming. He didn’t like that Tõll could calmly handle his mischief. He loved evil. He’d annoy ordinary people too—topple baskets full of berries, mislead them in the forest, lure them into the swamp. Sometimes, when he grew bored of forest life, he’d sneak into houses, poking holes in the thatched roofs with his hooked fingers—just to watch the rain pour over the honest folk. Such a pesky creature. But luckily, every family had a dog, and when they caught wind of the Old Pagan, they’d attack from afar, clinging to his hairy legs, tufts flying everywhere. And if no dog was nearby, a stick cut from a rowan tree would do. The Old Pagan feared this: if struck, the evil spirit would puff out blue smoke from his tail, like damp hay set on fire. Then, in a blink, he was gone, hiding in the forest, weaving his shameless schemes.
But generally, people got used to the Old Pagan, just like bad weather. You just had to endure it—there was nothing else to do.
Of course, Tõll was a completely different kind of man. I can’t say a bad word about him. As I said, he always helped in times of trouble. For example, when storms raged and men were out at sea, we would go to Tõll to watch over them, to see how they fared. Tõll was tall and could see far. He’d leave his fieldwork, fetch his horse, and stand on the shore. Sometimes for hours, motionless, staring at the sea. Not moving until the ship and men reached a safe harbor. Rain poured, storms raged, water roared over Tõll’s back—but he stood there, oblivious to the rain. He stood like a rock, or like a mighty tree that no storm could shake. Sometimes, as night fell, he even held a lantern so people at sea could see the light and find their way home. Like a lighthouse.
But what am I saying—he was far better than a lighthouse! A lighthouse just stands and shines, but that helps little to a ship in trouble. People scream and drown, while this poor giant stands there like a stick, blinking aimlessly, long ignored. A lighthouse has no compassion; it’s just an inanimate, soulless thing.
But Tõll was made of completely different stuff; his heart beat fiercely in his chest. And what a big heart! When he saw trouble brewing, he didn’t waste a moment—he plunged straight into the water, hands held out in front, walking at full speed across the waves. No matter how deep the water, it only reached his waist. Even the bigger waves washed over him under his arms. He crossed the sea like a bear through rye, heading straight for the ship in distress, grabbing it with both hands. Then he reached into the water, pulling out the people one by one, shaking the water off them, and hoisting them onto his shoulders. If a fish or a seal got in his hands, he gently returned it to the water. How could he bring them ashore? Their home was in the water.
But he rescued every single person. They helped too, shouting, “Juku’s still out there! Mäidu isn’t found yet!” Then Tõll plunged back into the water until he found every last Juku and Mäidu. No one was left to drown. If someone had already said goodbye to their miserable little life and accepted their wet grave, Tõll yanked them out by the ear and shook the salty water from them. He brought the entire crew safely ashore, then went back for the ship. He didn’t say a word, only murmured softly like a spring birch. And the people, as if understanding, praised him enthusiastically, thanked him, and shouted, “Long live Tõll!” He would smile, then head home. Piret had hot cabbage soup ready for him, which he needed after his ordeal in the sea.
People loved Tõll for deeds like these.
So clearly, Tõll provided enormous help whenever enemies invaded the country. And it happened more than once—imagine, there are always some who can’t sit quietly at home, wandering about. But how wonderful it is to stay home in fine weather! In your own house, master of your own domain, doing whatever you like, no one stopping you. You can go to the sauna, mix yourself a bowl of kama and eat it greedily, or just stand in the middle of the yard, watching dandelions bloom and the spotted woodpecker drum atop the spruce—so much to do! Peace and joy fill your soul, and you don’t want to go anywhere—maybe just to the back room, to the soft bed, where sweet dreams await.
But see, some don’t get it. Like ants in their pants, they just keep coming. True lunatics! And not politely, like a friend knocking first, offering a handshake, showing the gift in their pocket—no! They come armed, yelling and screaming, shooting arrows, swinging swords, thrusting spears, growling and hollering like madmen!
They trample the dandelions and scare away the woodpecker.
Tõll always helped against such people. Because dealing with lunatics is no easy task. The people tried too, fought bravely, fought battles remembered with respect, but the fool remains a fool—strong, stubborn, attacking again and again. Kick them out the door, and they come back through the window, teeth bared. Cut off one head, boom, another woman appears, even nastier than the last. What can you do with such a bothersome swarm of mosquitoes? You can’t keep shaking your arm when they all dive at you. Without help, they’ll drain all your blood.
That help—was Tõll. The villains couldn’t stand against him.
How could they stand a chance, when Tõll was so much taller than them! Like a spruce tree towering over the blueberries. When Tõll arrived on the battlefield, the bad guys didn’t have much fun for long. He had no weapons—what sensible person keeps swords at home where they’re useless? You can’t plow with a sword or stir soup with a bow. But Tõll grabbed an old wagon wheel and never stopped swinging it. The enemies fell before him like lightning bolts streaking across the field. Tõll swung left—whoosh!—then right—whoosh!—and most times, he didn’t even need a third swing. The poor wretches lay on the ground like empty pea pods, each one tumbling out of its shoes.
You’d even feel a pang of pity looking at them. Eyes wide open, mouths agape, broad wheel marks across their bellies like red belts. But that’s how it had to be… No other way. Who started a war against another! They should have stayed home, worked peacefully, eaten mashed potatoes with herring in the evening, and everyone would have been happy.
But see, this is what happened. They weren’t good for anything else but fertilizing the land.
But then, of course, Vanapagan felt the urge to mischief again just when Tõll was busy punishing the dogs. And he was no one to be squeamish about any evil deed. Oh no, he was always ready to harm Tõll! And now the time was perfect: the master was at war, doing his work and swinging at the wrongdoers, but Vanapagan, the evil spirit, was already lurking behind the barn. Tõll’s wife, Piret, was home alone, building the new house. Usually, Tõll did that, but now he had to go deal with the enemies, and Piret was a strong woman; lifting the heaviest stones was no challenge for her. She carried them on her shoulders, placed them precisely where needed, tapped them into place, and the wall rose nicely. It would have been a beautiful house, tall and sturdy, just right for Tõll and Piret…
But things turned out differently. Vanapagan spat in his hand and got to work on mischief. He jammed his long, sharp claw between the stones, prodding and pulling, nudging with his knees, pushing the wall with his shoulder, even bashing it with his head like a ram.
Piret shouted: “What are you doing here, you evil spirit, you stinky cat? Get out immediately!” But Vanapagan didn’t fear Piret the way he feared Tõll! If she’d had a rowan branch at hand, she could have beaten him with it. But she didn’t, and the rowans were far away. If she went to fetch one, Vanapagan would have demolished the entire house in the meantime.
So Piret stayed put, just scolding Vanapagan.
But he pressed on. His face turned blue from the effort, he let out great farts. And lo and behold, in the end he got what he wanted: the house started to wobble and fell apart. Stones and rubble rained down like hail. Piret tried to catch them, but there were too many. They fell all around, knocking her over and hitting her. Yes.
It was a terrible incident. Piret was a woman with a heart of gold. She always helped the less fortunate, even more than Tõll. Of course, she couldn’t always come at the first call—the household work, cooking, cleaning, laundry, weaving—it all weighed on her shoulders. A housewife has to manage everything. But whenever she had a spare minute, she came immediately. She helped a widow lift a barrel of cabbage, or pull a cow stuck in the marsh, or assist with some heavy work. Sometimes she even pulled out a painful tooth. Despite her huge and strong body, her heart was gentle. Kind and friendly. And now Vanapagan mocked her… Could anything be more frightening?
Tõll returned home from the battle, wagon wheels red with the enemy’s blood, planning to go to the sauna to wash off the grime of war… But the sauna was cold, the house in ruins, and his wife dead.
Tõll just stood for a while, staring. Then a strong roar burst from him, growing louder and louder! Tõll began to thunder like a mill wheel grinding grain. And he set off in pursuit of Vanapagan!
The scoundrel hid in the bushes, partly rejoicing at his successful mischief, partly terrified, because he knew that this time Tõll would not let it go. Until now, Vanapagan’s antics hadn’t mattered—just rearranging the scattered haystacks—but if your wife is killed, that’s not something you let slide. That calls for punishment and revenge.
And Tõll moved. In his hand, a large rowan stick—or rather, an entire rowan tree uprooted from the ground. With it, he intended to split Vanapagan in half like a birch log—a fitting punishment for the old scoundrel.
Of course, Vanapagan leapt up too. He bounded as fast as he could, his hairy hooves flashing, tongue hanging out, and his horns so fiery with fear they practically steamed. But Tõll was quick too when needed. Otherwise, slow and steady, as big men tend to be. Measure ten times, cut once. But if it’s a matter of catching Vanapagan and punishing him properly for his deadly misdeeds, why measure even once? Then just swing! Swing and hit, drive him into the ground up to his ears, so the evil spirit can’t get out again!
So they ran around and around, Vanapagan in front with a bright yell, Tõll behind with a dark roar. People hid behind hedges, making sure they didn’t get caught in the fray while these two settled their accounts. Of course, everyone secretly rooted for Tõll, confident that Vanapagan wouldn’t escape this time.
Finally, Vanapagan reached the edge of the swamp, leaping from tussock to tussock like a frog. He often hid in the marsh, thinking he knew all the secret paths and that even the large, heavy Tõll wouldn’t dare follow him into the tussocks—or would sink. But instead, Vanapagan stepped wrong, into the marsh instead of on a tussock, and sank up to his neck. In his great fear, he forgot the familiar signs. You can try to keep a clear head when a furious Tõll is panting down your neck, and a rowan tree whizzes past so your tail hair stands on end! The evil spirit lost his mind!
Or perhaps the swamp itself shifted, widening its bogs and softening the tussocks. For the swamp and marsh also belong to the Great Ones, like Tõll. They endure for a long time, but not forever. One day their patience runs out. And then the bad guys have no way out.
Either way, the wretch sank into the marsh and never came out again. Who would lend a helping hand to such a killer? No one. The evil spirit sank with a faint hiss to the very bottom of the swamp, only a few bubbles occasionally surfacing and popping quietly: “Plop… Pfft… Sploosh…”
And the swamp was calm again, as if nothing had happened.
Tõll put the rowan tree he had uprooted back into the ground, letting it grow at the edge of the swamp, to mark the spot where Vanapagan had drowned. And as a warning sign, that here hides evil. Then he went home—or what I’m saying, he no longer had a home. Everything had collapsed, crumbled into pieces. And the dear Piret’s body lay among the ruins.
Sometimes one wonders what the Great Ones can mourn over. But you see, there is cause. They can grieve very intensely. In that, they are no different from the small ones.
Tõll never started rebuilding the house again. Completely understandable. What use is a house if you no longer have a wife? With whom do you sit inside, with whom do you eat porridge? With whom do you share a bed? Instead, he gathered the scattered stones and built a grave out of them. A huge stone grave, where he buried his Piret. Beautifully, properly.
And then he stayed by the grave for a long time. Several days.
He didn’t speak a word, only a sound arose, like hundreds of thousands of cicadas chirping at once in August. As if they all played their little violins together in memory and honor of Great Piret.
That chirping filled everything. Everyone heard it and knew that Tõll was mourning his wife.
But he was not allowed to mourn for long. The enemy attacked the land again. You cannot plow or build in peace, not even properly mourn your own wife, because the ravens leave no minute of quiet—they just come and come! They don’t plow, don’t build houses, don’t mourn their dead. No! Why would they? What use is a plowed field to them, when they don’t sow or reap, don’t even know how to bake bread, only devour others’? And houses are useless to them—they don’t stay home, they have no home. They roam back and forth like a cow bitten under the tail by a bear.
Oh, and they don’t mourn their dead for long either. Whoever falls, falls, that’s it. Let their carcass lie in the field!
That’s what they’re like. Ugly. Frightening. I cannot live, nor let others live.
But this time, the gluttonous worms were accompanied by a massive chief’s belly.
A miserable creature. So full of itself that it’s painful to look at. As big as a drawer cabinet. Because yes, there is a difference between big and big. Tõll was big, but he was truly great—great in every way, body and soul. Yet some souls are as tiny as a mouse, while their bodies grow like an inkblot on paper, spreading until they become monsters. Yes, like a dust clump in a corner, growing larger if you don’t sweep it up in time, or a small boil on your nose that keeps swelling until it bursts. The small size goes unnoticed until it occupies the space of peaceful people, finally pressing them against the wall.
Because war is nothing but pressure. Those who have gorged themselves feel cramped and start to expand. You can try to get out of their way, hide in a corner, or crawl into a crack like a bedbug, but it won’t help—there’s too little room for their huge belly, and it keeps swelling as if someone were pumping air into them from behind. So eventually, your only choice is to take a needle and prick the monster’s belly to release the excess. But if the skin proves too tough, nothing remains but the sword. And then, there you have war.
It was the same this time. The enemy was on the field again—what to do? You had to fight them! You would rather sit at home, cook pea soup, and watch the child play with the cat, but you know they won’t leave you in peace. If you don’t confront the robber, they’ll come into your house and climb into the soup pot with their feet. So you take your sword out of the cupboard again and go.
But now their huge boss came with them. There he rages, killing with his right and left hands. A small person has little chance against such a bull. That’s Tõll’s business. They were counting on him.
And Tõll came. This time with a whole cart, pouring all his bitterness onto the wretches at hand. He grew even bigger, so you had to tilt your head all the way back to see his face, and that face was serious and stern, entirely shrouded in dark shadow. And that roar! It was such that my ears still ring from it. Tõll was not in a joking mood today, not at all!
The cart rose and struck down, leaving nothing of the enemy but a pile of red mush, as if someone had accidentally sat in a basket full of ripe strawberries.
Pieces of wood and bone flew!
Crrr— and the knees twisted into ropes!
Boom— and the toe plunged into the eyebrow!
Screams and entrails spread across the grass!
Look, the blisters are rolling!
Teeth and jaws came out at the back of the head!
Crack—the hat—and snot sprayed from the ear!
Oops— and the buttocks flattened!
Crack— and the navel moved to the crown of the head!
Puhh— and the shin bones became horns!
And one or two more pulls here and there.
But clearly, an ordinary peasant cart cannot bear this load for long. After all, the cart wasn’t designed to kill and crush people. It never usually does that kind of work. The cart is useful when you need to carry grain to the mill, bring hay home, or take a pig from the market. Then it does its job properly and serves you. And it is still your friend and right-hand when you ask for a pretty girl’s hand in marriage, or later go to the wedding with the same pretty girl. Then it does not tire, does not break, rolls wholeheartedly, and squeaks with joy. But if you start crushing people with it—even if they are enemies—the cart soon begins to creak sadly, losing one wheel, then the next, and finally the third and fourth. Because a cart is not an axe or a club; it’s used to roll nicely behind horseshoes, not to whistle through the air. That’s how it happened that Tõll’s good old cart also fell apart, its pieces landing among the scattered bodies.
Tõll was left empty-handed. But even these were the size of several shovelfuls. If he clapped them together, the enemy’s skull turned into a pancake.
Tõll bent down to strike the robbers on the head with his fist, flicking them away with his fingers. And then the enemy’s leader struck him with his sword.
Can you imagine such heartless and disgusting action? He struck Tõll’s neck with the sharp sword, splitting him in two, as if cutting a blood sausage in half. Completely bisected! The head fell one way, the body the other.
Look at that.
And then the wretch burst into loud laughter. He clapped his hands together as if watching some juggler or tightrope performer. The other received a terrible blow—his head fell off his neck—but this one just went ha-ha-ha! And he himself performed this terrible feat. Shame on you. But what do you gain from it? You rotten creature, you moldy potato.
But Tõll was no ordinary man. He was one of the Great Ones. And if you point a sword at them, it doesn’t mean they will leave their work unfinished.
For example, if you plunge your sword into the sea—do the waves start running backward, or stop completely? Nooo. The waves still rise at you with great force from the roaring sea, smashing your poor boat to pieces.
Or what difference does it make if you swing an axe at the stormy wind? If it works properly, it will tear off your roof like the skin of an onion.
So did Tõll. His head, of course, rolled on its own path like a large barrel, flattening every enemy in its way into cow patties. But his body stood firm, his hand grabbed the leader, and crushed him.
Oh, indeed!
And whoosh—the monster’s soul, along with all its innards, shot up into the sky like a cherry pit. Only the empty skin remained between Tõll’s fingers.
Tõll could have wiped his nose with it, but unfortunately, it was on his head. Which, who knows, had already wandered somewhere else.
But Tõll’s headless body, as if it still had eyes, turned this way and that, and eventually found what it was looking for—namely, its own head.
He went over and lifted it. Everyone was silent, for the battle was over and the enemy utterly defeated. In the meantime, evening fell, and only the frogs croaked in the ditches, for it was spring—the time of mating.
And to the melody of their loud quacking, Tõll set off. His head under his arm looked on with a sorrowful gaze. See how we fared? Was it really necessary?
No, it was not necessary. Absolutely not. But what can we do afterward?
Tõll walked and walked. Slowly, but straight. Far enough to disappear from sight. A great man, carrying a great head under his arm.
Later, some said that Tõll had said: “If you are in trouble, call me. I will come back and help.” But this is highly doubtful, for Tõll was never a man of words.
At least, not since then. No one has seen him since. But he certainly did not disappear. Come now. How could he?
If you sometimes hear the friendly murmur of the sea, or the wind gently caressing the fields, or listen to the crickets chirping and the bees buzzing, or the muffled crunch of snow in winter—but occasionally the dark and threatening roar of a storm and distant thunder, as if from the highest peak of the sky!—then it is clear that Tõll is somewhere there, quite near. In a good mood or a bad one, but definitely there. You, with your foolish head, may wander off somewhere never to return, but Tõll does not. He hums to himself, and never leaves his home.
Never.
And this brings joy to the mind and fills the heart with peace.
But Tõll’s horse had disappeared somewhere. Quite surprising, for not even a pin is so small that you could never find it again if dropped. And yet Tõll’s horse was large!
Bigger than some people’s sauna. And yet it was gone. A miracle.
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