The Giant from the Fire Sea, page 4
Back in the cave, Newton’s fists clenched in his sleep. His breathing quickened.
The Punchers towered over the other giants. Knotty gray barklike skin covered deeply sinewed bodies, giving them the appearance of weathered trees. They were of a race of giants—the Apooncha—who dwelled far beyond the Oaken Hills. They’d never been known to speak, and Newton had heard that unlike giants of his kind, they did not turn to stone when frightened. Years ago, his friend Pryat told him that he once heard the Apooncha faint when taken by fear. However, he had added, no one he knew had ever seen one so taken.
Again, as many times before, Newton’s slumber-journey continued his ascent up Makers’ Ear, a tall hill at the edge of the city. Scattered below were the charred remains of homes, destroyed by the skyfire. The problem is real, thought Newton. Their answer is not. I did not make this happen! They reached the top by early afternoon. The Iron Thorn loomed before him. He had seen the pillar in the distance from his cell, rising like a spike driven into the crest of Makers’ Ear. It was here an unfortunate giant would plead his innocence to the Makers, and here where the Makers may choose to open an ear to those pleas. The Makers spoke through spears of lightning. The firebolts from the clouds were drawn through the giant and into the iron spike. It promised that, whether the Makers were sympathetic or not, there was little chance of surviving such an exchange. Giants do not burn, but lightning is a different kind of fire. It cooks a body from the inside out. A dozen or so strikes is enough to pull a life from the strongest among them.
The tiny platform at the top disappeared in a swirling mass of black clouds, sporadically illuminated by the flashes of lightning.
“They gather,” said Gabroc.
A Puncher waited at the base and began turning a large crank. The Thorn squealed, grinding against the sides of its sleeve as it sank into the ground.
“Step on, and do not turn to stone when They speak!” said Pegma. “It will be worse for you if you do. It brings a shame to all giants.”
“And,” added Gabroc, “you would shatter.”
“He will turn,” said Crag. “He is a coward.”
“Would you be of a wish to go in my place?” asked Newton. “You could ask the Makers yourself if this giant’s looking up at the stars brought the skyfire. They will answer you, of the Elder Council, if you do not turn.”
“Nephrite has sent you, Broont.”
“I am Newton, not Broont. If a giant can choose his name, why do you not honor mine?”
“It is not a giant’s name,” said Crag. “The tongue stumbles to speak it.”
“Enough,” said Pegma. “This giantess wishes this to end what you have begun, but she takes no joy in it. We do not question the Mother Shepherd of Holygiants. Nephrite speaks for the Makers, and it is she who sends you to them. I will call you Newton, if it will help you face them as the giant you believe you are.”
Newton stepped onto the platform and tried to hold steady as it was cranked up into the air.
Back in the cave by the Fire Sea, the giant clutched at the air, his sleeping mind looking to escape what was about to happen. But escape never comes. His slumber-journeys always keep to the same path, the path he traveled back across the seas.
He was in the clouds. The smell of oily metal settled heavily in his lungs. He could taste it, like bitter rust on a cobbler’s boot nail. Did it come from the clouds or the Iron Thorn itself? Arcs of lightning buzzed around him, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. There was a break in the clouds, and he looked down. His escorts were walking away, down the hill, closer to safety. The Puncher at the base, impervious to anything anyone knew of, remained to prevent any giant from helping him. But who would help this giant? wondered Newton.
A lighting bolt struck him. It entered the top of his head, tore through his body and left through the soles of his feet, pinning him to the iron. When he could move again, he looked himself over, fully expecting to see strips of flesh and muscle hanging from his bones. From the outside, he appeared okay. He waited for another strike. The waiting brought fear, and he began to turn to stone.
“NO!” he shouted. He arched his back and strained to look up to the clouds. “What have you to say to this giant? Here is Newton! He does not fear you! You fear HIM! You fear what he sees!”
Zzzz-crrrackle … CRAACK! A screaming tor-hawk streaked through him, clawing at his insides, mad to escape anywhere it could find a way out. He was brought to his knees. There was no tor-hawk, Newton knew. But it was an image his body chose to understand the pain. He smelled fire. It was him. Black smoke billowed from his nostrils. His skin was hardening. Newton was beginning to turn again.
He sang. Somehow, it pushed away the fear.
“A giant’s bones,” he boomed, “are made of stone. A giant’s roar brings the war…” He was struck again. Newton lost his footing and nearly fell from the platform. Had he done so, he would have likely turned to stone and survived the fall, but he knew the Puncher would send him back up before he turned back. He remembered what Gabroc had said would happen when the Makers spoke to a giant in that state. This giant would be just more pebbles on the hill, he thought. Newton grabbed on to the edge, but then rolled onto his back, to face the Makers. He continued to sing.
“When a giant’s heart is torn apart. A giant’s brave, to the…” The lightning continued to strike. Again and again. Over and over. The sound exploded in his ears. Through the cracking whips of searing light, he thought he heard his name called. The Makers do speak? Another spear of white-hot light crashed through his chest. It came out his back, arced down, and grabbed on to the Thorn. It held him in place as it rattled his body in agonizing spasms. And then struck again.
“Newton!” called a voice from what sounded like many lands away. The giant rolled onto his belly and looked over the edge. Through his nearly baked eyes, he could not see who it was, but he knew. Only one giant called him by his chosen name.
“Pryat?” he said to himself.
“Hold on. I am getting you down.”
Well, fo fum, thought the giant.
SIX
Soup Pots and Dragons
Newton awoke, his face awash in sunlight that filtered into the cave. He had slept through the night. If his slumber-journeys took him elsewhere after his rescue, he did not remember. And that is not always a bad thing. Yet it was good to see Pryat again. Newton recalled how his friend had knocked down the Puncher at the base of the Thorn.
“How did you…?”
Pryat pointed to a boulder a short distance away. It was nearly as big as he was. “I threw that at him. He fell. It is how I like Punchers—felled.”
Newton crawled out of the cave. He stood and stretched. His hand was itchy. The giant brought it to his face and saw that his pinkie had turned to stone. It was turning back, slowly. Odd, he thought. The Makers’ Voice inside him was now just a whisper. Maybe the pain was left in the Newton that wakes when this Newton sleeps. He felt bad for that other Newton. Did that Newton feel bad for him? What was he to do now? He could go back to the village, but maybe not just yet. He never found comfort in large gatherings, especially ones where so great a number of eyes were drawn to him. And the mans had so many questions. He wasn’t sure which ones he should answer, although his tongue held little back. If they want to know a thing, why should they not? We should all know all things. Maybe here that is not so bad.
He shook his hand, trying to wake his pinkie. It was nearly back to normal. He gave it a wiggle. “Humph…”
The giant looked back up the shore, toward the woods that led to the village. He hoped to see Jat. Maybe he is not coming. The waves of flames rolled in the distance. He searched the horizon for the column of water, the great spinning stalk of vines, that had brought him here. Could it bring him back? It was of no matter. He couldn’t find it, and if he could, he would not go back.
He thought again about the village circle. Did I say a thing I should not have said? He was used to asking himself this question. He thought he should probably ask it more. But what could they do to him? They were of such a small size. Fum, a scree-mouse can bite. And what is a bite of a mouse but a nibble? But could mans hurt him in a way he did not know? Jat would not hurt this giant. But not all mans were Jats. Some were Willowhocks. Some were Stoggins.
Newton would wait a while for Jat to come. And if he did not, foomph, he would see …
The giant sifted through the stones at the base of the cliff, looking for different colors to work with. He would use them to tell more of his story—even some of the parts he wished to forget. He was a giant who had done what giants did not do. He survived the Iron Thorn. He traveled across the Great Sea on a jumble of cobbletrees. Along the way he battled a sea serpent, and ate it, and discovered many strange new creatures. He walked beneath an ocean of fire. Maybe someday another giant would come this way and see what he had done. The thought pleased him. Sharing things that made his heart pound fast made it pound faster yet.
The giant drew all these things that lived behind his eyes. He remembered each one and could see them inside his head. At first, he used just lines: curves and arcs, circles and squares. They were like the markings in his silent speakers, but different—more like real things that he could touch. They looked like real things, at least. And he could touch them. The markings he had studied in his silent speakers back home made the words that talked about real things. Talked about them in his head. They were not as the things themselves. These are more close, he thought.
He accidentally smudged the lines that made his sister, Ooda. It added a shadow to her shape. She looked even more like Ooda. Ooda who hated him. Ooda who burned the barn where he hid his silent speakers and farlooker. Ooda who smashed all his waterstones. Ooda who pulled his ears. Ooda whose parents I turned to Everstone. Of course she hates this giant for what he did. He could not draw his parents. The sickness he felt in losing them was worse than that of the Makers’ Voice in his belly.
He ground some of the stones to dust and used the palms of his hands to rub color and shading inside the lines. His story, his life came to live on the cliff wall.
* * *
Jat appeared at Newton’s cave just after sunset. The Fire Sea’s light flickered on the cliff wall, causing the images to shimmer and dance in place. Newton was busy rubbing dusty green scales on a great serpent that rose from the blue sea. He had given it four heads, even though the one he’d fought had only one. The extra heads made it look as if it were wiggling back and forth.
“Do you see this?” Newton asked excitedly. “They come alive! They move! Is this some kind of magic of your land?”
“I don’t believe in magic,” said the boy. “But seeing this, I almost do. It’s pretty amazing, Newton.”
“You have not seen this before?”
“No. I think the fire from the sea is making it happen. Like how candles make things look … jumpy. Shadows and things.”
“Magic,” said the giant. “Magic from the Fire Sea Makers.”
“No,” said Jat. “I don’t know, but … no. Not magic. Not everything we don’t understand is magic.”
Newton raised his eyebrows. “You are right, Jat. Yes, you are right. I have said this myself! Are all mans of a wisdom like yours?”
Jat shrugged. “No.”
Just then, Newton got a closer look at the boy’s face. “What happened to you?”
Jat looked away, as if ashamed. “Nothing,” he said. “I banged into a tree going to the outhouse last night.”
“Your one eye has a dark circle around it. And…” Newton looked more closely. “Your lip is fat.”
“Walked into a tree, Newton.”
“And your ear is poofy, and purple!”
“AHH! STOP! I WALKED INTO A TREE! IT HAPPENS! Your whole FACE is poofy! How about that!”
Newton didn’t believe his story, but he could tell Jat was not going to tell him what had really happened. “Tree thrumped you good,” he said.
“Do giants have magic in their world?” asked the boy, changing the subject.
“We do have magic in my land, but only the holygiants know it. They cannot do this, though,” said Newton, staring in awe at the dancing figures. “It only happens in the dark, it seems. Yes, the Fire Sea awakens my…”
“Drawings,” said Jat.
“Oh yes! My drrawings. I have drrawn them from inside me. Do I live in their slumber-journeys? Or do they live in mine?”
“You ask strange questions, Newton. What’s that nail in the hill?”
“Harumph … that is where the Makers spoke to this giant. It is where they put their voice in here,” he said, patting his chest. “It is their voice that brings the pain. But I am feeling a little better now. I have told you of Pryat,” he added, pointing to a picture of his friend. “He knocked down this Puncher with a boulder and rescued me. Punchers do not get thrumped, but Pryat did not care and thrumped him anyway.”
Jat walked along the cliff, studying Newton’s work. “Oh, those things,” he said, pointing up to a series of little rectangles. “You talked about them to the village. What did you call them?”
“Silent speakers,” said the giant.
“Yup, those look like books,” said the boy.
“Boooks…” said Newton. “It is a word this giant has not heard. These silent speakers are as blocks of wood with thin sheets of wood bark inside. The sheets are marked with scratches that I have learned are a way of making words—of sharing the thoughts of who put them there. When I look at them, I see pictures behind my eyes. I hear silent words in my ears.”
“Yes, books, like I said. We have those here, too.”
“Well, we do not have them in my land, Jat,” said Newton. “It took this giant many years to understand them. They spoke of lands in the sky. The stars are as suns for them. I found a way to make a thing so I can see these suns more closer.” Newton pulled something out of his pocket and held it up in front of the boy. It was clear as the sky, and worn smooth and round.
“Glass, I think,” he said. “You made this?”
“Yes. I call them waterstones. Glassss? I like that word. It sounds like the thing that it is when it breaks. I made this, and others. Then I made them smooth and round with a fine stone. If you hold it over a thing, it makes it look more big.” The giant turned to the wall and rubbed his hand along an image of a long tube mounted on a base. “This is a farlooker. I saw this in one of the sil … boooks I found. A waterstone—glassss, like this one, at each end, brings the stars close to a giant’s eye.” Newton sighed. It also brings trouble to curious giants.
“What are those things you drew above your farlooker?”
“Skyfire. The holygiants and Council say that my looking at the stars has angered the Makers who live there. The Makers, they say, have sent their dragon to punish us with their burning rocks. They say that it sent one to burn our village as a warning. And that more will drop from the sky because of me. I have seen their dragon through my farlooker. Fum, it is no dragon. They are stars in the shape of a dragon. Like this…” Newton fished a soft white stone from his pocket and drew some dots on the wall. “This is their dragon. I think it looks more like a soup pot.”
“I think I know that soup pot, or dragon, up there,” said the boy. “I see it all the time. I always thought it looked like a big spoon. There is one in the sky next to it that’s like a smaller spoon. When it gets a little darker, I’ll show you—should be soon.”
“I know that other one! It is here? It is in your land, too?”
“It is, or I think it is,” said Jat. “If what you drew is what you saw back home, how far did you really travel?”
“I do not know,” said the giant. “I thought very far, but now I do not know.”
“My life got a lot more interesting with you showing up, wherever you came from.”
Newton laughed. “Is that of a good thing?”
“It is very much of a good thing!” said the boy.
“When Ooda destroyed my farlooker, this could no longer travel,” he said, pointing to his head, “to the lands of the Makers in the sky. But maybe this giant can find a way from over here.”
“What’s a ooda?”
“Fum … my sister. She feared the things this giant saw. She believed, like all giants, looking up close at the stars angered the Makers—that this giant was spying. And that they sent the Makers’ Dragon, the one on this wall—the soup spoon—to punish us with skyfire.”
“What happened to it?”
“She burned it. And she burned my boooks. She burned the whole barn down.”
“I have a sister, too. But she’s okay. She’s real young, though. More annoying than anything. Doesn’t burn things, which is good…”
“Mine is meaner than a sack of mudbadgers. And she got more meaner. After—”
“Look!” said Jat. “It’s dark enough to see now!” He pointed up to the sky.
Newton sat back to look at the star cluster. “That is it!” he said. “It is the same from my land!” A flash of light blazed into view and quickly fizzled out. “Skyfire! You have skyfire, too! We are of the same land. When we look up, we see the same sky.” The giant looked down at the boy, his face in open wonderment. “Mans live in giants’ land. And giants live in mans’ land. This giant is still … home.”
“Wow,” said Jat. He traced an arc in the air with his finger. Newton noticed his bruised knuckles but said nothing.
Then the giant gasped. “A thought this giant does not like just fell into this head. Did I bring the skyfire here? Were the holygiants of a truth in their claim?”
“Nah. It’s been doing this since before you got here. Shooting stars, some people call them. I guess that’s the thing you were calling skyfire. I like your name better. I once heard Flora say that they are sometimes up there for a long time—for weeks—and that they’re not real stars because they’d crush us if they were. I look at the stars a lot, too. There’s really not much else to look at at night.”
