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  For my son, Jeff, whose drrawings breathed life into a giant’s land

  ONE

  A Boy in the Flames

  The boy returned to the Fire Sea to fill one more wagon. It was growing late. There was just enough time for a last coal sprint. Collecting coal at the Fire Sea was dangerous work. You waited for the firetide to recede and then rushed in, on water-soaked boots, to scoop a bucketful before the waves of flame rolled back in. It was a race against the tide one could not afford to lose.

  No one knew what caused the sea to burn. It just did, for as far back as anyone could remember. Some said it was fed by a deep volcano. Others believed it was wizards’ work. Most, however, chose not to question how and why. It was there before they were born, and it would be there long after they were gone.

  The boy’s day was spent darting back and forth between the advance and retreat of the blazing waves. The key to survival lay in his timing. He counted aloud his breaths between each wave. If it was ten breaths, he would use three to run in, one to scoop, and five to get out. That left one extra breath in reserve should the waves break their pattern, as they often did. A slight shift of breeze felt on the face—the only part of him exposed to the elements—was cause to abandon the scoop to wait for the current’s next sequence. It would take between forty and sixty trips with his bucket to gather enough coal to fill his wagon. The heat was nearly unbearable, but he had grown used to it—as used to it as a boy could grow and not be turned to ash.

  The wagon was nearly filled. “One more run. One more scoop,” he said, studying the waves. “Then home, eat, sleep. Home, eat, sleeeep…” The boy stepped into his bucket of water to resoak his thick-soled leather boots and then moved to the edge of the simmering tide. He held the empty coal bucket tightly in his gloved hands, his body coiled, ready to charge forward. Sweat poured down his face, leaving pale streaks in the dark gray ash that coated every inch of him. The flames rolled away. He counted his breaths: “One … two … three…” On “nine,” the tide changed direction and came toward him. When it reached his feet and receded, he would chase it in. With the back of his dirty sleeve, he cleared the sweat from his eyes and got ready to run. Then he paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Something broke the surface of the burning sea. It drifted slowly toward the shore. The boy stood frozen in place, squinting to focus through the heat shimmer. The firetide rolled forward and retreated a dozen times, two dozen times, and a dozen more as that drifting thing became a head, then a head upon shoulders. The boy laid down his bucket and watched as the thing, a massive, manlike thing, advanced. By the time his boots had dried, it was large enough to blot out the sun and swallow him in shadow.

  He ran. There was no place to hide on the open expanse of sand, so he put some distance between them and crouched low, just short of the wooded edge behind him.

  The monster from the sea watched the little creature scuttling away from him. It held up a hand the size of a rowboat.

  “Do not run,” it said hoarsely, its throat parched from a long stretch of breathing in fire. “Please…”

  The boy stood up slowly but kept his distance.

  “Go away!” he shouted, waving his arms. The monster stumbled forward. The boy moved closer to the woods.

  “NO! GO AWAY!” repeated the boy. He turned and took a few more steps back.

  “Please don’t run,” said the monster.

  The boy stopped again.

  The monster held up his hands. “Please … don’t…”

  “You can talk? What are you?”

  “Newton,” answered the monster. “Where am I?”

  Newton had never seen such a small giant. It was barely as long as his foot. It couldn’t be a giantling infant; it could speak, and run. And its body was too spindly for a giantling. What a tiny nose and ears, such tiny ears. How can it hear this giant’s words? A matted tussock of black hair hung from its head. It was sooty all over from the ash of the burning sea, much like he was. Was it some kind of large bug? No. It spoke words. And wore clothes. Bugs don’t speak words and wear clothes. Maybe bugs here do. He sniffed. Its blood smells like a giant’s; but also it does not.

  “I don’t know. It’s just here. What’s a Newton?”

  “A Newton is this giant. A giant of that name. I come from a far place. My boots have wandered a great long time, I am of a thought. You do not know where this here is?”

  “I know. It’s here. By the Fire Sea. It’s home—where I live. A giant? You’re a real giant?” The boy took a couple of cautious steps toward him. “Giants are real?”

  “This one is. Others too,” said Newton.

  “I mean, I see that … But you’re a giant! That talks! I thought giants were just … monsters in nannytales.”

  “This giant is real. We are real,” said Newton. He crashed down to the sand. He’d been walking for weeks, or maybe years, or just days. He couldn’t tell anymore. “This giant is also lost. There is no name this land is called?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just home.” The boy moved closer to Newton. “Should I be afraid of you?” he asked.

  The giant let go an amused huff. “No,” he answered. “Should I be afraid of you?”

  The boy looked up at him, as if trying to read the truth in his answer. “Probably not,” he said. He paused a moment, studying Newton. “Of course you would say I shouldn’t be afraid of you if I should be.”

  “That would be lying.”

  “And giants don’t lie? Is what you are saying?”

  “No. They do. But this one doesn’t. Much.”

  “How big are you?”

  “I do not know. Did you not just see?” The giant strained to lift his hand above his head. “This big?” His arm crashed back down to the ground. “What are you?”

  “Jat. A boy … um, man. A human.”

  “You are a Jataboyummanahuman?” asked Newton. “A long name to leave a mouth.”

  “No. Just Jat. I’m a man, or will be … soon. We all are here. Except for the animals. And trees. And girls. And other things that aren’t any of those.”

  “Animals? Have you oxes? Or goats?”

  “I don’t,” said Jat. He pointed to a hilltop in the distance. “Mr. Willowhock has cows. That’s kind of an ox, I think.”

  Newton’s eyes lit up. “Haroomph … Ox cows? Food has not fallen into this belly for so long a time. My insides roar for a fat ox cow!”

  Newton slowly stood up. He was as tall as the trees that lined the edge of the beach. The giant could barely stay on his feet. His insides still buzzed with the torment he’d survived back home. The pain threatened to crumple his weakened body down to the sand. Everything was shifting, fading in and out. This giant has splashed into the Great Sea and walked out the other side! This will not be where his boots stop carrying him!

  Food. He needed to eat. He stumbled forward toward the hilltop. Ox cows,
he thought. He could smell them already. Drool spilled over his lower lip, leaving puddles in the sand.

  The giant made it to the ranch in short time. And there they were … cows … a herd of them—all thoughtfully corralled for an easy meal. He bent down and scooped one up. Even their ox cows are of a small size.

  “It is my regret, ox cow,” he said, and shoved it into his mouth and swallowed. “Thank you, ox cow.” He picked up another. “It is my regret, ox cow.” That one followed the first. “Thank you, ox cow.” Soon he’d finished off the herd, thanking each after it had been dropped down his cavernous gullet. Jat caught up to him, out of breath. He seemed to have overcome his fear of the giant. Newton was sitting against a tree, eyes closed. A satisfied smile stretched beneath a nose larger than three full sacks of potatoes.

  “What did you do?” he shouted.

  “Ate,” said Newton. He patted his massive belly. “This giant feels better now.”

  “Mr. Willowhock will not feel better when he sees you ate all of his cows!” Then he took a step back. “You’re not still hungry, are you?”

  “Always still hungry,” said Newton.

  “Am I something that would make you less hungry?”

  “Haroomph, this giant has told you not to fear him. You are of a giant’s smell, in a small way, but enough of a way for this giant not to make you food. We do not eat each other, big or small.” Newton gave him another sniff. He does not smell like a bad thing to eat, though. His stomach rumbled. NO! If it speaks it is not to eat!

  “Then let’s go,” said Jat. “Mr. Willowhock can always find ways to make trouble for … people. I shouldn’t have told you about his cows.”

  “But it is a thing that makes this giant grateful to you.”

  “I didn’t know this would happen.”

  Newton was confused. “When giants are hungry, giants eat. It all becomes the same.”

  “The same? What’s the same?”

  “I eat your ox. You eat my goat. She eats his swan. He gives his ax. We all take. We all give. We all eat. It is take-give.”

  “But you didn’t give him anything for his cows,” said Jat. “And you have to ask first, to make sure you both agree.” The boy paused. “Unless you’re a giant and can crush anyone you want, I guess. Which you are and probably can.”

  “This giant does not wish to crush mans. A time will come when I make the balance,” said the giant. “It is how it works.”

  “Okay,” said the boy, “but until then, you really have to go! Mr. Willowhock is a nasty old croak. He will be so mad he will make you crush him to stop him.”

  Newton stood and let out a great belch, blowing a treeful of grackles from their perches. He did feel a little better, although the pain inside him still crashed around like an angry bull. He allowed it the freedom to run through him. It was easier than fighting it. Play with the little ox cows I gave you, he said silently to the turmoil within. The giant left the ranch and stomped back toward the fireshore. Seeing where he came from might help him figure out where he was and where he might go from here.

  “There is a cave not very far,” said Jat, running to keep up. “Giants live in caves, right? At least the ones in stories do. Maybe you can stay there until you figure out what you are doing. What are you doing? Where did you come from? Why are you here?”

  “Do all of you mans talk so fast?”

  “No. I don’t know. It’s just … I just saw a giant shove a herd of cows in its mouth. I don’t see that a lot. I don’t think I want to ever see it again. Are more of you coming?”

  “This giant hopes not. I am not much loved where I came from. There are stories to tell, man … human-jat-boy.”

  “Just Jat.”

  Newton looked down at the boy and smiled. “You are not of a fear anymore?”

  Jat stepped back, his eyes wide in panic. “Why? What are you going to do…?”

  Newton shook his head in frustration. He got down on a knee. The boy backed away farther.

  “What this giant will do is ask the boy-jat—”

  “Just Jat.”

  “He will ask the just-jat to trust that when this giant says a thing, his words hide no lies. I have known fear from giants all of my days. It is why I am here. Because I have known it, I do not wish to bring it to others. Please know … this … giant … will … not … hurt … you.”

  Jat’s face relaxed again. “I believe you. But there’s a word I’m thinking of—porridge … No … potten. Potential! It’s something that can happen. You have to understand that when I see you, I can see potential of a great big monster … just squashing me. I couldn’t stop you.”

  “There is porridge that you can hurt me, too,” said Newton, “and yet this giant is of no fear of it.”

  “Yeeeaahhh … but really no. And not the right word. There’s just more reasons not to trust people than to trust them. I think I trust you, though. Aside from running away and hiding, I don’t think there’s much choice but to trust you.”

  “Hoomph!” said the giant. He got back to his feet. “I am not of a wish to keep speaking of eating and squashing just-jats. This giant is in a new land he knows nothing about. That is a thing of great interest to me now.”

  “The cave is up ahead, in the side of that cliff. You’ll find it,” said Jat. “I really have to get home now.” He sighed. “There are men waiting back home for those coals in my wagon. I know for sure my mother is already thinking of ways to make me sorry I’m so late. Will you be here tomorrow? Please don’t go anywhere yet.”

  “Will you tell me more about where I am?” asked Newton. “I am thinking this is my land now, too. My just here. For a time, at least. I should learn about it.”

  “Are you joking? Do giants joke? Of course I’ll be back. I’ll tell you all about this place! I mean, you’re a rippin’ giant! The only way I won’t be back is if I wake up tomorrow and this was just a dream.”

  “I will not leave here without seeing you tomorrow, just-jat.”

  “Jat.”

  “Jat,” said the giant.

  The boy retrieved his cart and disappeared down the sandy trail that opened up at the edge of the woods. Newton found the cave. It was tall enough for him to stand inside and deep enough to allow him to lie down, but unlike what the boy believed, most giants didn’t live in caves. Newton was one of those who did not. His body could feel the weight of the rock above and around him, and it was almost too much to bear. He chose instead to lean up against the wall outside so he could study the stars. They were the first he had seen since he’d entered the sea of fire. He was surprised to see they looked the same as in his own land, except all shifted over to a different part of the sky. “I thought you were just monsters in nannytales,” the boy had said. Fum, thought the giant. He has heard of giants, but he did not think we are real. He has heard of giants, and we are real. Am I not the first to travel to this land? Newton knew that giant meant large, but he never understood why they would call themselves large. Large compared to what? he wondered. Compared to mans? Did they name us?

  He had so many questions for the mans-boy—Jat. Newton absently picked up a stone from the sand and rolled it around in his fingers. It left a dry red powder on his hand, and he wiped it off on the rock wall behind him. The giant stared at the long smear on the surface. He turned and scraped the stone against the wall. This is better than scratching sticks into bark!

  Newton stood and drew an image of a giant. It looked like him, or what he thought he looked like. He made it as tall as he was. Back home he had done a similar thing, but instead they were lines pricked on small sheets of pale bark. This felt different. It was big, like he was, and looked back at him, eye to eye. He added the Fire Sea and then some ox cows. He had been thinking how good they tasted and drew them in his belly. The giant stepped back and looked at what he had done. A feeling came over him he had never felt before. I have made another Newton, he thought, and I have fed his hungry belly. Do the holygiants know of this magic? He patt
ed his own stomach. He would be hungry again soon, but he was always hungry again soon.

  Newton lifted his shirt and, with the red stone, scrawled an ox cow onto his belly. He closed his eyes, trying to feel if this filled him. It might have, a little. He wasn’t sure. He would need to find real food again. The rules were different here. You cannot take and promise to give? What kind of land is this?

  Newton sat back down against the wall and gazed out at the Fire Sea. Fire was a giant’s friend, usually. Flame was soothing to the skin. Unfortunately, it could also quickly devour that which a giant held most dear.

  TWO

  The Willowhock

  Abner Willowhock returned in the morning with a wag- onful of corn for his cows. The corn would fatten them up for slaughter in a few weeks. The purchase dug into his savings, but his livestock would fetch him a heavy sack of coppers. It would bring in enough to get him through winter, and maybe into spring, with a little left to squander. While Willowhock claimed they were his cows, in truth, more than half were not, at least originally. Six had come from his nephew, who stole them from another ranch. Their brands, a letter O on their left flank, revealed them to be the property of Silas Otis of Flinders Gorge, a two days’ ride west. Abner seared his W in the middle of the Os, and then branded Os around the Ws on the rest of his cows. When he was done, they all appeared to belong to the same owner.

  “They all be mine now,” he cackled proudly. “And who’s ta say different?”

  But now the cows were gone—his and Otis’s. The fences he’d built to pen them in destroyed, ground into the dirt. He searched the area but found nothing but a few dead birds scattered around the old maple.

  “Who did this?” he shouted. The woods were silent. Willowhock ran into his barn and returned with his hatchet.

  “I’ll find yeh and deal with yeh myself,” he muttered. Then he shouted to the sky, “I will find yeh, thiefs!” He circled the pen, searching for footprints, widening his coverage with each round. “I know there be more than one of yeh. Tracks. Tracksy tracks … Tracksy tracksy tracks … Where be your filthy stealin’, fence-crushin’ tracksy tracks?”