Giant

by T.A. Barron

  Perched on her friend’s shoulder, Elf’s light strengthened. “Over there is the Druma Wood, the most magical place in all of Fincayra.”

  Shim stopped, turning toward the forest. His nose quivered, sensing diverse smells that ranged from damp mushrooms to an ancient badger’s den. And more kinds of trees than he’d ever known. He smelled the sweet resins of hemlock and spruce, the cinnamon of moss oak, the meatiness of walnut, the rich vanilla of elmgrace, and plenty of mysterious scents he couldn’t identify.

  “Magical for surely,” he said in a reverent tone.

  “They say that forest holds even more mysteries than it holds creatures. Birds who fly upside down. Lizards who sing like nightingales. Bubble beings who can change the future. Why, there’s even one tree that grows a different kind of fruit on every branch!”

  Elf’s antennae rang enthusiastically. “Only the woodswoman Rhia, who lives deep in the forest, knows all its creatures. And the stories say she speaks with every one of them, in their own languages. She lives inside a huge oak tree called Arbassa.”

  “Rhia. A nicely name. What else do you know about her?”

  “Not much. Except that she wears a suit of woven vines that stay forever green.”

  Glumly, Shim ran a hand through his hair, still sopping wet from crossing the river. “I’m sure I’ll never meet her—it’s too unlikely. A great famously person like her and a forgettable little . . . whatever I am.”

  The faery leaped off his shoulder and hovered directly in front of his face. Angrily, she declared, “The only time you’re forgettable is when you talk like that! Don’t you remember what Olwen said? I can see the giant in you, even now.”

  “I guess so.” He frowned. “It’s just hard to feel that way sometimes, now that I’m so smallsy.”

  Elf landed on the tip of his nose. Looking at him with affection, she said gently, “Your body may be smaller now, but you’re still the same brave hero who fought off that wyvern. I’m sure of that.”

  Listening, he stood a tiny bit taller.

  “And besides,” she added mischievously, “compared to me, you are still an enormous giant.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. Glancing again at Druma Wood, he said, “Somedaily I’d really like to come back and explore that place. And maybily,” he added with a wink at the faery, “meet that woodsywoman, Rhia.”

  Elf leaped up and hovered by his ear, so close that he could feel the gentle wind from her whirring wings. “The best way to explore a new place . . . is with a friend.”

  Shim bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “We both lost our families, Elf. But we do have this—our friendlyship.”

  “That we do.” The faery hovered closer, reached out her tiny hand, and touched the edge of his ear. “Want to know how I define friends?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well,” she explained, “friends are the family we choose for ourselves.”

  Shim nodded.

  With a graceful swoop, she returned to his shoulder. But at the same time, her luminous wings dimmed. “I only wish . . .”

  “Wish what?”

  “That at least my sister had survived. We were identical twins—exactly alike, right down to our golden bells.”

  Her antennae drooped. “She and I were the only ones in our whole colony to have bells this color. So we could recognize each other across even a big meadow or lake.”

  Shim reached up and, with the tip of his finger, gently touched her wingtip. “You still have somelybody who is your family.”

  Her bells chimed harmoniously.

  Seeing a grassy knoll that rose nearby, Shim jogged up to the top, carrying Elf on his shoulder. From that spot, the vista stretched far indeed. To the north, they could see the gleaming ribbon of the River Unceasing. Very far in the distance, a thin column of mist shot through with rainbows rose into the sky. Might that be, they both wondered, mist rising from the waterfall that held Olwen’s secret hideaway?

  Looking west, they viewed the vast expanse of Druma Wood, shining with more shades of green than Shim had ever dreamed possible. Huge trees lifted skyward, every one of them even more majestic than the pine that bore the nest of the greathawk Rowallon. Like immense pillars that supported the sky, those trees towered above the forest floor, sheltering thousands of wondrous creatures in their branches, under their bark, and among their roots. Brightly feathered birds swooped and soared above the highest canopy of leaves.

  Somewhere out there, Shim knew, stood the grand oak tree that Elf had said was the home of the woodswoman he hoped someday to meet. As well as the wondrous tree that grew many kinds of fruit. And out there, as well, lived all those magical creatures she had named—and so many, many more. Creatures most people had never seen . . . and who lived nowhere else in the universe.

  Filled with awe, he blew a long breath. “Fincayra really is an amazingly place! Full of so much magic and mystery.”

  Turning to the luminous being perched on his shoulder, he declared, “We surely do live in a special place, Elf.”

  She met his gaze. “Which is why we must do everything we possibly can to save it.”

  “Starting with getting back the Leaper! Before that ghastlyish Gasher hands it over to the king.”

  With a discordant jingle, she added, “If he hasn’t already.”

  “Let’s go! Next stop—the oceanly coast and that place we heard about from Olwen.”

  “The Shore of the Speaking Shells.”

  Immediately, Shim started down the knoll with the faery riding on her perch. Through much of the day, they marched southward, crossing through wide grasslands, serrated ridges, and windblown groves.

  At last, Shim caught the briny smell of seawater. Ocean birds circled overhead, screeching and cawing and clacking their beaks as they flew. The ground grew more sandy, the grass more sparse. They topped a row of dunes—and suddenly found themselves facing a wide, rocky shore.

  Tide pools, full of spiky sea urchins and tiny blue and yellow fish, dotted the coast. Colorful shells lay everywhere, often draped with glistening fronds of kelp. Shards of driftwood bobbed in the shallows, while waves lapped endlessly on the shore.

  Out past the waves hung a dark, vaporous wall. The Living Mist. For a moment, Shim peered at it, understanding at last the mist’s terrible warning at the Giants’ Cliffs. I wish, he thought, the mist had a different prediction for me now.

  But the mist didn’t reveal anything. It merely hung there—heavy, dark, and foreboding.

  Finally, Shim turned away, walking to the west among the tide pools. So he never saw the Living Mist gather itself into the shape of a powerful winged beast slashing with its deadly claws. Lightning flashed within the mist, and the shape abruptly shifted to a hairless hag with unblinking eyes . . . a giant laboring to lift a massive stone . . . and a strange island in the middle of a lake.

  Soon, beside the cries of seabirds and the ceaseless sighing of the waves, the companions heard another sort of sound. All around them, the shore seemed to be whispering, as if the very sand was breathing. Or perhaps . . . talking.

  “Shells,” they both said at once, realizing what was the source of the sound.

  Shim bent to pick one up, a green shell that rested by a tide pool. Round and polished by waves, it fit nicely in the palm of his hand. Gleaming with a rich luster, its curves were edged by fine red lines. Slowly, he raised the shell and brought it up to his ear. Elf leaped into the air and hovered close by.

  To their amazement, the shell spoke with slow, whispery words. Words that were clearly meant for them.

  “Bewaaaaare, splashhh, you must bewaaaaare.”

  “We will try,” answered Shim. “But can you tell us how to succeed? We need to find a wickedly wyvern and take back a stolen treasure . . . without dying miserously.”

  The shell blew a long, uncertain breath. “No one, splashh
h, can tell you that. Splishhh sploshhh. Not even Washamballa, sage among the shells, knows the answer. So you must, splashhh, bewaaaaare. Bewaaaaare!”

  Grimly, Shim returned the shell to the tide pool. Elf fluttered back to his shoulder. Together, they continued down the coast, eyeing the stark cliffs that rose on the horizon.

  All the while, whispery voices surrounded them, ceaselessly saying the same sinister word.

  20.

  A PLAN

  As the companions drew closer to the cliffs, the ground grew more rocky and steep. Soon they left behind the Shore of the Speaking Shells, though they could still hear, in their memories, the green shell’s whispered warning.

  Waterbirds continued to circle overhead, screeching and whistling, but they were different kinds than they’d seen and heard among the tide pools. These were mostly terns, puffins, and red-legged kittiwakes who nested in the cliffs. And while the continuous sigh of waves still accompanied them, keeping almost the same rhythm as Shim’s breathing, the shoreline grew more distant as they climbed higher.

  With the cliffs looming before them, Elf paced anxiously on Shim’s shoulder. “I hope you have a plan for how we’re going to do this.”

  Shim groaned. “I was hoping you had a plan.”

  Together, they studied the steep ridge ahead of them. Made of dark, volcanic rock, the cliffs formed a vertical wall facing the sea—far too treacherous to scale. Sharp pinnacles jutted skyward like daggers of stone. Even if someone could successfully climb that wall, it wasn’t possible to predict where the wyverns’ nest might be hidden. Only by viewing the cliffs from a distance—from somewhere out in the shallows—could anyone tell. Which is how, long ago, Olwen had discovered the wyverns’ location.

  “How do we even find that greedyish thief, let alone take back the crystal?” wondered Shim.

  The faery’s blue light flickered unsteadily. “I have no idea. It’s impossible to see the nest except from the sea . . . or—”

  She caught herself. “I have an idea! You keep walking up this slope that will take you around to the back side of the cliffs. I’ll meet you up there at the top.”

  Before Shim could say a word, she lifted off and buzzed toward the cliffs.

  Watching her tiny blue glow depart, he realized what her plan must be. Except from the sea . . . or the air. He swallowed, willing her to be careful. She was the very last of her kind. As well as his friend.

  He began to plod up the slope. As he gained altitude, the slope grew increasingly dangerous. Sharp rocks poked out of the ground, deep pits gaped, and crevasses cut across the landscape. All these obstacles slowed his progress—and made him wish again that he still had the long legs of a true giant.

  Yet he kept going, climbing the slope bit by bit. Once, when he leaped across a crevasse, he landed on a loose rock that broke off under his foot. He fell forward, safely on the other side, his heart pounding as he listened to the rock clatter down into the fissure below.

  Suddenly, he heard a terrifying shriek. A wyvern! The fierce beast, with wide purple wings, soared directly above him. Shim stayed utterly motionless, hoping the wyvern wouldn’t notice him among the rocks.

  He held his breath as the wyvern passed overhead. Daring at last to look up, he saw no sign of the missing scales on one wing that would identify the beast as Gasher.

  I wonder, he worried, how many more wyverns we’re going to find in the nest. Would Gasher be among them? And would he recognize Shim, even in his much-reduced size, from their battle?

  As he watched, the wyvern veered toward the cliffs and then plunged downward, disappearing somewhere among the dark pinnacles.

  Slowly, the little giant regained his feet. Then all at once—he froze, sensing something new.

  His nose trembled. Amidst the briny smells of the ocean, which included kelp and crabs, fish and seawater, he detected a different scent.

  Smoke.

  Maybe, he reasoned, those wyverns kept a fire in their cavern, something to cook whatever they ate. And if they had that, maybe they also had a way for the smoke to escape—some sort of chimney.

  He continued climbing up the slope. Careful to avoid the rims of crevasses or pits, he moved steadily higher—following his hunch as well as the trail of smoke.

  Finally, he reached the top. To one side, the slope ended abruptly in the impassable cliffs that faced the ocean and the swirling mist beyond. To the other side, the ground angled down much more gradually toward the lands he’d recently traversed. Cautiously, he approached the upper edge of the cliffs.

  He halted. Rising out of a pit near the edge was a thin, curling plume of smoke.

  A familiar buzzing sound caught his attention. He whirled around to see Elf zipping swiftly toward him.

  She landed on his shoulder and spread her luminous wings. “I found it!” she exclaimed. “It’s a cavern, down below us in the cliffs.”

  Hurriedly, she continued. “It’s filled with purple wyverns—at least six of them. And the leader, bigger than all the rest, is Gasher.”

  “Is he missing a bunch of scales on one wing?”

  “Yes,” she cried excitedly. “But there’s another way I know it’s him—the beautiful orange crystal he’s guarding!”

  “Good. Then we’re not too late.”

  All of a sudden, her excitement faded and she shook her bells glumly. “Trouble is, there’s no way for you to get to the cavern. Those cliffs are impossible to climb. And there’s no other way for you to get there.”

  “Well,” answered Shim, “maybily there is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me, did those wyverns also have a cooking fire?”

  Elf started. “Why, yes. They were roasting some poor creature they’d just caught.”

  Shim walked over to the pit, with Elf floating beside him. When she saw the thin plume of smoke, she protested, “You’re not thinking of climbing down that, are you?”

  “Sometimes,” he replied, “I is full of madness.” His brow furrowed, for there was something very familiar about those words. Who had said that to him recently?

  Pushing that question aside, he pointed at the pit. “The wyverns use this tunnel for smoke to get out. So they’d positivitously never expect anyone to use it to get in.”

  “But,” protested the faery, “it’s full of smoke! How could you possibly breathe?”

  Peering down into the pit, Shim shook his head. “It’s smokily, for sure. But I also smells fresh air coming up, smelling like wyverns and roasting meat and old bones.”

  Something about those words pricked his memory. Wasn’t there someplace he’d been recently that had a lot of old bones? He shrugged, sure that it wasn’t anything important.

  Elf rustled her wings nervously. “Even if you can somehow climb down to the wyverns’ nest and survive . . . what happens next?”

  Shim rubbed his chin, thinking. Finally, he declared, “If I can make it all the way down there—”

  “Without dying from smoke,” interrupted Elf worriedly.

  “If I can just get there—”

  “And not fall into their cooking fire,” she interrupted again.

  Giving her a stern look, he tried once more to explain his plan. “If I can just get there, you can fly down the cliffs and meet me. Then . . . maybily you can cause some sort of distraction. Get those wyverns all focused on killing you.”

  “Mmm,” she mused sarcastically, “I love this plan more and more.”

  “And then, while you’re distracting them, I can grab the crystal.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then,” he answered decisively, “we use its power to leap! Somewhere very far away.” Lowering his voice, he asked, “Errr . . . you do know how to use it, don’t you?”

  “No!” she cried, jangling her bells. “All I know is that the Leaper can only be used by s
omeone whose heart is true and whose motives are right.”

  Shim exhaled slowly. “Well, then . . . we’ll just have to figure out that part when we get there.”

  “If we get there.”

  He gazed at her with determination. “This is our bestly hope.”

  She shook herself nervously, then finally agreed. “All right, Big Friend.”

  21.

  DOWNWARD

  Shim turned toward the ocean and gazed at the dark wall of mist beyond the shallows. The Living Mist revealed no hint of his future . . . except, perhaps, for its oppressive darkness.

  He clenched his jaw. Would his plan, such as it was, lead him to the wyverns’ nest? To the magical crystal? And even if he succeeded in getting there, would he then be torn to shreds by Gasher?

  Elf leaped off his shoulder and hovered beside him. Watching him anxiously, she sounded a shaky chord with her bells.

  Shim took a deep breath. Bending down, he tore a strip of barkcloth from his leggings and tied it over his mouth like a kerchief. Then he faced the pit.

  Mindful of the unstable rocks on the rim, he slowly lowered himself into the hole. Immediately, smoke poured over him. With all his concentration, he sought any fresh air that also flowed up the tunnel. Finally, he found a thin stream of better air.

  Breathing slowly, he started to descend. Finding footholds wasn’t easy, especially in the smoky air that stung his eyes and obscured his vision. But he managed to feel his way downward, using his toes to locate small outcroppings that he hoped would support his weight.

  Sometimes, as he descended, the tunnel filled with a belch of smoke so thick he had to hold his breath and shut his eyes until it passed. Other times, fresh air swept over him, allowing him to breathe more freely and see clearly. In those moments, he climbed down as fast as he could.

  At one point, the tunnel veered sharply to the side so it became almost horizontal. Shim crawled through that section as swiftly as possible, scraping his arms on the jagged walls. Soon, the tunnel turned and dropped straight down again.