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.
Text copyright © 2019 by John Himmelman
Illustrations copyright © 2019 by Jeff Himmelman
