Giants and Ogres Page 2

  I wasn’t sure what to do say or do. I called on her name. “Pele.” The top of my foot burned for a mere instant. My nerves registered the pain, and then I felt a calmness I’ve never known before.

  I sat on the rock wall and offered up a prayer of my own, for doubting, for judging, to know more. The words tumbled out from my soul.

  “I’m impressed you studied so much Hawaiian before your trip,” Aunt Genevieve said.

  “I didn’t.”

  What in the world just happened? Had I actually spoken Hawaiian?

  I traced my fingers against the rock wall, trying to understand. I still wasn’t sure what all had happened, but I was determined to find out over the next couple of weeks and to understand my connection to the island, to the volcano, and Pele.

  When I checked my foot when we got back in the Prius, the spot was singed a grayish black in the shape of a small lava rock. The mark felt painless and flat. Nor did it rub off when I tried.

  “Pele has not only called to you, she’s left her mark.”

  Dumbfounded. There’s another cliché, but no other word describes how I felt in that moment. Did this make me a kahuna of sorts? I wanted the answer to be yes.

  The mark is still there, even after a couple of trips to the beach. Aunt Genevieve thinks it might be permanent. Mom is going to freak out if it is still there when I get back to Texas. The reality is I’m still freaking out about my tattoo and the entire experience.

  At least my other promise to Mom will be true—I will return to the mainland and finish high school in San Antonio, and then who knows? Madame Pele’s calling continues to grow stronger, and I haven’t even left the island yet.

  Jessica Lee Anderson is the author of Uncertain Summer, Calli, Border Crossing, and Trudy as well as a dozen chapter books and several young readers. Jessica lived in Hawaii for several years as a young girl, but she calls Texas home now, and she lives outside of the Austin area with her husband, daughter, and two crazy dogs. For more information, visit www.jessicaleeanderson.com.

  A Requiem for the Fallen

  Lisa Timpf

  My name, Akemi, was the only thing my mother lived long enough to give me. My father left before I was born. And so I grew up on the streets, and I knew hunger. I’m not talking about the kind of hunger you feel in the morning when it’s time for breakfast. This hunger was a constant, gnawing ache. It was the kind of hunger that takes over your whole mind, so you become obsessed by it. It was the kind of hunger that drives you to eat things other people would curl up their nose in disgust just smelling.

  It was the kind of hunger that drives you to do desperate things.

  When I was young, I lived for a time in the house owned by one of my uncles. When he died, though, the family dispersed, and I was again on my own.

  For a time, I turned to begging, though my pride rebelled fiercely. There were many others like me, doing the same thing. One day a group of the other beggars, fearful of competition, chased me outside the village gates, threatening injury or worse if I dared return.

  So I went to the mountains, thinking that if I must die of starvation, I would at least die surrounded by beauty. I wandered for a time, sleeping in leaf-filled hollows, until I came upon a cave just off one of the paths. I made it my home. That summer I lived on berries and in the fall I gathered nuts. I was neither hungrier nor less hungry than in the village, but the surroundings were far more pleasant. The towering heights, the tall trees, and the breathtaking hurl of the waterfalls provided a backdrop of savage beauty. Yet the mountain had a dangerous side, because of the steep cliffs, the narrow paths, and the chasms that fell away into echoless depths that defied imagination.

  People from all over the world came to walk the paths of the mountain I lived on, to witness for themselves this terrible beauty. When times became lean and the icy lash of the winter winds turned the land white, a thought came to me—there might be money to be made from these travellers. I was not proud of the thought, but I was again hungry, and it is said in our land that hunger is the mother of desperation.

  I stole back to the small village at the base of the mountain and pilfered what I needed from the rubbish heaps. Working with frozen fingers despite the small fire in my cave, I cobbled together a mask. I set my handiwork against the wall and studied it in the barely adequate light thrown out by the flickering flames. The main part of the mask showed grey, sickly skin. There were sharp, pointed teeth in a large mouth, and the mask was crowned by two blue horns sprouting from the top. I nodded in approval. It would scare me. I was certain it would scare others.

  Tingling with anticipation the following morning, I waited for the first travellers to pass, for still they came despite the weather, drawn to the mountains in all seasons. Eventually, I heard voices along the path. I leaped out, wearing my mask and uttering a fearsome and desperate howl. My threatening visage frightened the two elderly hikers so much that they emptied their pockets and give me all their money, in exchange for letting them pass without harm. After they went on their way, I allowed myself a dance of joy. My plan had worked!

  And so stealing became my job. I was good at it. Between times, I took off my mask and walked to the village to buy food. It was a living, and it was better than begging.

  All of that changed when Hisao came.

  Hisao’s speech was smooth, though when I think of it now I think I should have noticed something artificial about that smoothness. He claimed to be a spirit sent by the mountain. He spun a tale of how the mountain resented having so many visitors who no longer cared about beauty but left trash and failed to respect the wildlife. He said the mountain would be obliged if I continued my activities, and he promised that if I remitted any items of value to him, he would bring me food and drink. I welcomed this offer, for in truth it had become more and more difficult for me to make the journey to the village, and I would often lose a whole day of work doing it. Besides, I was lousy at bargaining and sensed that I often paid much more than was necessary for the goods I purchased. So I agreed, and the thought that I would be serving the mountain took some of the shame from what I was doing and lent me purpose.

  Something seemed to harden in me after Hisao’s departure. How far that process had gone, I did not know until I went to take my mask off one night—and was unable to do so. One of the travellers I startled two days before had dropped a small mirror. It landed unbroken in the moss. I picked the mirror up carefully, as if cradling some rare crystal in my hands, uncertain whether it was better to look or not look.

  The mirror was so tiny that I could only see a bit of myself at a time. With the mirror, I scanned my mouth and saw wickedly sharp, pointed, yellow teeth. I moved the mirror to show the grey sagging skin of my cheek, then the yellow glint of an eye, and higher still, a pointed horn of indigo blue sprouting up above each of my temples. I realized that I had taken on the semblance of the mask.

  I sulked in my cave for a time, but Hisao was angry when I had nothing to give him on his next visit. Yet I was ashamed of my altered appearance. It was one thing to wear a mask, but to become that mask—that was something else, again.

  When I went back out, I hid my horns under a shapeless knitted hat, reddened my face with dye to hide the grey, and made sure not to smile, so as not to show my teeth.

  I also decided to change my tactics. Instead of scaring travellers, I invited them to come in for tea. Many declined, looking at me with a mixture of pity and alarm as they edged past me along the path. Enough accepted, though, and when they were lulled asleep with the heat of the fire and the effects of some herbs that I slipped into their drinks, I robbed them.

  Some, weary of their travels, would stay the night in the cave. I was a sound sleeper, and I heard nothing in the night. But often when someone stayed, the next morning I awoke to find a dead body, blood, and signs of a struggle in the guest room. Clearly, something evil lurked nearby, though I appeared to be immune to its wiles. Perhaps, I thought, my appearance had its benefits.

/>   I took these unfortunates and dragged them to a nearby chasm, so deep that I could not hear the sound of their landing. Hisao, when he came, was very pleased and took no time to mourn for those who had met such an unkind end. For when people were merely drugged, I needed to work carefully to rob them and some travellers were cagey about hiding their valuables. With the dead, there was no such issue, and there was much money, jewelry, and other items to give to Hisao.

  And so the centuries came and went. Though I grew old, after a time it was as if I stayed the same age. I think that had something to do with Hisao’s powers, for he, too, seemed never to age.

  One night, two young people came for tea and looked to be ready to stay the night. One of them had an object in his hand. I had come to know, having many visitors, that this was a thing of magic, for using it he could communicate and also find information. While his companion chatted with me, talking of birds and animals they had seen along the way, this brown-haired man looked at his magic device. Suddenly he looked at me, looked at the device, then stood and ran from the cave. His companion shrugged in my direction, thanked me for the tea which he had barely had time to sip, and picked up both of their packs and trudged out of the cave.

  The first young man had left his magic device behind, and I circled it carefully, then reached a tentative hand to pick it up. Boldened by the fact that it had neither bitten me nor caused me pain in any way, I looked at it curiously. I had learned to read before coming to the wilds, and what I read on the device shocked me.

  The device had a few sentences about an ogre living in the mountains who—but I cannot repeat what I read. It does not bear thinking on. Most unsettling of all, under the printing was a drawing that bore an uncanny resemblance to me!

  Oh, I was angry! How could someone say such things? How could someone make up such tales?

  I admit I was not good company for the next few weeks, and none of the travellers who passed accepted my invitation for tea, much less stayed the night, for my mood was too dark. Hisao was not pleased that I had nothing to give him, but I snapped at him with such a temper that I saw fear on his face for the first time. He backed away quietly, bowing in apology, and left me alone for a space.

  Time blunted my anger, as it has a way of doing, and one day my mood was sufficiently pleasant that a traveller who was passing by accepted my invitation for tea. He was a middle-aged man with mild brown eyes and a shock of straight, black hair just beginning to show threads of grey. I recoiled in shock when I first saw him, for he bore a strong resemblance to Hisao. But where Hisao was evasive, this man was straightforward; where Hisao’s expression was cold and mocking, this man’s expression was warm and contemplative. He introduced himself as Isao, and he had about him an aura of deep peace and wisdom.

  After finishing his tea, Isao settled in by the fire, showing no inclination to depart though I had chosen not to drug him. I found myself struggling with an impulse to suggest he not stay the night, for fear of the evil thing that lived nearby. Yet I was desperate for company, and so I failed to warn him. My heart was uneasy when I went to my bed and he to his.

  In the middle of the night, I awoke suddenly. Someone called my name, and it roused me from sleep.

  But I was not in my bed. I was standing beside Isao’s bed, and in my right hand was a long knife.

  Isao’s grip around my wrist was powerful. I dropped the knife and sank to my knees.

  I told him everything—about the way I found bodies in the morning and about my forced tribute payments to Hisao. I bowed my head, waiting for a blow to fall, for I was certain, after hearing my story, that Isao would slay me.

  He paused for a time, considering.

  “Do you like what you have become?” he asked, after a period of silence. The first stirrings of the new morning’s light were just beginning, enough that I could see his face, wise and calm, as he awaited my answer.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied. “I am lonely. I awaken to terrible things. I am cold, often. People look at me with fear and pity in their eyes. There isn’t much to like about that.”

  “If you truly wish it, things can change,” he said. “Think upon what you would be, what you would become. I have an errand to run.” He sighed, and his gaze fell upon the long sword he had worn hidden under his robes the previous day. “I have avoided dealing with my brother Hisao all these years, but it seems that has been for ill rather than good. It is time I settled things, for once and for all.”

  And so after a quickly eaten breakfast, he strode from the cave.

  As the sun made its journey across the sky, I pondered Isao’s words. I heard footsteps outside on the path, but I was too preoccupied to greet any passers-by. At nightfall, the mountain shook, as if with some great violence, and a roaring wind arose. There was a loud boom, such as thunder might make, though the sky was clear. The fragile silence that followed was broken by what sounded like a thick pottery object shattering. Feeling a strange sensation under my eyes, I put my right hand to my face, and drew it back quickly when it encountered something sharp. Further careful investigation revealed a strange discovery. It was as though a mask had broken off my face, and indeed in the morning I found pottery-like shards on the floor.

  When morning light had filtered into my cave, I held up the mirror with shaking hands, afraid to see, daring to hope.

  Bit by bit, the mirror revealed that a change had come upon me. My teeth were even. My irises were brown. My skin was a beige color. The indigo blue horns had disappeared.

  Had I been vain, I might have thought myself beautiful.

  I took this as a token of Isao’s victory, and I looked up hopefully each time I heard a passer-by that day. There was no sign of him that day, nor the next, and I became fearful that I might never see him again—that in the turmoil of the final battle, perhaps the two brothers had destroyed each other.

  I had almost given up hope seven days later, and I greeted the traveller who stopped at my cave at twilight diffidently, until I looked up to see that it was Isao, returned.

  I rushed to his side, noticing that he walked stiffly and favored his left leg, and helped him to a spot by the fire.

  “You will not need to worry about Hisao any longer,” he said wearily as he helped himself to some vegetable stew.

  Though I was curious, I did not ask for details. I had seen enough pain and misery.

  We sat in companionable silence, and I allowed myself to think that having such companionship on a regular basis would be pleasant, though I said nothing of my thoughts.

  Isao had been sorely wounded, but I was happy to tend to him, feeling this was the least I could do in exchange for what he had done for me.

  In time, he confirmed what I had come to suspect: that Hisao had placed a spell on me.

  “But now you are freed,” Isao said. “It means you will grow older, and die eventually,” he added solemnly. “But also, you will have a choice how you will live.”

  I thought for a moment. Getting older, I didn’t mind, and dying, I wasn’t afraid of.

  “I thank you, master,” I said, bowing to him. “I would like to make amends for the ill I have done. How shall I do this?” I thought for a moment. “I don’t wish to return to the towns and cities. After living in the beauty of the mountains, I don’t think I could bear it.”

  “Then stay here, to provide comfort for travellers along the way,” he said.

  And so that is what I have pledged to do, for as long a stretch of time as still remains in my life.

  With each day that passes, I feel the burden of age grow heavier upon my shoulders. Yet my heart is easy, knowing that I am no longer the source of pain and evil.

  Of their own free will, the travellers who stop for tea or an evening’s lodging leave money in exchange for the hospitality. Such offerings do not make me rich, but they are sufficient to purchase sustenance for myself and my guests.

  I have thought long and hard about whether to share my story, for there is much so
rrow in it. And yet, my experience has come to teach me that not everything of legend is true, and that even the darkest soul might find their way, in time.

  And so if you are travelling along a narrow mountain way, I will be happy to offer you a cup of tea. I always enjoy the company, though I find it is less lonely, these days.

  See, I am putting the water to boil. I will be ready. Ah, here comes a traveller now, and Isao is going out to greet him.

  A resident of Simcoe, Ontario, Canada, Lisa Timpf enjoys creative writing, bird-watching, and walking her Border Collie, Emma. Her writing has appeared in a variety of venues, including Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Very Good, Very Bad Dog, Third Flatiron, New Myths, The Martian Wave, and Outposts of Beyond. She has self-published a collection of creative non-fiction and poetry entitled A Trail That Twines: Reflections on Life and Nature.

  City of Giants

  Laura Ring

  “They gave their daughters to the God of Death

  And the children they bore were monsters.”

  —Inscription, Proto-Harappan, ca. 3000 BCE.

  It wasn’t a proper sandstorm like the ones you hear about in Saudi Arabia, where the sky turns black and the planes can’t land. But it was bad enough to make me cover my face with my hands and run for shelter. In North Africa, they call it the sirocco, or haboob—an evil, striking wind. And even the words we use in Pakistan have that same aura of menace: aandhi. Ghubar.

  I can see why people view sandstorms as a bad omen. They hide things; they steal your sight, your breath, cut you like glass. But it’s hard for me to think of them that way.

  It was a sandstorm that drove me over the caution ropes into the ruins of site 229.

  And it was there that I met Ekatu.

  It started like any other winter holiday—heading north on Super Highway in a rented Pajero, my dad at the wheel, the chaos and kerosene-smell of Karachi diminishing with every mile. When your father is an archaeologist, you don’t spend your school vacations traipsing through air-conditioned malls or lying on the beach. You spend them on a dig.