Giants and Ogres Page 4

  “I am sorry, Amal,” he said. “I was so young when I went into hiding. I have not heard that language spoken in thousands of years.”

  Still, I was undeterred.

  “But you know of the inscription, right? ‘They gave their daughters to the God of Death, and the children they bore were monsters?’”

  Ekatu looked away, clearly discomfited. “Yes, it is known.”

  Well. I may be bad with people, but I’m an expert at awkwardness. I quickly changed the subject. “Do you know how to play Ghost?” And I proceeded to teach a five-thousandish-year-old teenage giant my favorite word game. Of course he proved to be annoyingly good at it.

  That’s what occupied the next few weeks: word games, Ekatu’s pranks, and my never-ending questions. I woke each morning with a sense of urgency. There was so much I needed to know and so little time. And somewhere along the way, almost without noticing, I had allowed myself to look forward to the company of someone other than my father. It was another secret that I held close.

  Meanwhile, new discoveries at the dig site were making my interactions with my father distinctly uncomfortable.

  “It’s a real puzzle, Amal,” he said to me one evening over dinner. “We’re finding artifacts that are as disproportionately large as the architectural features—ordinary, mundane things you don’t normally associate with ritual practice.” And then he showed me a few: a three-foot long lice comb, carved out of bone, with desiccated lice eggs still attached. An enormous copper pickaxe, missing its handle. And a row of glazed beads, clearly fashioned to be strung on a necklace. “I can’t imagine anyone wearing these,” he said, with a laugh. “They’re as big as watermelons! And it would take nautical rope to hold them.”

  “Maybe they were made for statues of a deity or something,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps,” my father said. “But this is the nature of archaeology, Amal. One uncertainty after another and discoveries that bring more questions than answers.” Which of course made me feel very guilty, knowing that a few words of truth from me could make such a difference in his interpretations (or give me a one-way ticket to the nuthouse). And it only increased my own determination, to dig deeper.

  Ekatu and I grew still easier with each other; we laughed more, shared more, but I also pushed more. I was desperate to get to the bottom of things. I returned, again and again, to the question of the inscription. What did it mean? Who wrote it, and why? Was it a warning? Was it allegory? Was it myth?

  Ekatu’s answers were frustratingly vague. “Perhaps.” “Who can know, for sure?” and my favorite, “What does it matter, Amal?”

  But I kept up my stealth campaign: pressing, retreating, pressing, retreating. Ekatu was slow to anger, but like anyone, he had his limits. Once, after a particularly intense session of “badgering” (Might the daughters have been priestesses, given in tribute to the temple? Or wed to barbarians? Or sold into slavery?), Ekatu accused me of “only wanting answers,” whereas he “only wanted a friend.” Which, of course, was ridiculous. He just didn’t seem to understand what was at stake.

  The dig would soon be winding to a close. I felt so close to something—something fundamental. We were in the storehouse, Ekatu hunched low to the ground, me pacing. I could barely contain my frustration.

  “Come on, Ekatu!” I said at last. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know? This is your life we’re talking about, your story. Don’t you care?”

  I had finally gone too far. Ekatu flew to his feet in one great rush. “Enough!” he shouted. I staggered backwards, off balance. His face was so far above me that I couldn’t see his expression. But I could feel his anger.

  “Is it not obvious, Amal?”

  I looked up at him, heart pounding.

  “Must I say it?” he said. “That my mother was one of the daughters, from your precious inscription? Given to the God of Death—”

  “Ekatu—”

  “—the God of Death, who, I have to believe, is my father? Else,” he said, his voice bleak; “why would I and those like me be monsters?”

  I was dumbstruck. Sick with shame. How could I have been so blind?

  I tried to speak; Ekatu silenced me with a shake of his head.

  “Why do you think we went into hiding, Amal? There is not a single place on earth that is safe for ‘monsters.’ My life, you say? My story? I only know what is said of us. I do not know my own story. And I don’t believe I will find it in rock or stone.”

  I looked at the ground. I had never felt smaller.

  “I have asked myself these questions, Amal, asked them all. Why her? Why any of them? Why were they given? Were they the oldest in their families? The youngest? The least fair? Perhaps they were a confederacy of the slightly less loved, that their parents could stand to part with them. Then I thought, maybe they were the strong daughters, and their loved ones knew they could survive it.”

  Ekatu drew a long breath in and out, his emotion spent. But I was shaking. With shame, anger, panic, I didn’t know. I was utterly closed off to myself.

  Ekatu clearly noticed, for he fell into a low crouch, bent forward, and looked me right in the eyes.

  “Why does it matter so much to you, this inscription?”

  I couldn’t speak. It was Ekatu’s turn to press.

  “Why, Amal?”

  “Because,” I said, my voice breaking. “Because … it’s important to know what things mean.”

  Ekatu leaned closer still. “All things?” he asked. “Or one thing?”

  I spun away, breaking our gaze. I focused with all my might on the storehouse wall. Baked bricks, tidily stacked. Such an ordinary wall to have lasted so long.

  When I spoke, it was almost a whisper.

  “She left me a note,” I said. “In an envelope with my name on it. It was one line. One line! ‘I love you. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to stay.’”

  I looked back at Ekatu, my eyes beginning to fill. He folded me into his hand in a makeshift embrace.

  Ekatu and I sat quietly for a long time. When we were ready, we talked of small matters. And then of larger matters. And then we laughed a little and knew though things were different, they were different in a good way.

  Winter break was nearly over, and I would be leaving soon. We didn’t speak of it—didn’t want to mar the pleasure of those final meetings. But our last evening together, I simply had to ask: Will you find me, Ekatu?

  “Yes,” he said. “I will find you, Amal. That is, when you are off on a dig somewhere. As you can imagine, we tend to avoid cities.”

  “You know what?” I said. “For someone who claims to be ‘the Only,’ you say ‘we’ an awful lot.” That made both of us smile.

  “Ekatu, are you sure there are no others?”

  He grew thoughtful for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I’ve told you that I remember little of my mother.” I nodded. “But I remember her last words. ‘I will come back for you, Ekatu.’ I was too young, then, to understand death. So I waited.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Years. Centuries. And then later when I did understand, I thought, well, my father is supposedly the God of Death. Perhaps one day he will release her.”

  “Oh, Ekatu.”

  “Over the years, when it became more and more dangerous for us, we went into hiding. Everyone left. But I stayed.”

  “Waiting,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I think, perhaps, I might be done now.”

  Our tent was empty, the rented Pajero packed. I stood at the edge of the field site with my father, taking in the excavation pit, the pillar, my scraggly tree.

  The barest sliver of sun was rising, and everything was still—like the silence before the aandhi. I’m sure my father couldn’t see him, but there was Ekatu, stretched out like a dune, his sand-covered hand propped up in farewell. I lifted my own in return.

  I turned to my father. “Dad?” I said.

  “Yes, Amal?”r />
  “I don’t know why she left us.” I could hear my father’s swift intake of breath. “I may never know. But I’m glad you stayed.”

  He took hold of my hand and squeezed it.

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  Laura Ring is an anthropologist and academic librarian living in Chicago. She is the author of Zenana: Everyday Peace in a Karachi Apartment Building (Indiana University Press 2006).

  What Verity Knew

  Justine Cogan Gunn

  “O-g-r-e” I re-type.

  Tanner changed the autocorrect on my phone to spell “ogre” as “B-O-O-G-E-R” like a year ago. I need to change it back.

  More than that, I can’t wait to change my last name from “Ogre.” I mean, it’s something my parents should have done 15 years ago when I was born, and they saw that I was ENORMOUS for a preemie. And I had a full head of hair. And my skin was slightly green colored. Yeah. “Patinaed copper.” I guess the only thing worse would have been if they named me Penny. Thank God they didn’t.

  I’m Verity. And I’m an ogre. Actually, to be specific, I’m an “ogress.”

  My brother Tanner is NOTHING like me—something he and everyone else on the planet reminds me of every second. The gene must have skipped him like it skipped everyone else in my family (except some huge ancient guy in a black and white picture so you can’t even tell what color his skin is). No, Tanner’s normal—brown hair, brown eyes. He even has dimples, in case I needed a reminder that the universe is totally unfair.

  He’s a sophomore. And today I’m a freshman. So that should be really fun.

  I finish typing my whole name and send the text to my mom. I’m giving her crap for the whole “not changing our name” thing. She’s worried about me on my first day of high school and … so maybe I mention the last name thing again to bother her. Or maybe I want her to feel bad and baby me just a little when I get home. Maybe.

  I take a deep breath and step into my first official high school class. Geometry. I can handle this.

  “Hi, you’re one of the freshmen in here, right?”

  A frighteningly normal-looking girl is smiling an equally frighteningly white smile at me.

  I nod.

  “I’m Kelsey. You’re Tanner’s sister?”

  I nod again.

  “He and I were in English together last year … Mr. Freidman. Did he … mention that class?

  And it’s begun! The joys of having an insta-popular brother! I’ll be the go-between. Like I’ve always been. I can handle that.

  “Um, I’m not—”

  But she’s one of those girls who likes to talk over you.

  “I love your skin, by the way. It’s beautiful. I’m someone who thinks ‘different’ is beautiful.”

  I smile politely and wonder if she thinks my huge teeth are differently beautiful, too. I can see by her tiny wince that she doesn’t.

  “Thanks. I’m Verity. And, yeah, I’m pretty sure my brother mentioned you. English, right?”

  Her eyes light up, and she squeezes my hand with her tiny fingers.

  “Yes! Oh, I’m so glad we’re in this class together!”

  She turns to the front as the teacher walks in.

  I slouch down and breathe a sigh of relief. Ok. That conversation was easy. I listen really well. I should be a shrink.

  As I make my way to World History, I think about it a little more seriously. I mean, maybe I should offer up my services. There have been all sorts of traumas at this school. I don’t just mean break-ups at dances, fights at football practice, and that kind of thing. I mean disappearances.

  Last year, Jamie Perkins came early for swim practice because he hadn’t been told it was cancelled. Security camera footage showed him going into the school with his swim bag. Two hours later when the gym teacher showed up, a locker was open in the boys’ locker room. Jamie’s bag was flung on the floor. There had obviously been a struggle. His goggles were hanging from one of the sprinklers on the ceiling, and a flip-flop was stuck into the ceiling. He must have kicked it off hard (though the ceilings seem pretty cheap). Anyway, the police came and everything, but they never found any sign of him.

  The candle wax from the vigils for Jamie had hardly dried in the quad six months later, when a substitute teacher—I think her name was Ms. Berlin—also disappeared under mysterious circumstances. She was at school late. The report said she was using the school’s wi-fi to do other side work. They tracked her on there until about 8:45. The next morning they found her computer open, her baking blog Whatchya Knead half-written, and little pieces of her dress on the floor. No sign of the substitute. A Missing Persons report was filed, and her family came into town and were on TV asking if anyone saw her. But no one had.

  Just another disappearance in Wollville. The towns-people are—I wouldn’t say used to it—but they don’t stop what they’re doing over stuff like that anymore.

  I don’t worry much because of my size. But of course our parents do, so we always have to tell them where we’re going to be and when we’ll be home.

  I make my way to World History and feel a SHOVE.

  I spin around. I’m quick for my size.

  It’s Tanner.

  “What’s up, freshman?”

  “Hey, Tanner.”

  I take him in. Here at school it’s more noticeable that he spent the summer working out. He’s been trying to move up a weight class for wrestling, and it looks like he will. Not a problem I have.

  I look around and there are a lot of people staring. I don’t know how many kids here knew we were siblings. We only moved here last year, and our parents decided to spare me Middle School with home schooling. But people have seen me around town. In the back of the movie theater (where I have to sit), at the pool (hello tidal wave), and at back to school shopping at the mall, where I bought shoes in the men’s department.

  Obvious-alert to parents: don’t move when your daughter’s in 8th grade. And an ogress. Duh.

  I ignore the stares and decide to needle Tanner. “I met Kelsey. She likes you.”

  Tanner cringes.

  “Oh, no. Did she ask about me?”

  “Uh … yeah! That’s how I know!”

  “Don’t tell her about me. She stalked me all last year. She talks CONSTANTLY.”

  I pretend to care. I’m not sure why, “Well, she was nice to me, so I like her.”

  “Great,” he turns to go. “I’ll look for you at lunch.”

  “I don’t need …,” but I realize how much my voice is booming. And I realize how many people are looking. And I realize that I probably do need someone to sit with.

  I head to the cafeteria after Gym and don’t see Tanner. I think maybe he’s in line for lunch.

  I first notice the giant ogre serving lunch, because of his size. He’s the first person I’ve ever met since I reached my full height that I had to look up at. And I’ve met NBA players (when my parents took me to “fan days” to make me feel better about being 6’1” in 6th grade). The ogre sees me, too. He looks surprised, like he hadn’t considered there could be others like him. Probably because he doesn’t go online much—he’s older.

  I grab a tray and try to blend in. I glance at the other girls. Everybody is slouching and leaning on the buffet. I could never lean on anything. I learned that in second grade when I broke the school jungle gym.

  The other girls click away on their phones. Sure, I could do the same. Only I don’t really have anyone but my mom to text. So I spend my time stealing peeks at the cafeteria guy. He seems to have makeup on. But it’s hard to tell since he barely looks up.

  “Hey,” Tanner sidles up beside me. “Can we cut?”

  He’s brought his best friend Jo-Jo with him.

  “Hey, Jo-Jo.”

  “Hey, freshman. How’s your first day?”

  I like Jo-Jo. He’s used to my size and ogress-ness and doesn’t care. I often think how awesome it would be to strike a deal and just give him a bunch of my muscle. Because he is a se
rious pipsqueak. He comes up to my chest, which is, I’m pretty sure, why he never looks me in the eye. Just way too awkward an angle.

  It’s my turn, so I ask for a veggie burger. The ogre server locks eyes with me for a second—yellowish eyes that are frankly terrifying. I’m frozen for a moment, but he slings a veggie burger and turns to Tanner.

  “Hamburger,” Tanner orders.

  I sit with them for lunch. Kelsey comes by and tries to flirt until Tanner gets up and goes back for a second burger. As he walks away, she deflates.

  “He’s serious about putting on weight,” I offer, trying to make her feel better. Why? Because it’d be fun to have a friend who’s a girl. A normal, nice, talkative high school girl. It’d just be nice to have a friend.

  “Oh, totally. I get it. Wrestling!” She smiles then spots her friends. She turns back to me, “Tomorrow? You sit with us.”

  “Ok!”

  “Byeeee!”

  And she’s off.

  Jo-Jo’s looking at me.

  “What?” I ask without looking at him.

  “You’re friends with Kelsey?”

  “I just met her. She seems nice.”

  I turn and watch Tanner coming back with not one but two more burgers.

  “That dude’s cool. He gave me two.”

  I look at the server again. He’s watching Tanner. I shiver, but I don’t know why.

  And then I hear it. The low grumbling. And I know it’s coming from the ogre.

  I don’t think human ears can pick up on it. I’ve only ever heard it two times. Once, when we were little, our parents took us to the zoo. We had to stand back since the animals seemed to react strangely to me. The monkeys would always scream and scream. The snakes would throw themselves out of whatever tree they were curled up in and race for shelter. And the carnivores—the lions, the bears, those guys—would watch us. Just like the cafeteria worker was watching Tanner. They’d watch and growl at us, and I was the only one who could hear it. Whole crowds walked by, old people, school trips, moms with strollers! They’d all walk by and obviously no one could hear it. But I could. It was a low growling. A growling that they wanted to hunt us. And eat us.