Before They Were Giants (35 page)

“Not on the cloud!” Bags cried.

“Over here!” yelled a giant, homing in.

“Then where?” Homer pleaded, positively flummoxed.

Bags dropped to his knees and blew with all his breath, waving his hands as he did to try to clear away the fog. “Down here,” he explained, pointing into the hole.

Homer dropped down and peered through the hole, nearly swooning from the dizzying height. Far, far below, the farmlands of Windydale, a human settlement on the back side of the One Mountain, east of Inspirit Downs, loomed lush and green.

“Down there?” Homer asked, unbelieving.

Bags nodded frantically.

“But the prevailing winds,” Homer protested. “And the drift of the cloud, combined with the time-lapse of the falling bean ...”

Bags shot Homer his most incredulous look, and the helpless halfling shrugged and dropped the bean. It plummeted from sight, lost in the wide view of the wide world.

“Sneaking rats!” boomed a giant. The companions jumped up and spun around to find themselves helplessly surrounded by a dozen armed and armored giant warriors.

A long moment of uneasy silence passed as the two sides took a measure of each other.

“So, what d’ye think the bards’ll put in our epitaphs?” Bags asked Homer off-handedly.

The giants started to circle, gradually closing in. Suddenly, though, the cloud began to shake violently. Barely able to keep their footing, the giants and the companions watched in amazement as a huge green stalk burst up through the hole and rolled up lazily into the air.

“Beans!” Bags and Homer shouted together, and not waiting to hold a lengthy discussion over their good fortunes, they sprang onto the beanstalk and slipped down under the cloudy fog.

Their descent was rapid, but their troubles were far from over. A brave giant started down after them, and even more disturbing, “the beast” soon appeared under the far rim of the cloud.

“Now I’m knowing where they get their writing utensils,” Bags muttered grimly when the gigantic, eaglelike bird, with talons suitable for snatching full-grown cattle, swooped into view, bearing the largest giant of all, and still another giant warrior besides that, on its black-feathered back.

The monstrous bird rushed past the friends, the wind of its great wings nearly pulling them from their tentative perch.

~ * ~

Farmer Griswald Son-o’-Jack was not very happy when the magical beanstalk roared up and overturned his chicken coop, sending his prized hens fluttering in every direction. Nor was Griswald overly surprised, certainly not as surprised as you or I might have been, for he had heard of such trouble-bringing plants in his day—from his father, repeatedly, when he was a young boy. Indeed, there was a saying among Griswald’s family, founded on solid experience, so it’s said:

Cows for beans is folly;

Sow’s ear, no purse of silk.

Better off to keep the cow

And barter with the milk.

That was a pretty common saying among the farmers in those lands in those days, and a pretty respectable one as well (since trading a valuable cow for beans usually will lead one to woe).

Griswald looked up at the sky, where the stalk disappeared into a cloud and where the outline of a huge bird could be seen rushing back and forth past it.

Griswald’s farmhands appeared then, bearing axes and knowing what must be done. On a nod from their boss, they set to chopping.

~ * ~

The largest giant, driving the huge eagle, swooped the bird in low beneath the companions, and his lesser giant companion sprang out into the beanstalk.

“The way is blocked!” Homer cried, looking down at the formidable obstacle, and then up again to the descending giant above.

“Not for long,” Bags promised. He put his back to the stem and found a secure foothold. Then he took aim with his banger-chopper-thruster, putting it in line with the blocking giant’s head.

Looking up at the wild fires burning in the halfling’s blue eyes, the giant realized the potential for some serious pain. “Please, good gentle sir, do not do that,” he begged.

“Hold yer words, foul giant!” Bags roared, acting the hero once again. “Brave are ye in advantage, but ye’ve not reckoned with the likes of Bagsnatcher Bracegirdle, son o’ Brunhilda Bracegirdle! Know that yer evil heart’ll beat no more!”

“Evil!” cried the largest giant as the eagle swooped by yet another time. “Why, I take that as a most uncalled-for insult!”

“Give it to them good, King Cumulonimbus!” yelled the giant on the stalk high above.

“But you, diminutive one,” the eagle-rider continued. “I see well enough what demeanor your most harsh actions bespeak! Whilst I admit curiosity as to how two halflings (for that is what you are, I believe) might”—his voice faded and then came again a moment later as the eagle banked through a wide and distant turn—”I’ll not wait to hear your lies!” The great bird came in again, and now the king leveled a barbed lance at poor, shivering Homer.

“Ye’re a giant!” Bags huffed, unafraid—of course, the lance wasn’t aimed at him. “Thus are ye marked as evil!”

“Er, Bagsnatcher,” interjected Homer, looking pointedly at the point. “Perhaps this is not the time for name-calling.” Homer thought his suggestion an excellent one, and indeed it was, but his whisper was lost in the continuing banter between the blustery halfling and the giant king.

“We most certainly are not!” the giant roared. “But thou hast come to us as thieves! Thus I proclaim you to be evil!”

“I am not!” Bags shouted back, stamping his foot against the beanstalk, which nearly dislodged him. With a mighty heave—for a halfling—of his free arm, Bags sent his banger-chopper-thruster head over handle at the approaching menaces. The weapon caught the eagle square in the head, and the bird squawked out a piercing cry and spiraled out of control.

The giant king, suddenly losing all interest in spearing the halfling, dropped his lance and leapt out, catching the beanstalk in a tentative hold just above his lowest companion, between the giant and poor Homer.

If big King Cumulonimbus had any intention of parlaying, or of attacking, at that point, his words were lost in the first shudders of the blows from the farmers’ axes.

The giant looked around pleadingly at the trail of black feathers, but the great eagle was not to be found.

“Not evil?” Homer asked the king.

“Nor are you?” Cumulonimbus, clutching more desperately now, replied hopefully.

“Pray, might I suggest that we carry on this conversation back up at the cloud?” called the highest giant, who had already begun his ascent. The stalk creaked in protest as the farmer’s axes continued their work.

Homer abruptly shifted his posture and looked for handholds above him. Hearing a growl to the side, he turned to see Bags, now with a knife between his teeth, working his way down toward the giant king.

“Lef the bards seft their phens to pharchmenth!” the wild-eyed fellow lisped. “Vhat gwories we’ll be findin’ dis’ day!”

“Shut up, Bags!” Homer snapped. “And put the knife away!”

Bags cast a wounded glance at his companion. “Dey’re giants,” he argued around the knife blade. “An’ giants er ephil thins. We must vanquisht dem— rule oft heroes!”

As if in response, the stalk suddenly rolled out wide.

“Polly!” screamed the giant king. The eagle swooped out of a nearby cloud, meaning to come to the call of its master. But the bird hesitated when it saw the warrior, now secure in his footing and holding the tip of a readied throwing knife.

“Come on, birdie!” he roared.

“Shut up, Bags!” both Homer and King Cumulonimbus yelled together. “And put the knife away!”

Bags looked doubtfully at Homer and at the giant king. On his adventures in the Wilds, Bags had learned a simple rule concerning monsters from which he could not flee: kill them before they kill you. But with the beanstalk obviously heading down, that rule somehow simply didn’t seem to apply. With an embarrassed shrug, Bags stuffed the knife back between his teeth.

The eagle glided in.

“Might I offer thee the hospitality of my table?” King Cumulonimbus said to the companions as he and the other giant sprang out onto the great bird’s back. The third giant had already disappeared back up through the mist of the cloud. “Please. Thou must come and meet my beautiful wife, Queen Cirrostratus.”

Homer, a sudden sparkle in his eyes, looked hopefully over to Bags.

“I’ll not dine wif giants!” the stubborn fellow protested around the steel-bladed knife. The beanstalk creaked and fell.

“I shall see that those words are etched on your epitaph!” Homer promised as he tumbled. King Cumulonimbus caught him by the toes and pulled him on the bird.

“Epitaph,” Bags muttered, spitting out the knife as he plummeted. “Sure that I’m beginning to hate that word.”

They caught him about a mile down. Out of breath, Bags offered no speech of gratitude when he climbed onto the eagle’s back to take a seat between Homer and the two giants.

But neither did he waggle his little fist in protest.

“And could you later set us down back on that mountain?” Homer was asking, pointing off into the distance. “A little mission concerning a certain stone, you know.”

“Oh, the heart stone,” replied King Cumulonimbus. “Only a rumor, of course. We only just inquired into it ourselves.”

“Of course,” said the other giant, noting the incredulous stares they exchanged. “Why else would we come in so low, where any vermin might . . .”

The murderous look that came immediately to the sturdy fellow’s eyes stuck the words right in the callous giant’s throat. “Where any noble adventurers,” he prudently corrected, “might wander onto our cloud?”

“Then no sense’n going back to the mountain.” Bags beamed, suddenly remembering his waiting bride and willing to put aside all of his stubborn prejudices concerning the giants. What a tale he’d have to tell in the Floating Cloud that night! “Right after supper, then, ye can put us down in Inspirit Downs, thank ye, the town on th’other side of the mountain.”

But Homer wasn’t so certain that they would be getting back so soon. He had a hunch that he had already met King Cumulonimbus’s wife and if his suspicions held true, Homer figured that he could spend a week, at least, just enjoying her company.

~ * ~

If your travels of The World ever bring you near to Inspirit Downs, you might consider stopping in to hear the tale of the cloud giants told one more time. Don’t go to the Floating Cloud, though, to hear Bagsnatcher’s nightly recounting. That fellow’s as full of bluster as ever, and his tales of his heroic struggles in the castle are lengthy and boring, and ultimately untrue.

You might find Horatio, though, sitting on the side of a hill, shooting smoke rings up at passing clouds. They don’t call him Homer anymore in Inspirit Downs, and hardly ever refer to him as “most respectable.” Not that Horatio minds; the memories, he figures, one in particular, are well worth the dent in his reputation.

A few kind words and a block of pipeweed should get Mr. Hairfoot to tell you about his one great adventure, and he’ll tell it pretty well (though he won’t go into details about the giant queen and the claw-legged bathtub; he’s too much the gentle fellow for that!). You should be able to imagine that part well enough for yourself, though, by the depth of the sparkle that inevitably comes to Horatio’s eyes.

~ * ~

R. A. Salvatore