Sunbeams surge
through clouds.
Have to shield
my eyes against
the blinding rays.
Leaves sprouting.
Buds blossoming.
The sweet scent of flowers.
Birds flitting and tweeting.
The warmth of Spring
against my back,
like being cocooned
in a sleeping sack
warmed by the fire.
In every tree, a child,
and with each child
Spring blooms.
BROB
Surprise
I wake up groggy, head filled with cotton.
Groan and burrow under my covers.
Wish I could escape the responsibilities of the day.
(And Winter’s chill, which creeps and squirms
through cracks in walls, burrows into my bones.)
No staff here to set out my clothes or tend the fire
or bake my morning bread. (I’ll burn it again like
I did the last six times, just you wait and see.)
Through my furs I hear a muffled tweeting.
Tweeting?
BROB
Music to My Ears
I bolt up in bed.
No howling winds. No groaning and creaking of Winter
Spirits gnawing at my treehouse. Only lilting chirps and tweets.
I’m not normally the type of guy who gets all sentimental
over birdsong, but those strains make me want to burst out
in an operatic aria of my own. (Don’t worry, I
don’t actually do it. Nobody wants to hear that.)
Birds are singing. It can only mean one thing …
Spring has come!
LYRIANA
Break Through
Eerie
popping and pinging
comes from
the frozen river
behind me,
an ancient
otherworldly harmony
to the birdsong.
Almost beautiful,
until the sounds
collide into a
crackling
crashing cacophony.
Panic fills me
when the noise is
split by a
single
startling
scream.
LYRIANA
A Corner of Winter
I whirl
in time to see
Zave’s head
disappear
beneath the
heaving, cracking
ice of the river.
Beyond it,
Winter still rages
in the only corner
of the garden
still devoid
of children.
Zave’s tree
reaches out to him
with knobby
barren branches.
But Zave
did not make it
that far.
LYRIANA
Out of Reach
The current drags
Zave under the surface.
Trapped and flailing,
unable to swim back.
I sprint to the edge
of the
gaping hole in the ice.
Plunge my arms
into the river.
A jolt of burning cold.
Zave, please be close enough
to grab hold of my hand.
Ambient heat warmed
the ice, so it splintered
under Zave’s weight.
But this lonely, child-free
corner remains locked
in full-blown Winter.
The water is
cold as death.
Ignore the stabbing pain,
struggle to grab hold of
Zave’s hand, his coat,
anything.
He is
just
out of
reach
being
slowly
pulled
farther
farther
still.
LYRIANA
Cracks
Only Paetyr sees.
Everyone else is
frolicking
in Spring sunshine,
blissfully unaware.
For a moment I consider
climbing Zave’s tree.
That would bring Spring
to this corner, would it not?
But Zave could be swept
downriver, out of the garden.
There is not enough time.
I pull off my pack,
yank out my skinning knife.
Paetyr is right behind me,
his own knife in hand.
We run past Zave
so the slow-moving
current will pull him to us
instead of away.
Thrust my knife
into the ice,
praying the resulting
spiderweb
along the surface
will not send Paetyr and me
tumbling
into the water too.
Zave is not struggling anymore.
My heart cracks along with the ice—
a fissure that threatens to
drown me
more surely than water
ever could.
LYRIANA
Breathless
a hole
a hand
haul him up
slipping
gripping
do not let go
do not give up
freezing drips
blue lips
breathe, Zave
please
breathe
BROB
View from My Window
Hordes of Human children skip and chase and play
in my (wonderfully, miraculously) lush green garden.
Bobbing bodies bounce in a clumsy square
dance to the tune of trilling bluebird songs.
They’re back. And Spring is too. A billion blizzards!
I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.
A squirming, squealing tiny sits on a branch of every tree.
Every tree except one.
LYRIANA
Resuscitation
Pump
pump
pump
against Zave’s chest.
He coughs,
heaves,
river streams
from his
convulsing throat.
Icy skin.
Tinged blue.
Erratic heartbeat.
Zave needs his
healing tree.
BROB
Winter’s Grip
In one far corner of the garden, Winter rages still.
Bitter wind whips at the brittle branches of a single bare tree,
where two tinies struggle to boost a little boy into its branches.
They battle frigid gusts. Slip and slide in
the snow. They’re not making any progress.
I recognize the hollowed-out girl who brought me Fermata.
The one who’s supposed to bring me more. The one who’s
been lurking, circling my wall, looking for a way in.
Did she do this? Did she bring all these tinies here?
Did she bring Spring?
Should I thank her or scream and shout and send her away?
Or was it me who conjured sunshine with my one little sprig
of Spring? Did my teensy tree grow into something … more?
Or maybe it was
both of us? Together?
But there is no together. Not really,
not between Humans and Giants. There can’t be.
BROB
Definitely Not Sympathy
They’re shoving that little guy hard—I want to yell for
them to be careful. What’s wrong with him, anyway?
Is he … wet?
I wince at the thought of Winter Spirits’ talons sinking into
cold wet skin. (It’s a reflex, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I care.)
The tiny looks blue, fragile as a baby bird fallen out of the nest.
Winter Spirits rally. They can sense the weakness of their prey.
A deep shuddering cough.
Head lolls to the side.
The hollowed-out girl and the boy (hey, that’s the kid who
threw a rock at me!) heave him up the tree trunk, tug at his
coat, hoist him with every ounce of strength they can muster.
It’s useless. He flops like a rag doll—even if they lifted him
to the lowest branch, he wouldn’t have strength to hold on.
Water drips from his hair down his face, forms frozen rivers
that mix with his tears. The kid will freeze to death.
I shake my head and look away.
Not my problem. He’s a Human, after all.
But something about the dull look of pain and exhaustion
on his face reminds me of my first day in this place—the day
I needed Spring’s healing with a fierceness I’d never known.
The day I grew a garden out of fear, sheer will, and desperation.
My garden came to my rescue that day.
The girl lets out a shrieking cry of frustration that
vibrates my heartstring as surely as the garden does.
This isn’t sympathy I feel. Just a residual effect of my garden’s
song. She screams again. I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.
But when the little guy slips and slumps against
the trunk, I grab my coat and boots and GO.
LYRIANA
Slipping Away
It is no use.
Zave is slipping away
right in front of me.
Like Mama did.
Like Papa did
all those years ago.
Fermata stole
Mama from me.
Giants stole
Papa from me.
Winter will not
take Zave
from me now!
But he is too weak.
Cannot hold on.
To the tree trunk.
To life.
“Push harder!”
I scream to Paetyr.
He does.
He tries.
We fail.
Again.
This. Tree. Will. Hold. Zave.
It will heal him.
If I have to
climb up
and drag him
to a branch myself,
I will do it.
I will find a way.
BROB
On a Mission
I burst out of the house. The door bashes
against the tree trunk with a CRASH!
Every Human head swivels. Tinies scream, run in a dozen
directions, criss-crossing chaotically through the garden.
I don’t care about them right now,
but I don’t stop to tell them that.
I can’t see the tinies in the corner anymore. Winter’s throwing
a massive tantrum over being put in a time-out, banished to one
cramped corner of the garden. The raging Winter storm hides
them now that I’m on the ground. But I know they’re out there.
I throw my hood up, step into blinding snow. Cross the river.
The hollowed-out girl and the rock-throwing boy shake with
the effort of holding the tiny up for so long.
They’re no closer to getting him into that tree.
In three quick strides, I join them.
LYRIANA
Under Attack
The Giant lunges at us.
I have no idea
where he came from.
He appears
like a specter
through
blinding snow
and howling wind.
Paetyr yells in surprise
and lurches,
nearly dropping Zave.
The Giant thrusts
his massive muscled
arms toward him.
“Get away from him!”
I scream.
“Leave my brother alone!”
I claw at the
Giant’s huge
hands, trying
to pry them
away as he
snatches at Zave.
Paetyr kicks him,
but we might as well
be feather dusters
trying to move
a house.
With one swift
movement
and a rumbling
growl, the Giant
hefts Zave
into the air.
BROB
No Thanks
These Humans are so annoying! I mean, here I am trying to
save the little guy from getting chewed up by Winter Spirits
and spat out as a used-up (probably dead) lump, all while
getting gnawed at myself. But do they thank me? No.
Instead they grab at me and jab at me and (a billion blizzards!
I think the girl’s grabbing that icicle so she can) stab at me!
I’m trying to decide what to do. But it’s kind of hard to think
when I’m being bombarded. Not to mention that if I don’t
keep the little guy out of the way they’re going to hit him too.
“Will you STOP?!” I roar.
BROB
Listen to Reason
“I’M TRYING TO HELP YOU!!!”
LYRIANA
Bewilderment
I freeze,
icicle still poised
in air,
ready to strike.
Did he say …
trying to …
help???
It makes
no sense.
But as the icicle
falls to my side,
the Giant
hoists Zave
onto the tree’s
lowest branch.
LYRIANA
Transformation
The storm raging
around us calms,
replaced by a
soothing breeze
bringing fresh,
crisp scents of
rain
greenery
damp earth.
Creaking
groaning
crackling.
The frozen river
transforms into
a babbling brook,
complete with
leaping fish.
The snow melts,
as if chased away
by a blazing flame.
Gone in seconds.
Snow to water.
Water evaporates to
nothing at all.
The shift of snow
to earth
beneath our feet
is so sudden
I almost fall.
I catch myself
on the gnarled and
twisted tree trunk.
Look up at
my little brother,
who is sleeping
peacefully
in the protective
branches of the tree.
Heart-shaped leaves
and pink trumpet-shaped flowers
unfurl from soft velvety buds
all around him
starting in the spot where he lies
spreading up the tree
in a
dizzying
spiraling
whirl.
It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
But no—
even more
beautiful than that:
Already, spots of red
have bloomed
on Zave’s
once-blue cheeks.