The song calls to
the Giant
and Human
within me.
A hum builds inside me. Starts as gentle
purring, grows to an insistent whirring.
Everyone says
it is a
curse
to have both
mixed up
in my blood.
But
it is
a gift.
I can’t ignore the hurrying of my heart-
beat that races to match the hum’s pace.
The Composer
sings that
Firstsong
right into
my veins—
the oldest story.
The story
of the breaking
of the world.
I think my heart might dance itself
out of my chest and EXPLODE!
And I see it
all so clearly:
how Humans
and Giants
feed
Winter Spirits
with our
pain.
How, with every
battle won,
the world
gets a little
colder,
a little closer
to dying.
It’s like that day when I was six and
I didn’t know what I didn’t know,
only this time the knowing goes so
deep, it’s a knife plunged in my belly.
How it
will take
Giant and Human
together
to heal it.
Lyrie’s song echoes in my brain, in
my heart. Right through me to my toes.
Brob and I are
Giant and Human
together.
But better
than that,
we are each
a mix
of the two.
I grip her hand tighter, though our
knuckles are already white as snow.
Songsummoner
Greensgrower
Always meant
to be two
harmonic halves
of a whole.
I let the hum GO!
LYRIANA
Soundwaves
I
would
bet no
one has ever
seen still-molten
Fermata transformed
into a tsunami by the
earth-shaking force of a
Greensgrower’s True Song.
Until today.
Brob’s hum echoes
through the garden
a bass line
to my melody.
Pure power surges
as my song
merges with his.
Fermata flows
below us
around us
Fermata surrounds us.
Rises over our heads,
comes crashing down,
rolls away from us
in an undulating swell.
Still we sing on,
let the music
carry us away.
Ride its wave.
BROB
Cacophony of Seasons
The hum rattles through me. Feels like being
cooked—a potato roasting in the firepit.
As Fermata flows away from us, it soaks into the
ground, but the tidal wave doesn’t get any smaller.
Our song feeds it.
The wave builds.
Spring, Summer, and Autumn burst to life in Fermata’s
path, a blanket of Winter pulled back to reveal
all other seasons at once.
Our corner of the garden explodes with color as a carpet of
flowers shoots up around us like fireworks erupting from earth.
Spring’s gold and violet crocuses grow beside
Summer’s bright blue morning glories
and Autumn’s fiery red plumes of celosia.
(Wish I had my journals right about now. A
display like this shouldn’t go undocumented.)
Some trees bloom with Spring’s blossoms, others sprout
leaves the deep green of Summer, others proudly show off
their vibrant red, yellow, or orange Autumn outfits.
Not a single Winter Spirit remains on our side of the river to
whisper its threats in our ears. But Winter still rages beyond.