by Alex Flinn
An hour later, we return from Winn-Dixie, toting five whole turkeys, some rope, and a bag of rocks. We gathered the rocks on the walk there, but we used the cloak to get back. Turkeys are heavy. Now we’re prepared.
“‘Between saying and doing,’” I say, “‘many a pair of shoes is worn out.’”
“Who said that?” Meg asks.
“I’m not sure.”
Meg sits lookout in the tree while I arrange everything. I know the traps I discussed with Wendell won’t work, but this one just might. I take the turkeys and place them inside the tent. I open the wrappers to give the giants the scent. When it’s all ready, I take the bag of rocks and go high into the tree, where Meg’s scanning the horizon.
“Nothing so far?” I ask.
Meg shakes her head. “They’ll be here, though. They’re looking for food. They know we’re camping here, and based on experience, they know you’re slower and easier to catch than a Key deer.”
“Gee, thanks. Nothing yet?”
She shakes her head. I imagine what it would be like to be a deer or a mouse, something chased and preyed upon all the time. These past few days, I’ve felt like that. After a while, you must get good at hiding. Either that or you get dead.
It makes my life seem pretty easy.
Meg lowers her binoculars. “Have you ever thought of how it would be, being married to Victoriana? Like, what would you do all day?”
I say, “I guess I’ll have no problems. I’ll hang with Victoriana.”
“And what? Make out all day? Sounds like a good life—if you’re Ryan. But I always thought you wanted to accomplish something.”
“I can’t accomplish anything now. If I was married to Victoriana, I could still design shoes. I just wouldn’t have to repair them. I wouldn’t have to scrounge for materials either. I could be one of those celebrities who has a hobby like writing children’s books or releasing albums of my songs.” But I see her point. I remember Victoriana, led around by bodyguards, having to hide in bathrooms to get a moment alone, to put on a façade so the press doesn’t know what she’s really like. It could be hard to have things that easy.
And I’d miss Meg.
“Maybe you could come visit sometime,” I say.
She sniffs. “I don’t think I’ll have time.”
Neither of us speaks for a while after that, Meg scanning the treetops with the binoculars, me doing the same with my bare eyes. Gradually, the sun turns the sky red and orange, pink and gold, as if one of the giants has used a paintbrush on it.
“Ho-hum,” I say. “Should have brought a deck of cards.”
“We could play Four Truths and a Lie.”
“What’s that?” I shift in the tree.
“It’s where you say five things about yourself, and the other person has to guess which one is false.”
“But that would be too easy. We’ve been friends forever.”
Meg’s shadow moves in, staring at me. “Sometimes, people have secrets, even from their closest friends, things you’d have thought they’d tell you, since you’re such a good friend.”
I get it. I didn’t tell her how bad our finances were, and I didn’t tell her about Victoriana either. I say, “Okay. Why not? I’ll go first.”
I try to think of something tricky, but it’s hard. Finally, I say, “My first kiss was with Jennifer Garcia in seventh grade.”
“Jennifer? Eww.” Meg holds her nose.
“She’s pretty.”
“Pretty mean. I hope that’s the lie.”
It isn’t. I go on. “I haven’t seen or heard from my father since I was two. One day, he just disappeared. Three: I sent a secret admirer valentine to Hailey Feinberg in eighth grade.”
“That was you?”
“Yep . . . I mean, maybe. I mean . . . four: I got an A on my trig final. Five: I stole a bag of chips out of your backpack yesterday.”
“I knew that was what happened to them.” Meg slaps my shoulder.
“See? There’s no way to fool you.”
“I bet I can fool you.”
“Okay, so which one was the lie?”
“I’m hoping it was Jennifer, but I’m pretty sure it was the trig final. No way you aced that. I only got a B, and I’m smarter than you.”
“Are not . . . okay, you got me. Now you go.”
She thinks a minute, then says, “All right. One: I do one hundred percent of the cleaning in my family’s business.”
That’s true. Her mother is old, and her brothers are complete bums.
“Two: I have a box of ashes from when I burned the letters Andrew gave me.”
Andrew. Her ex. Total jerk. He dumped her for another girl, and I can totally see Meg doing that. “You should toss them. He’s so not worth it.”
“Three: My family buys some of the pastries we sell as homemade.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“Four: I can’t whistle.”
I know she can’t. I’ve heard her try. I’m about to say this, but then, she says, dramatically, “And five: I am secretly, madly in love with you.”
“Aha! That’s obviously the lie. You made it too easy.”
She chuckles. “Yeah, I guess we can’t fool each other.”
And then, in the distance, I see something moving. Something big. I tap Meg on the shoulder and point.
“Do you see them?”
I point again to the moving spot, then up at her binoculars. She twists her body, shoulders making contact with mine, and looks. Then she hands the binoculars to me.
It’s a giant, barely visible among the slash pines. He’s heading toward us. But just one? That will be a problem.
Then, behind him, I spy the second. I exhale and realize I’ve been holding my breath. The two giants walk like hunters, slow and surprisingly silent. Sunset is the time when most wildlife comes out. It’s also the time when I bet they’re most hungry, most in need of a kill. I remember the deer carcasses and hope we don’t end up like that. I tighten the cloak around us. We may need it for a quick escape.
Finally, they’re close enough that I can hear footsteps. The front one—the one with the missing eye—emerges from the trees. He gazes first to one side, then the other. He looks hungry.
A step closer. Then another. The second giant, the one who chased me, emerges from the brush too. He crouches, as if he’s listening to the ground. I sit, frozen, the binoculars clutched in my hand. My fingers ache from holding them up so long. Yet, I don’t dare change position. They’re too close.
The front giant stops walking then, sniffs the air. I don’t know if what he’s smelling is the turkeys, or us. He glances back at the other giant, then speeds his own step. Boom. Boom. I understand by the fact that he doesn’t signal to the other giant, that he doesn’t want to share. This is what Meg suspected when we saw them fighting before, what we counted on. The two-eyed giant sees his companion running and speeds up too. I hold my breath, not daring to look at Meg, but I can tell from the stillness in the air that she’s holding her breath too.
The two-eyed giant gives a mighty sniff, then a roar. It takes me an instant to realize that the roar is his massive stomach growling.
And then, he pounces. In a swift movement for someone so large, he’s lifted the tent and obliterated it. He seizes one turkey and holds it up. It’s a big turkey, almost as big as his head, too large to swallow whole. He has some trouble with the wrapper, but finally, he undoes it and rips apart the cavity. He removes the organs and swallows them, bag and all. A huge drumstick is next. He rips the meat off with his teeth like Ryan eating a Buffalo chicken wing, then spits out the bone.
Meanwhile, One-Eye has arrived. He seizes a turkey. Two-Eye tries to push him away, but One-Eye pushes back and starts to eat. Two-Eye must decide it’s easier to share because he goes back to his turkey. The wings are next, then the breast. He displays the wishbone like a child at Thanksgiving, then drops it.
It takes no more than two minutes. When he’s
finished, he seizes a second turkey and starts to annihilate that one. One-Eye does too. All we can hear is crunching bones and the tearing of flesh.
Finally, Two-Eye finishes the second turkey. He reaches for the last only to find something in his way. One-Eye. One-Eye still has bones and flesh hanging from his mouth, but he’s not about to give up the last turkey. He pulls but only rips off a drumstick. Two-Eye laughs in triumph. One-Eye growls in rage. He crouches and launches himself at his companion. The other falls, striking his head on the tree we’re in. It shakes and bends, and we grab on. I see Meg beside me, mouth frozen mid-shriek. We don’t want them to see us and decide we’re bigger food. My hand comes down on hers, and we hang on.
Two-Eye seizes a huge coral rock. Holding it in both hands, he runs at his companion. One-Eye screams right before he gets bashed on the head. He’s knocked to the ground, bleeding. Two-Eye clobbers him again, and I can tell he’s down for good.
Two-Eye, now alone, grabs the turkey from the giant’s limp fingers. He does a dance of triumph until he trips on a giant outstretched leg. With a mighty crash, he rockets to the ground, his head hitting the same rock that felled his companion.
He moves no more.
Chapter 35
Meg and I stare down at the giants. Neither stirs. I mouth, “Dead?”
“Check,” Meg mouths.
We use the cloak to move to the ground. I tiptoe, eyes low to avoid slipping on any innards. I feel light breathing, like an industrial fan on high. Not dead, just out cold. The boulder they used lies nearby. I could finish them off with two good bashes, but I can’t. They’re human beings, really big, smelly ones. I can’t kill anyone.
And who knows? Maybe they’re under a curse themselves. Maybe they’re guys with families like Cornelius.
It had been Meg’s idea to have the giants take each other out. Our plan had been to throw pebbles from the tree as they slept off their turkey dinner, until, each thinking it was the other, they’d get into a fight. I didn’t think it would work, but I went along because I had no better ideas. I’d been the one who thought of buying an odd number of turkeys, though.
“I’m going to tie them up,” I whisper. “Wendell can decide what to do with them. I’ll take you up the tree. Then I’ll go back with the cloak.”
Meg thinks about it, then says, “I’ll help you with them.”
“No. This is my quest, my danger. Besides, you’re the brains of this operation, and I’m the brawn.”
Meg smirks. “Some brawn.” But I wish us back into the tree, take the cloak, and go before she can argue more.
When I get back down, I decide to start with the legs. That way, if the giants wake, they won’t be able to run. I wind the rope around four legs the size of a cord of wood, around and around, over and under. I use every knot I ever learned in Boy Scouts. It’s hard to concentrate with the smell.
I do the same with the arms, then walk around tugging the rope to make sure it’s tight. When I’m completely satisfied, I get Meg, and we take a picture with her cell phone.
“Let’s go tell Wendell,” I say.
When we reach his office, he says, “I know you tried to steal the frog. Be glad the scorpion didn’t bite you.”
He gestures toward the tank and the sign on it that reads:
Androctonus australis: Yellow fat-tailed scorpion
Warning: Deadly to humans
I look at Meg. “But it bit me. How could—”
“Must not have been much of a bite.” She gestures toward Wendell. “Something you want to tell him?”
Other than thanks for siccing a poisonous scorpion on me? Not really. But I say, “The giants are all tied up in the woods. I’ll take my frog now.”
The ranger starts a little. “Tied up? You were supposed to kill them.”
I prepared for this. “Look, if I’d killed those giants, it would have been murder. You’d have solicited murder, which last time I looked, was a crime. It would be pretty hard to hide bodies that big. I knocked them out and tied them up.” I leave out the part about how the giants did it themselves. “You can call the police or the EPA, and they’ll believe you. You can give them to the Barnum and Bailey Circus if you want.”
Wendell thinks about it, then says, “But that wasn’t our deal. Our deal was to kill them, so I don’t see why I should give you the frog.” He rises from his chair and opens the door. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
I cannot believe this. After all I did, this jerk won’t give me the frog? I feel my hands itching and know that’s what it feels like when you really want to hit someone. But I’m no tough guy, like Meg says, so I take a bunch of deep breaths. Doesn’t help.
Meg’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Okay, Johnny, so let’s just untie them, and we’ll leave.”
Wendell stops. “Untie them?”
“Well, yeah. You didn’t want them tied up. This way, you can find someone else to kill them. Come on, Johnny. They should be close to waking now. Dusk is when they feed.”
I laugh. “Okay. Let’s go. You have the scissors?”
“Right in my backpack.” We start toward the door.
“Wait!” Wendell runs around and blocks our way. “You can’t untie them.”
“Watch me.” I start to shoulder past him.
“Okay, okay. Maybe I was a little hasty. You can have the frog. Just show me the giants in person.”
“Gladly.” But when we start toward the door, I see something that makes me stop.
It’s the tank on Margaret’s information desk. It says, Alorian Marine Frog.
The top of the tank is open.
The tank is empty.
I grab Meg’s arm and point. She looks from my face to the tank. Back at my face. She starts toward Wendell. “Excuse me? Ranger?”
“What?”
“Did you put the frog someplace special for safekeeping?”
Wendell turns. “Yes, it’s right over on Margaret’s . . .” His face freezes, and I know. The frog was supposed to be in that tank. If he’s not, it’s because he’s dodging traffic, hopping down the Overseas Highway or worse, kidnapped by the Zalkenbourgians.
Wendell’s talking or, at least, moving his lips. But I can’t hear him above the sound of my own voice in my head, saying, It’s over. It’s over. I’m floundering through blackness, and I grab the only thing I can touch. Wendell.
“What have you done with him? Where is he?” My head may explode.
“I d-don’t . . .” Wendell’s stammering. “I can’t . . . he was here. I took him home, but I brought him back this morning.” He’s looking at the floor, the shelves, under Margaret’s desk. Nothing.
“He’s not here, you idiot!”
I feel Meg’s hand on my arm, trying to calm me.
“Did you see anyone?” she’s asking Margaret. “A woman, very beautiful, with long, blond hair, or a man, six-five at least.” She eases me away from Wendell, and I cling to her instead.
Margaret, who has her hand on the phone about to call the police, says, “No one like that.”
“How about . . .” Now, I remember the prince’s words, Ze first family wiz a teenage girl. “Any young girls, young women?”
Margaret looks at Wendell. He nods. “Well, there was one family from Ohio.”
Hope slowly flutters one eyelid, not completely dead yet.
“They had a sixteen-year-old daughter. She was looking at the frog, thought he was cute.”
“Are they still in the park?” At this point, I would have absolutely no problem with attacking a sixteen-year-old Ohio girl and wrestling the frog from her hands.
But Margaret shakes her head. “Nope. They were leaving. Just stopped by to get souvenirs and sign the guest register.”
I run over to the guest register. It’s summer, crowded, and there’s almost a page of entries for today. But only one from Ohio.
Debi and Rob Stephen, Tessa, and Rob, Jr., Columbus, OH.
Under comments, it says
A great place to stop on the way to Key West!
Key West! They’re on their way to Key West. Now all I have to do is go to Key West and . . . oh, boy.
I have to check every hotel in Key West.
And while I’m there, I also promised to look for the swans’ sister.
Hope lies down, saying it feels too tired to move on.
“Were they camping?” Meg asks.
Good question. There are fewer campgrounds than hotels.
But Margaret shakes her head. “No, but they had a minivan. White, I think.”
Well, that narrows it right down. Every third car is a minivan, and half are white.
Meg tries to pump her for more information, but the only thing she remembers is, “Red hair. The girl had lovely, long red hair.”
“Well, then, I guess we should go to Key West and look for a girl with long red hair.” Meg holds out her hand and leads me to the door.
Once outside, I say, “It’s no use. How can we find one frog in all of Key West?”
“Guess we just start south and head north.”
So we wish ourselves to the Southernmost Point.
Chapter 36
That which you have promised, must you perform.
—“The Frog Prince”
“Ever play Frogger?” I ask Meg. “It’s this old game Mom used to play when she was a kid, and last year, she bought it for me.”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“It looks sort of easy, but it isn’t. You have to guide your frog across the highway, and there are cars and trucks coming from every direction. Bicycles too. And just when you think you made it, you have to guide your frog across a pond on logs, and he drowns.”
“So you’re saying our frog is like that?”
“I’m saying I’m like that. I’ve dodged traffic. I’ve gone underwater, and I’m still dodging stuff. I can’t believe you’re still here with me. Why are you still here with me?”
She shrugs. “I’ve never been to Key West before.”
The Southernmost Point is nothing but a big, striped cylinder that looks like a black beer can against the blue waves behind it, where everyone crowds around to take pictures. On it is writing that says, “Conch Republic: 90 Miles to Cuba.” We stand, watching the water as it laps hungrily at the cement-covered land and thinking about what to do.