The Giant

by Jonathan Mary-Todd

  The bout with Williams and Williams, every bout at the Woodrat before that—these were nothing to Luc. Luc’s fight was elsewhere.

  “Confound it, Luc!” Chilton shouted. “This is the most sluggish performance I’ve ever seen. Tonight is the last time I prepare you a London broil, I can assure you …”

  Luc decided that was true too.

  He roared and pushed the brothers away. When they charged him again, he reached down and smacked their heads together. Both men dropped limply to the floor.

  Oakley turned to Mr. Mayflower, who shrugged and lit another cigar. The bell rang as Mr. Chilton ran to Luc.

  “I think my heart nearly gave out, thank you very much!” Chilton said. He cut the club’s dank air with swings of his hat. “My word, Luc … Next time, let’s see you do that at the beginning of the match! All right?”

  Luc turned away from Chilton as Chilton continued to yell. A couple of men near the fighter’s circle scattered when Luc lifted the wooden tabletop up from around them.

  An empty barrel had held the tabletop steady. A sweet trace of bourbon filled Luc’s nose for a moment and then merged with the smells of blood and salt. Luc turned back to Mr. Chilton, grabbed him by the shoulders, and stuffed him neatly inside the barrel.

  Men across the Woodrat Club began to hoot and holler. Chilton’s face turned red, and he shouted profane threats, but Luc was already leaving. The drunk who had thrown peanut shells tipped the barrel over and started pushing it along the ground.

  One man did not laugh. Killpatrick. He stood by the doorway as Luc approached it.

  The Irishman had not washed the blood off his hands since his fight earlier that evening. His eyes were pink and misty. As Luc reached the exit, Killpatrick squared his shoulders and made bricks of his fists.

  But he did not throw a punch.

  Luc met Killpatrick’s stare and held it. Since the night they fought, Luc had been beaten down. He had felt scared, too, the way Killpatrick no doubt did. If he could have explained this to the Irishman, he would have. But he had to find his friend.

  Killpatrick held his arms at his sides, but his fists began to shake. Luc’s eyes met the man’s anger with a simple kind of certainty. He was going to walk through the doorway. Luc knew it, and now so did the Irishman.

  As Luc nudged the door open, Killpatrick did not stop him. In the days that followed, men at the Woodrat would once again whisper about Killpatrick—that his temper had been dulled, although no one would be quite sure how.

  Outside, the sky was dark and a chill had set in, unfit for the summertime. Luc took his first step toward the flophouse.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Luc did not have to make many choices while he stuffed his rucksack. He grabbed a spare shirt and his other pair of pants and it was nearly full, with little left over. He left his winter coat lying on his mattress. Luc thought this would be a fair trade for the bedsheet, which he’d use in cradling the kangaroo—it had worked before.

  Before leaving the room, Luc pushed his head out the window and sniffed the night air. Maybe someday he’d come back to this place.

  When he reached Mr. Chilton’s quarters, he was careful to turn the door handle very slowly. Locked. Luc bent over to see if light was creeping into the hallway from the rooms to the right or to the left of Mr. Chilton’s. Perhaps those rooms were empty. Luc booted Chilton’s door open, leaving a chunk of wood dangling at the side, locked in place.

  He tried three of Chilton’s hiding spots before shoving his hand into a slit in the mattress. This is how he stood when Molly Maxwell appeared in the doorway.

  The toll of a Woodrat fight seemed to surprise Molly every time, and Luc waved his free hand in front of the new bruises.

  “You won’t find anything in there,” Molly said. “He’s clean out these last few days.”

  Luc released the mattress but stayed silent. Molly avoided his face while she spoke.

  “You leaving, Luc? Looks it.”

  He nodded.

  “Here.”

  She drew a small canvas bag from a pocket in her apron. Inside was an arrangement of bills and coins. She took Luc’s hand—he neither pulled it back nor held it forward—and set the money in Luc’s palm.

  “Don’t be shy about taking them, neither. Mostly from lickfingers like Chilton anyway.” Molly met Luc’s confused eyes and smiled. “I do more around here than fetch ice, you know. Got to keep myself occupied.”

  He left a couple of coins atop Mr. Chilton’s bed. After Molly raised an eyebrow, Luc pointed to the ruined door and shrugged.

  “Well,” Molly said, “fair enough.” She squeezed Luc’s palm and wished him luck.

  As Luc ducked into Mrs. Maxwell’s kitchen, he heard Mr. Hardt’s voice coming from the front entrance. Talking to Ian. Something about a rigged card game, though Luc couldn’t make out who had done the rigging. He stayed very still until the voice traveled up the flophouse stairs and into Hardt’s room.

  They were in the building, Luc thought, but they were away from the cage.

  He moved through the darkened laundry room and out the building’s side exit, running one hand along the walls in a silent goodbye to the place. Soon he was standing before the joey, iron bars in between them. The animal purred in Luc’s direction.

  The bars that Luc pulled away one week earlier had been hammered straight again. Near the top of the cage, puffs of metal marked where Mr. Hardt’s shipbuilder had sealed the bars back in place. At Luc’s first pull, nothing happened. No metallic groan to let him know the bars were moving.

  He tried again. The bars stayed put. He began to feel his ribs moan where the Williams brothers had hit him. The fight had drained Luc more than he’d realized.

  He pulled at the bars yet again until a pinching at his shoulder told him to stop. He bent over, panting, while the kangaroo moved on all fours toward the front of the cage and sniffed around curiously.

  Luc set down his rucksack. He had to leave that night. If there was any chance that he and Mr. Chilton might stay partners, Luc had smashed it when he kicked down the door. And he couldn’t leave without the joey.

  He pounded his fists against the cobblestone ground and groaned in frustration.

  He would have to try another way.

  The cage bars were rustiest at back—the bars that stood against the flophouse wall. Out of reach. Luc couldn’t even fit a hand through the side bars to get at them. He slid a palm along his lumpy cheek.

  Several men must have moved the cage for Mr. Hardt, wheeled it to the flophouse on some wagon. That night, Luc would have to be enough.

  Luc set himself once more at the front of the cage. He gripped the front bars near the top, not to pry them off this time, but to pull them toward him. And with them, the rest of the cage.

  Inside, the kangaroo whimpered as its pen started to shake and tilt. Luc grunted. He’d risk an arm popping out of its socket if his strength gave out too quickly.

  And then the cage leaned more sharply forward, its weight lugging it toward the ground. Luc pushed against the cage suddenly, holding it steady long enough to step out from underneath. Then its front side clattered against the alley’s cobblestones.

  Luc’s ears rang from the crash. The kangaroo twitched in fear. The cage’s iron lid stood ajar, split off from some of the back bars by the force of the collision. With a final grunt, Luc pried the top away.

  The joey crawled shyly toward him. A moment later, someone from inside the flophouse moaned, “What the devil is all that noise!?”

  Mr. Hardt stuck his head out of a window two stories above, a long nightcap crowning his matted hair.

  “Listen here, you shut—you. You ape!” Hardt shouted. “You mongrel! Thief! Thief! Anyone—stop him! Thief!”

  Hardt yanked his head back and started yelling for Ian. One window over, Ian threw back his curtain. He appeared in silhouette for a moment in the dark of his room, then vanished. Already heading down the stairs.

  Luc laid the bed
sheet out before the kangaroo. It was time they left the Bowery.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Once Luc crossed Houston Street, he stopped looking back. Block after block, he hurtled through lower Manhattan.

  The commotion on the streets had slowed after nightfall but hadn’t stopped—person after person stared unbelieving at the figure running past them, first because of the boy’s height and then because of the bundle he carried. The joey had nipped at Luc’s arms at first, but it relaxed as he settled into a rhythm, each stride landing with a predictable thump.

  Luc was too big to hide in Manhattan. He was one of the few who couldn’t shield himself in its crowds. As he neared Fulton Street, no other choices came to mind: they had to go to the water.

  The smells of the fish market told Luc he was near. Most fishmongers had left the seaport hours earlier, but hints of bass and flounder clung to the tents and tables. Luc and the kangaroo stopped at South Street, the East River stretched out before them.

  If Luc was too large to sneak through the city, then he was too large to sneak aboard a boat. He pictured a scrum of sailors shoving him overboard, the boat rocking, the joey kept for lunch. He would not do much better if he had to barter his way onto a ship, but maybe some captain needed strong hands. If the man spoke French, all the better. Possibilities at both extremes ran through Luc’s head.

  He sat against a stack of crates for a moment as his heart slowed to its usual speed. Sat and ached.

  Boats of many sizes lined the seaport. Luc looked from one to another, his intuition failing him. Which crew might help? How would he even ask? Some of the men along the dock squinted at Luc’s hulking outline as they smoked tobacco or dumped old chum into the water.

  The distant chatter of these men merged with the sound of the river currents and occasional honks from the larger ships. And then Luc heard a foreign clopping above the seaport noise. Hooves against the ground, getting louder.

  He wrestled the lid off one of the crates behind him and set the joey inside. As blood rushed to his head, he watched Ian the trainer speed closer. The man raced on horseback down the South Street boardwalk.

  Soon Ian was close enough for Luc to see the man’s pearly black eyes. The trainer tied the horse’s reins to a fish stand, quickly and neatly.

  “Luc,” he said. “That’s your name, yeah? Luc—I’d rather be inside resting than out here chasing thieves. I hate the smell of fish. And the owner of this horse’s going to notice pretty soon that his animal went missing. Forget all that—mate, we’ve done this before. I can still see your bruises, even. So give me the kangaroo.”

  Luc breathed in and said, “No.”

  Ian drew his hunting knife. “I’ll kill ya this time. Understand?”

  Luc decided the trainer would have to.

  Ian began his crablike walk, knife in hand. Luc tried to watch Ian’s shoulders, to guess where the man might lunge, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from the blade. Every movement of Ian’s was fast but controlled—no wild swipes. Luc wanted to keep his footing, but step by step he moved backward, edging away from the tip of the knife.

  With a flick of his wrist, Ian sliced through the front of Luc’s shirt, missing Luc’s white belly by a hair. Luc cried in alarm and thrust a boot forward, knocking Ian in the chest and sending him toward the ground. Ian landed on the ground as if he had arranged the fall himself—his body snapped into a roll. He looked up at Luc, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand.

  The man’s actions were different from anything he had known. But Luc was different too. He was ready for the fight Ian had talked about.

  Ian thrust the knife forward and pulled it back again. When he did, Luc dove at the man’s waist, bringing them both onto the ground.

  Ian’s arm twisted and trembled as he tried to lift his blade. Luc closed his hand around Ian’s wrist. He held it firm against the ground.

  Ian tucked his knees, then kicked at Luc’s chin, his throat. Luc roared and shifted his weight, but not before slamming Ian’s arm against the boardwalk. The trainer’s knife spun onto the boards. Luc tripped over himself trying to grab it.

  Both fighters scrambled to pick up the weapon. Luc’s long arm reached it first—he tossed the knife blindly through the air and heard a comforting plup. Into the river.

  The boards where Luc had tackled Ian were dented, and a piece of splintered wood snagged his foot as he charged the trainer. Stumbling, Luc swung at Ian with an open palm. Ian caught Luc’s hand in both of his, then drove his shin into Luc’s face.

  Another kick, then another, hammering at Luc’s arms and chest. Luc gasped and tried to breathe and couldn’t. Staggering away from the trainer, he backed onto the damaged boards. Only after the wood began to creak did Luc understand the danger.

  Luc watched Ian blur and disappear. Then he saw only black. The river was cold, and it began to fill Luc’s nose and mouth before he realized he’d fallen in.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Luc’s head found the surface, and he coughed and spat. He couldn’t swim, had never learned. His head fell under again. He was blind—not even moonlight reached underneath the boardwalk.

  Luc thrashed about in the water as if anchored to the deep. He would find the air again only to lose it. With every push, he moved closer to shore or father away, couldn’t tell. More water filled his mouth.

  His mind rushed to the kangaroo and to Molly Maxwell and to Mr. Chilton. He stomped at the river with his heavy boots, not letting himself stay under. And when he collided with a wooden pillar below the boards, he held on with a force that threatened to splinter his only salvation.

  Both arms wrapped around the pillar, Luc pulled himself above the river’s surface. He clung to the wood for a moment, dripping wet, and shuddered. Then he continued to climb, inching up until he laid a hand on the boardwalk above.

  Ian had untethered his horse and led it toward the crate that held the kangaroo. Luc’s pounding footsteps preceded him; he appeared to Ian like a black mountaintop, backlit by the yellow moon.

  “Mother of …,” Ian said. “You’re not makin’ this one easy, are you?”

  The trainer squatted and sent a foot toward Luc’s knee, grazing it, enough to cut Luc down. The horse neighed in panic and took off running.

  Luc clasped his hands together and lobbed them against Ian, too much force for the trainer to block. Ian snapped up again with a chop to Luc’s throat. Luc grabbed the trainer’s hand, as he had with Killpatrick. His fist became a bear trap of his own.

  Luc held his arm out, far enough that the man couldn’t connect with another kick. Thinking again of the kangaroo, he pressed Ian’s hand until bones began to crumple.

  Ian hissed, starting to form a string of words and abandoning it.

  Luc held steady while the trainer appeared to contract. Ian crouched down, writhing, and then—a glint in the moonlight.

  The man yanked a dagger from his boot, his free hand swishing the blade. He raised his arm, howling at Luc, and then collapsed onto the seaport.

  Luc hobbled away from the trainer’s silent, limp body. The joey was still safe in its crate. If the fighting outside had disturbed the animal, Luc couldn’t make out how. The joey purred as Luc wrapped it back into the bedsheet.

  Some men had run from the boardwalk as soon as the ruckus started. Maybe men who had reason to hide if the police came by, Luc thought. Some of the others had kept their distance but stayed, staring. Luc’s legs were weak, and he approached the one who meant the least amount of walking.

  From the crates, the man had looked like a stout blue chimney, clouds of smoke hiding his face. Up close, Luc made out a gray beard and a navy-colored sweater.

  The man reeled back and rubbed his eyes. He blinked and squinted as if trying to bring Luc into focus. “Good God almighty, I thought I was havin’ one of my gin visions again. You look like a barge hit you, son.” He chuckled, then pointed to the kangaroo. “I like your dog.”

  “Thank you,” Luc said.
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  “Scrawny little fella.”

  Luc smiled.

  “So what brings a brob-dinger like you out to the river this late? You fixin’ for a lift someplace?”

  Luc nodded.

  The sailor puffed on his pipe. “Well, we’re departin’ for Providence in a few hours. Couple stops on the way there. Hadn’t expected extra cargo, let alone something your size … What do you think, son, can you lift a tuna net? Heard talk about a whole swarm of bluefins nearer to Rhode Island. I reckon we can take you that far, anyway.”

  The other fishermen were suspicious when Luc stepped on board. They looked older, most of them, like the sailor in the navy sweater. They had the eyes of people who had cheated or been cheated many times in their lives and took nothing for granted.

  Luc’s weight rocked the boat awkwardly. In his tiredness, he overcorrected, sending it the other way. The sailor in the navy sweater told him to sit down or be knocked down, that when they needed a new mast he’d ask outright. The others laughed and seemed pleased when Luc laughed too.

  After Luc fed the joey some bread crusts, Luc’s eyes began to close. He tried to fight the fatigue, but it was no use. The blue sailor promised to wake him further into the morning, in time to drag up the haul. Luc drifted asleep beneath the bleary sight of daybreak.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The man in the top hat spoke with practiced excitement, yanking his lapel for emphasis at the end of every line: “We’re about to show you something very special now, ladies and gentlemen. Are you ready to be amazed? Are you ready to witness feats of strength the likes of which you’ve never seen? Here, for this evening only, and hailing from the Great White North, a towering titan of unbeeelievable power … Luc the Indomitable!”

  As the cheers of the crowd rushed behind the striped curtain, a gaggle of men in white face paint began a winding walk into the center of the tent. A few held each side of the barbell above the ground as they went. Luc followed them out, to fresh applause. The clowns dropped the weight in unison and collapsed onto the dirt.