“Oh yes,” said the mother giant. “There they are. Cute.”
Firefly uncovered her eyes just enough to see that the mother giant wasn’t really looking at them.
“She’s just pretending,” whispered Firefly to Cricket. “She doesn’t really think we’re his friends.”
She zigzagged through the air like a firefly doing an obstacle course, but the mother giant just smiled vaguely and turned away.
“I’m going to get to work, sweet boy,” she said. “Stay where I can see you through the window. What are you up to today?”
Peter shrugged. The mother giant put her hands on his shoulders and rested her chin on the top of his head.
“Listen,” she said. “Do you want to talk about Charlie?”
“Nope.”
The mother giant sighed. The force of her sigh through the window screen blew Firefly back in the air a few inches. Cricket held on to his perch for dear life, all six legs gripping the wooden frame. These giants. They didn’t know their own strength.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LET’S NOT GO BACK
It was a long day for Cricket and Firefly, a long day without sleep, without school, without the usual routines of the cricket and firefly nations. They weren’t quite sure what to do with themselves. They spent most of the day spying on Peter from the safety of the clump of tiger lilies at the base of the white birch. Neither of them wanted to risk getting as close as they had the day before. After all, he was a giant, even if he was miniature.
First he skipped stones on the river.
Then he made a sand castle.
Then he dragged driftwood into a big pile.
Then he sat cross-legged and looked out at the water for a long time.
No leaping. No flying. No one to play Death by Giants with. Well, on second thought, maybe that wouldn’t be a game Peter would choose to play.
“Kind of boring,” Cricket whispered to Firefly.
“Really boring,” said Firefly.
Finally the sun began to sink, and cricket music began to rise over the field and at the edge of the marsh. Peter headed back to his house. Deep in the clearing, the other fireflies began to emerge from the hollow tree. Cricket and Firefly dreaded the return to their nations.
“If I go back now,” said Cricket, “Teacher would just lock me up for good.”
“I’m pretty sure the fireflies don’t want me back either,” said Firefly. “They think I’m nuts.” She paused, then said, “Can I tell you something?”
“Yeah.”
“Elder turned into a star.”
“Your elder?”
“Yeah.”
They were quiet for a minute.
“He was the only one—the only one—who didn’t think I was crazy,” said Firefly. “He was the only one who would look up at the moon and the stars with me.”
“I’m sorry,” Cricket said. “I’m really sorry, Firefly.”
“Thank you.”
He brushed her wing with his front leg. It felt so much like Elder, the way he used to brush her wing with his, that Firefly started to cry.
“All I know,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes with one wing, “is that I can’t go back there.”
“I guess I can’t go back either. Not unless I want to spend the rest of my life in detention. What will we do, though?”
“Stay here. Spy on the giants some more. The big ones.”
“But the big ones are scary,” said Cricket.
She hovered in front of him. The sun had slipped all the way below the far side of the river now, and she began to glow.
“We’re just spying,” said Firefly. “We’re not risking our lives. Come on.”
Cricket gave in. The sounds of giant dinner drifted out the kitchen window.
Swoop!
Leap!
“Have some more peas, Peter,” said the mother giant.
“I don’t like peas.”
“Have some anyway,” said the father giant. “They’ll help you grow big and strong.”
What a strange thing to say. Why would giants want to be any bigger or stronger?
Clink. Chomp. Gulp.
The sound of giants eating was not pretty.
“We should start thinking about school, Peter,” said the mother giant.
“No, we shouldn’t,” said Peter.
The father giant cleared his throat.
“Peter,” he said. “Your mom told me what happened this morning, and—”
“If you’re going to tell me I should talk about Charlie, stop!”
Firefly zoomed straight up in the air so that she could see inside the window. Peter sat perfectly still, looking down at his fork. Each tine held three speared peas.
“Besides,” Peter said, “I did talk about him already. With Cricket and Firefly.”
The mother and father giants looked at each other above Peter’s head.
“You talked about Charlie with your imaginary friends?” said the father giant.
“They’re not imaginary. And don’t make fun of me.”
“Oh, Peter,” said the mother giant. “We’re not making fun of you. Your dad used to have an imaginary friend too.”
Firefly hovered outside the window screen, watching. The father giant leaned back in his chair, frowning at the mother giant.
“I did?”
“According to your mother, you did.”
“What sort of imaginary friend?”
“Some kind of rodent,” said the mother giant. “She told me that you used to spend all day, every day with him, one summer. She gave up trying to talk you out of pretending he was real.”
“That’s funny,” said the father giant. “I don’t remember anything like that.”
But he leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, as if he was trying to remember something that he had forgotten. Firefly watched, so intent that she scraped against the screen.
She needs to be careful, thought Cricket. If they look out the window, they’ll see her.
But Firefly was heedless, so focused was she on the father giant and the strange expression on his face. So was Peter. Then the father giant quickly shook his head and brought his chair back down with a thump. Yowch. These giants were just so . . . giant.
No one said anything after that. They concentrated on their plates of hot, horrible-smelling giant food, and when he was finished, Peter pushed back his chair and ran down the hall to his room. The mother and father giant looked at each other.
“What are we going to do?” said the father giant. “I’m more and more worried.”
“He misses Charlie,” said the mother giant. “Don’t push him.”
“He needs a friend, Beth. An actual friend, not imaginary friends.”
At that, Firefly looked down at Cricket. Imaginary? How infuriating. She flew straight at the window screen and shouted in.
“Hey!” she shouted. “He’s got me and Cricket!”
She dive-bombed the screen, regardless of the dangers of concussion.
“We’re not imaginary!” she yelled, and she dove again.
The mother giant and father giant looked up at the window.
“What is that?” said the mother giant.
“Some kind of bug, brushing up against the screen,” said the father giant. “A moth, maybe.”
A moth? What creature in its right mind would mistake Firefly for a moth? Moths bumbled through the air, throwing themselves at lightbulbs and frequently frying themselves in the process. Moths were heavy-winged and . . . and . . . drab! Being compared to a moth made Firefly even more furious.
Swoop!
Back at the screen she flew. She dive-bombed it again and again, smashing her head against the wire mesh.
“That’s no moth,” said the father giant. “I think it’s a firefly.”
“Fireflies don’t act like that, David.”
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
“This one does,” said
the father giant. “It must be insane.”
Insane?
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
“You’re the insane ones!” yelled Firefly. “We’re not imaginary! We’re ACTUAL!”
“That is definitely a firefly,” said the father giant. “A firefly run amok.”
“Well, I don’t want it in here,” said the mother giant. “Let’s close the window.”
The father giant rose from the giant table and tromped over to the window.
BANG.
Cricket and Firefly looked at each other again. Enough was enough. Without saying a word, they turned and Leap! Swoosh! back to the riverbank they went. Firefly turned to Cricket.
“I’m actual.”
“So am I,” said Cricket.
“We’re actual!” shouted Firefly. “Take that, giants!”
She swooped up and around a young maple tree to emphasize her point.
“What does ‘actual’ mean?” said Cricket, once she had returned.
“It means . . . it means . . . hmm,” said Firefly.
She fluttered in the air, blinking on and off. It was a quiet night, and the moon hung low in the dark sky.
“Actual means . . . ,” said Firefly, trying again.
But she didn’t know what it meant, and neither did Cricket. Then, from a few yards away, behind the tall tiger lilies, they heard someone clear his throat.
“Real,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Actual means real.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE PAPER BOAT
Vole set down his rope—he was practicing a sheet bend tonight, a knot that was used to tie two lines together, according to the River Vole’s Guide, and it was a difficult knot to master—and headed for the bow of the boat. Firefly was darting back and forth in the air, while Cricket did little hops along the sand.
Vole cleared his throat and said it again.
“Real. Actual means real.”
Silence. Had he scared them both voiceless? Firefly hung in the air, nearly motionless, while Cricket froze on the sand below like a bug statue.
“Who said that?” whispered Firefly.
“I think it was the vole,” Cricket whispered back. “The one that lives on the boat.”
“Hello,” called Vole. “I can hear you.”
Silence again. Vole almost laughed.
“Should we go down there?” whispered Firefly.
“Maybe,” whispered Cricket. “Teacher and the elders say he’s not dangerous.”
“I can still hear you,” called Vole.
Silence again. How long had it been since Vole had said anything to anyone but himself? A long time.
“He can still hear us,” whispered Firefly.
“I know,” whispered Cricket. “That’s what he just said.”
“Should we go?”
“We might as well.”
The little bugs approached with great caution. Moonlight gleamed on the polished brass railing, and Firefly floated along just above its curved length.
“Your elders are right,” said Vole. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The little bugs regarded him in silence. Then Cricket eyed the distance, made one great leap, and perched on a coil of rope.
The boat creaked pleasantly as the current tugged it out to the length of the mooring rope and then nudged it back to shore again. Out, and back. Out, and back. The boat had been built to last many a generation of river vole, and Vole took excellent care of it. Firefly did a little spiral dance around the mast, and then she darted through the open door that led from the deck into Vole’s cozy living room and back out again.
“We’re actual, you know,” she said to Vole, hovering in front of him.
“I know you are,” said Vole.
“The giants told Peter we’re not real,” said Cricket.
“I know they did.”
“But why?” said Firefly.
“They can’t hear us, that’s why.”
“So it’s true then?” said Cricket. “The elders are right about that?”
“They are.”
“How do you know, though?” said Firefly.
Cricket perched on the coil of rope, his wings folded close to his sides the way they always were when he was thinking hard about something.
“I know,” said Vole, and something in his voice made her be quiet.
Firefly zoomed straight up in frustration and then spiraled around and around until she was dizzy. Swoop! Down she floated, through the dark night air, back through the living room door, down and down until she came to rest on . . .
. . . a boat.
A paper boat, set in the middle of Vole’s polished wooden table.
This was an old boat. Firefly could tell from the stiff, parched feel of the paper from which it was made. She reached out one wing, very gently, and touched it. She was afraid that paper this old might disintegrate, even at the light touch of a firefly’s wing, but it held steady.
Cricket hopped up onto the table and crouched next to the boat. He, too, reached out a wing to touch it.
“Whose boat is this?” said Firefly.
“Mine,” said Vole.
“It’s old,” said Cricket.
“Really old,” said Firefly.
“It is,” said Vole, and he put a furry paw lightly on the prow of the old boat.
As far as Cricket and Firefly knew, Vole lived alone and he fished alone. There were reports that he could be glimpsed fishing off the deck of the boat, and he was often seen tying intricate knots in a length of rope. His fur was a rich brown and he usually wore a fisherman’s cap pulled low over his brow. There was no Fear of Vole class, nor did the elders ever caution the youth of the firefly and cricket nations against Vole.
But the sad story of how he came to be the only surviving member of the proud river vole nation was sometimes told late on warm summer nights. And whenever the story was told, the young crickets and fireflies shuddered in sympathy. They could not help him, though, since none of them knew the secrets of sailing.
Vole was getting older, thought Firefly. Maybe he would never leave the riverbank. She shivered. She did not want to be like Vole, stuck forever at the edge of the Hollow. She floated in the air next to the ancient paper boat.
“Where did you get this boat?” said Firefly.
“Someone gave it to me,” said Vole.
“Who?” said Cricket.
“A giant.”
What? This was so surprising that Firefly nearly thudded straight down, but she managed to recover before she hit the table. Cricket leaped straight into the air.
“You were friends with a giant?” said Cricket.
“A miniature giant.”
“Then you do know that the elders are wrong,” said Firefly. “Miniature giants do see us, and they do hear us.”
Vole said nothing.
“Right?” said Firefly.
He still didn’t answer. Firefly, with her sharp firefly eyes, was able, even in the dim moonlight from the deck, to see that there were words written on the boat. She skimmed her wing over them.
“What does this say?”
“I don’t know,” said Vole. “It’s written in giant language.”
The three of them—Cricket and Vole and Firefly—examined the mysterious words. What did they say? Who were they meant for?
Cricket yawned. Firefly’s head drooped and then bobbed back up as she caught herself from drifting down, out of the air. It was late. They were so tired. But after what had happened that morning, how could either of them go back to their nations?
Cricket rested against the old paper boat and half closed his eyes. Firefly spotted a spiderweb in the corner and floated over to it. It was a raggedy sort of web, but it still looked so inviting. Wouldn’t it feel good to lie down and be rocked to sleep in that spiderweb? She drifted closer and closer. Whatever spider had made it was long gone.
“Mr. Vole?” she said, trying to be as polite as possible.
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“Yes, Miss Firefly?”
“May Cricket and I stay here?”
Cricket’s eyes snapped open. Stay here? With the river vole? On the boat?
“Here? On my boat?” Vole sounded surprised.
Firefly nodded.
“But won’t your elders be looking for you?”
“Teacher is angry at me,” said Cricket.
“And Elder,” said Firefly, “my Elder, I mean, well . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Vole looked at her closely. Was she crying? He thought of his grandfather, and for a moment he heard the old vole’s voice in his mind. You’ll know when the time is right. Vole made an instant decision.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re both welcome to stay here.”
“Thank you,” said Firefly, and she let herself float down into the soft strands of the spiderweb.
“Thank you,” said Cricket, and he let his eyes close fully.
Vole sat in his chair by the fire and watched the little creatures sleep. Cricket coughed. Firefly’s spiderweb swung gently with the rocking of the boat in the current. It was so strange to have anyone besides himself on the boat. And when was the last time either Cricket or Firefly had eaten? When they woke up, they’d be hungry. If he peeled some carrots and cut them into tiny pieces, would they eat them? Vole went to work in the galley.
When Firefly woke, Vole brought her an acorn shell filled with tiny pieces of carrots—not the food of a firefly, but she tried them anyway. Not too bad. Nothing like a delicious snail, of course, but really not bad. Cricket snapped his down immediately.
“My head hurts,” said Firefly.
“That’s what happens when you dive-bomb a giant’s house,” said Cricket. True, thought Firefly. But it had been worth it.
She tipped herself out of the raggedy spiderweb hammock into the air and fluttered about the living room of the boat.
“We’re actual,” she said.
Despite her aching head she did a midair flip, and then another.
“Actual!” she called. “Actual!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LET’S BUILD A RAFT
Next morning Peter came out of the house with his hands full of artifacts. Firefly and Cricket stared from the safety of the clump of tiger lilies. Any one of the things he was carrying would be worth an entire exhibit in the museum.
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