“Look how the new boy walks,” said Firefly.
“He’s a trudger,” said Cricket.
“He’ll be going to school.”
“Yup. He’s definitely the school type.”
Just then the trudger lifted his head and looked at Peter.
“Hi,” he said.
Cricket froze and Firefly stilled herself, moving her wings just enough to stay aloft. Peter said nothing.
“What’s your name?” said the trudger, and he shuffled his feet forward until he stood only a few yards away from them.
This new boy’s voice was higher and lighter than Peter’s. He didn’t look too dangerous, but Cricket didn’t want to take any chances. He backed up slowly, very slowly, away from the new boy. He backed up and up until he backed straight into a thistle bush. Ouch. He rubbed his backside with one wing.
“I’m Jack,” the new boy said when Peter didn’t answer. “We just moved in.”
He turned and pointed at the house where all the commotion had been, then turned back again. But in the second it took to turn and turn back, Peter ran away from the new boy, down the sand to the ancient white birch where Vole’s boat was moored. Firefly and Cricket followed him. The new boy took a step after them, then hesitated. He turned away and walked back to his house.
Peter picked up a stone and tossed it into the river: plop. He tossed another, and another. Cricket watched the stones fly up into the air and fall into the water and disappear. If he were bigger, he could catch those stones.
Peter picked up another stone: plop. Then he crouched down in front of the clump of tiger lilies. He picked up a stick and scratched some giant letters into the sand:
Charlie
“What does that spell?” said Cricket.
But Peter didn’t answer.
That night Vole lit his lantern and hung it from the mast. Then he went back into his living room, where the fire flickered in the hearth and the air was warm and smelled of smoke and fish and other good things, and while he waited for the little creatures to return from the shore, he practiced. He had made it all the way through the chart to the rolling hitch, a hitch that could be used to adjust and tighten a rope under tension. The rolling hitch was the kind of knot that would be especially useful in strong currents, thought Vole.
But how could he know for sure?
You can’t, he told himself. You just have to do the best you can.
The day was finally coming when Vole would untie the rope that moored his boat to the big white birch. When he would finally know the motion of the boat on the open water. When the current would bear him south, down the long winding river, to where the river met the sea.
He wasn’t ready, not yet. That much he knew. But he was getting close. All these long years, teaching himself how to sail from the diagrams and charts and knotted lengths of rope that his grandfather had left behind, were soon to be put to use. He would put himself to the test. Would he, Vole, prove himself worthy of the river vole nation? He didn’t want to fail his ancestors.
Vole’s paws moved swiftly in his lap. After the rolling hitch, he had only the figure eight left to learn. The figure eight was a stopper knot used at the end of a line to keep it from sneaking away. Vole didn’t know when, exactly, a stopper knot would be useful, but surely it would. His grandfather’s voice, as it often did, came back to him.
You’ll know, Vole. When the time is right, you’ll know.
Then Cricket leaped onto the deck and bounded into the living room. Firefly whizzed through the open galley window and darted back and forth above the wooden table.
“The new boy’s a trudger,” Cricket told Vole.
Firefly zoomed up to the living room ceiling and then down again, narrowly missing the bow of the old paper boat.
“He’ll be going to school for sure,” said Firefly. “Peter says so too.”
She zoomed up to the ceiling again and did a little twirl by the mantelpiece. Cricket reared back on his hind legs and raised both wings, as if he were about to make an extraordinary catch.
“What do they do in giant school, anyway?” said Firefly.
“Well, they’re not crickets,” said Cricket, “so they can’t have High Jumping class. And they’re already giants, so they can’t have Fear of Giants class.”
“Forget about aerial maneuvers and endurance flying,” added Firefly.
“They learn about giant things,” said Vole. “They learn how to do numbers.”
“I know how to do numbers,” said Cricket. “I know how to tell the temperature.”
“And they learn how to read,” said Vole. “They learn how to write.”
Firefly hovered above the paper boat, looking down at Cricket, whose wings were still raised, waiting for an imaginary catch.
“Who needs to know how to read and write?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Cricket. “Who needs that kind of thing?”
“If we knew how to read,” said Vole, pointing to the paper boat, “we’d know what those letters said.”
Cricket lowered himself onto all six legs and peered up at the paper boat. He thought of the letters that Peter had scratched into the sand with a stick. Firefly floated alongside him, brushing the old boat with her wing. What did those letters say? The words of the elders echoed in her mind: Miniature giants are nothing but future giants.
“Vole?” said Firefly. “Was your boy like Peter?”
“In some ways.”
“Did he like to play catch?” said Cricket.
“He did.”
“Did you play catch with him?”
Vole shook his head. He spread his paws out in front of him. They were so big, thought Cricket, but they were still much smaller than a giant’s hands. Vole probably couldn’t catch anything bigger than an oak seed either. Maybe an acorn, but that would be pushing it.
“Did you love him the way we love Peter?” said Firefly.
Vole nodded. Firefly sighed. Cricket sighed. Theirs were tiny sighs, because they were so small. Still, though, the flames in the fireplace shivered a little.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SCHOOL, SCHOOL, SCHOOL
Like it or not, Peter, September is just around the corner,” said the father giant. “And that means school.”
Outside, on the window ledge, Cricket and Firefly rolled their eyes at each other. Did these giants never tire of talking about school, school, school?
“I’m not going,” said Peter.
Clunk. The father giant set his fork down hard on the wooden table.
“You can’t just spend your days on the river building rafts and playing catch with imaginary creatures.”
“David,” said the mother giant. “Let it alone.”
Peter pushed back his chair. Scrape. Tromp. Splash. And he was gone, running down the hall to his room. The window frame trembled from the force of his footfalls.
“David, don’t you remember being his age?” said the mother giant. “Don’t you remember wanting a best friend? A kindred spirit?”
“Yes,” said the father giant. “Of course. But this imaginary friend thing has gone on far too long.”
“But you had one too. For quite a while, your mother said. And yet you eventually left him behind.”
The father giant pushed back from the table—scrape, tromp—and then water began splashing in the sink.
“The time has to be right,” said the mother giant. “Peter will know when it’s time.”
The father giant said nothing.
What’s a kindred spirit? thought Firefly. She looked down at Cricket.
“Cricket, do you think that Peter will leave us behind?” she said. “Do you think it could be true?”
“No,” said Cricket.
But the window frame felt cold under his legs, and he shivered. Together they made their way back down the shore to the boat, moored to the white pine. The night air was chilly, and Firefly tried to curl her legs up around herself for warmth, but that was hard to do in
midair. Then she tried to wrap her wings around herself. That was a big mistake.
“What are you doing?” said Cricket, staring up at her in alarm. “Forgetting how to fly?”
“No. Just trying to stay warm.”
“Well, stop it. I don’t want you falling on top of me.”
Firefly straightened out her legs and wings and rolled over onto her back. The sun had just set, and there was no moon yet. When would it come out? Where did the moon go during the day? Was it cold up there?
She rolled back over on her stomach and hung in the air, looking down at Cricket.
“Cricket?”
“What?”
“Do you ever miss the cricket nation?”
He took a big leap forward. “Nope.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
But he was lying.
“Cricket?”
“Now what?”
“I don’t miss the firefly nation either.”
But she was lying too. She did miss the firefly nation, and she missed Elder more.
“Cricket?”
“WHAT?”
“I’m going to go practice my upward zooms.”
“Now? In the dark?”
“Yeah. The dark didn’t stop the giants, did it?”
No, thought Cricket. But Firefly wasn’t a giant, and she didn’t have a silver spaceship. Still, he said, “Well, okay. If you have to. I’ll see you back at the boat.”
“Okay,” said Firefly, and she flew off into the night to practice her upward zooms.
But she didn’t.
What she did was wait until Cricket had hopped out of sight. Then she aimed herself toward the clearing, where the firefly nation was gathering, and she took off, flying fast, before she lost her courage, zooming toward the tree where she had been born and where Elder had saved her life and taught her to fly in the first place. The young fireflies were swooping out of the knothole: one, two, three, and then too many to count. Firefly slowed as she got closer, and then she hid herself behind a big pinecone on a thick limb, so that none of them would see her.
Wow. Look at them go!
Firefly stared as the fireflies she remembered as being timid and fearful twirled and darted about the clearing. She drifted to a closer pinecone and peeked around it.
“You’re getting so much better at swoops,” said one.
No kidding, thought Firefly. It amazed her how much better they all flew now, compared to the beginning of the summer.
“Do you really think so? I still wish my flip-arounds were faster.”
“Practice makes perfect,” said another. “Remember Firefly’s swoops?”
“Hers were the best.”
“Do you think she ever misses us?”
“No.”
“She’s probably forgotten all about us,” said another.
“Where do you think she is now?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where, though?”
“Up to the moon,” said another, and laughed. “Maybe she got a ride with a giant.”
Some of the others began to laugh too.
“In a silver spaceship.”
Firefly trembled with anger. She had to stop herself from darting out from behind the pinecone and dive-bombing them. More fireflies joined in the laughter. But not all of them.
“Don’t you miss her, though?” said one. “Even a little?”
The laughter died down. Young fireflies floated in the air of the clearing.
“No,” said one.
“Not really,” said another.
They didn’t miss her? At all? Firefly’s gut hurt as if she had been punched. Now she couldn’t hold herself back.
“You don’t miss me?” she yelled from behind the pinecone. “Well, guess what? I don’t miss you, either!”
And she darted out into their midst.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Three of them folded their wings up in shock and plopped straight to the ground. Firefly was still so angry she could barely see straight.
“Good-bye,” she said. “I don’t care if I never get back.”
She arrowed herself toward the river and took off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A LONELY FEELING
Cricket crouched alone on the riverbank. The clearing was brighter than usual. He looked in the other direction, toward the open field and the road that the father giant roared down every morning. Firefly was out there somewhere, practicing her upward zooms.
The music of the cricket nation rose from the marsh and the fields and the woods. Chirrup, chirrup, chirrup, to a steady beat. Cricket hopped slowly down the sand to the big rock.
Sproing!
He stood there, the breeze off the river blowing his antennae back. He raised his wings and rubbed them together.
“Take me out to the ball game
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack
I don’t care if I never get back.”
But was that really true?
Cricket imagined leaving Firefly Hollow for parts unknown. He imagined sailing away on the getaway raft, for example, down around the bend of the river and beyond. He imagined never seeing the fireflies again, glowing deep in the woods in the clearing by the hollow tree. Never leaping to the window frame of the giants’ kitchen to spy on them. Never sneaking into the Museum of Giant Artifacts again, the better to stare at the photo of Yogi Berra, world’s greatest catcher.
It was a lonely feeling.
Was this how Peter felt at the thought of never seeing Charlie again?
Was this how Firefly felt at the thought of never seeing Elder again?
Cricket hunched up low to the ground. He tried singing the last line of the song once more, very softly, to see how it felt.
“I don’t care if I never get back.”
Again he shivered. Enough of this. He leaped off the rock and straight down the shore to the clump of tiger lilies, and from there he jumped to the deck of the boat, where Vole was standing by the rudder, turning it back and forth.
“What are you doing?” said Cricket.
Vole looked up, startled, and dropped his paws from the rudder. “Nothing,” he said.
“Vole? Are you going to sail away soon?”
Vole put his paws back on the rudder and began turning it again. “Maybe,” he said. “When the time is right.”
Oh no. First Charlie, and then Elder, and now Vole. Couldn’t anything stay the same? Cricket sighed and closed his eyes. He leaned back on his four hind legs and raised his wings in the air. Just one great catch, he thought. If only I could make just one great, non-dandelion-fluff catch. He imagined a glowing white baseball, just like the one in the Museum of Giant Artifacts, coming at him out of a clear blue sky. Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it, tear off the catcher’s mask and hold up the glove, and then—
Yes! Cricket has done it again! Have you ever seen a cricket catcher catch like that Cricket can catch? And the crowd goes wild!
Chirrup! Chirrup! Chirrup!
That was the sound of the crowd, exploding in applause for Cricket, Catcher Extraordinaire.
Cricket sank back down on his haunches and peered around the deck. It was quiet. No one was cheering for him. There was only Vole, across the deck at the rudder, practicing how to sail. He glanced back at the path behind the boat. Not far away was the School for Young Crickets, empty at this time of night when all the crickets spread out in the fields and marsh and woods to chirrup their music to the night. Was Teacher out there? Was Gloria crouched before the window, listening to the others sing?
Cricket reared up on his hind legs again and turned his face to the moon. The moon looked a little like a baseball, didn’t it? An outer space baseball. Let it come to you, he thought, and he held up his wings to the moon.
Oh, what was the use? Who was he trying to kid? All his baseballs were imaginary, because a real one would kill him.
“It’s not fair,�
�� he said.
“What’s not fair?” said Vole.
“That I can’t catch like the giants can.”
He dropped his head into his wings. He pictured the Yogi Berra baseball card in the Museum of Giant Artifacts, and how it had entranced him the very first time he saw it. He thought of all the times he had crept down to the shore of the river and watched Peter and Charlie playing catch. He wanted that for himself.
But Cricket had wings, not arms.
He had six legs and a carapace instead of two legs and a bendable spine.
He had no hands at all, let alone opposable thumbs.
A summer of effort and all he had to show for it was dandelion fluff, caught and clasped between his wings. That, and a single maple leaf that had almost crushed him.
“It’s not fair,” he said again. “Why should giants be the only ones? If I could only make just one catch. Just one real, actual catch.”
The giants’ house was nearly invisible in the darkness. Firefly’s question hung in his mind.
“Tell me something, Vole,” he said. “Do boys really grow into giants? Is Peter going to leave us behind?”
“Come into the living room with me, Cricket.”
The ancient paper boat was in its place on top of the wooden table. Cricket had never seen Vole move it. There he stood, in the moonlight, his paw trailing along the side of the boat as if it were something precious. The black letters on the side stood out clearly—the moon was very bright tonight—and Cricket wished again that he knew how to read giant letters.
“You told us that your miniature giant made this boat for you,” said Cricket. “But where is he now? Where did your miniature giant go?”
Somewhere off to the left an owl hooted, and a whip-poor-will called from its hiding place in the grasses by the river. Would another one answer?
Poor Will.
Yes.
Poor Will. Poor Will.
Back and forth went the whip-poor-wills in the dark night, one in the grass by the river, the other off in the woods. Vole opened his mouth, as if he were about to answer the question, but then an unfamiliar sound—a vibration, or a buzz—came from deep within the woods, and both Cricket and Vole raced up to the deck.
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