David Holper

English Department

College of the Redwoods

7351 Tompkins Hills Rd.

Eureka, CA 95501-9300

(707) 476-4370

(Originally published in Grand Street, #42)

Fences

When the sun rose over the storm-torn landscape, I surveyed the wreckage of our farm--the house was a blackened, smoking ruin; the fields bent down, plants squashed flat and tossed about everywhere; the two plough horses, a dozen cows, and our sheep absent from the half-collapsed barn; even our water tower had sprung an enormous leak underneath, flooding a patch of cornrows with a small lake, upon which floated branches and a grey-black scum of ash, the tips of the stalks just poking through like fingers. I stared in a sort of mute awe at the damage. It was obviously more than I knew how to fix, and I realized with a sense of utter abandon, I had absolutely no desire to fix it, so without another thought, I simply walked away.

I walked in the direction of the river, both for a drink and for a chance to wash the grit out of my hair and skin. It was a fine, sunny fall morning, the trees along the road peppered with red and gold, but I hardly noticed, only giving a pair of lightning-struck trees a brief glance. Rather I hurried along, kicking at stones, or dragging my feet, and cursed some shadowy presence inside myself until I came to the river. Yet in spite of my sour mood, by the time I'd finished giving myself a good scrub, I began to hum a little tune out of the sheer joy of being alive. It grew warmer, then hot, and I finally dove in, floating on my back in the middle of the river, spouting a mouthful of water, and watching as the blue sky and clouds drifted lazily past. I thought of all the things I wished for to make me happy‑‑of a lazy day with no work, of a good book and the pleasure of sitting alone, of a plate of well-done steak and mashed potatoes with garlic and onions, of the devious joy of revenge when no one knows you have done it--and my mind rode along in its pleasant, useless groove.

I don't know how long I floated that way, dreaming in the current, but when I cocked my head to the shore, the landscape seemed strangely unfamiliar. The grey hills that bordered our property had receded and now lay in a bluish haze behind me. I slipped out of the river, my skin blue with cold, shook myself off, and began walking toward the first building I saw. It was a little brown cottage about a mile off, smoke curling from its stone chimney in a question mark. The walk warmed me, and I began to sing to myself as I walked: "Mother, Father, done you in! Now's the time to pay for sin. Send a note to say you're well. Hope you're both enjoying Hell!"

The song tickled my fancy, and as I clomped up the stairs of the cottage, I admit, I began to laugh rather nastily. That's what must have alerted the occupants, for before I even managed to knock, the oaken door swung slowly open, and a first a large grey snout appeared, then was closely followed by horrible grey hound with pink eyes which came lunging out at me, snapping its teeth at my hands and legs. I froze, only hoping it wouldn't bite, as its jaws snapped in my face. In another moment, I heard a voice boom from behind the door, "Off Gytrash!" And the dog curled back its jowls, revealing a long line of large, yellowy teeth, then crouched down slowly at my feet on the porch.

I stood shaking, facing a giant of a man, who looked more like a cross between an oak tree and a massive beer barrel, than anything human. He must've reached nearly seven feet and was dressed in rough, workman's clothes, grey and brown, flecked with the crusted soil of his cropland and bits of breadcrumbs from his breakfast. His face looked stone silent--black powerful eyes folded deep into his flesh; and those eyes! How can I describe them? They seem to glisten with something, some knowledge; though what he knew was an utter mystery to me. This face was wrapped in a long, grey-brown beard that split at the man's chin, and the beard was so long it draped over both his broad shoulders, and even then draped a little farther, so that it hung down across his bleached, grey cotton shirt, ending in bristly pieces of hair, which rose and fell with his breath. The man's pants were fastened with a few pieces of yellow cord, and the cuffs were ragged. He wore no shoes, and his feet were nearly black I guessed from working in the fields.

"For God's sake why are you laughing like that?" he barked. "What the hell do you want?"

I smiled, turning my palms up.

"What? Can't you speak?" he said, "Or are you just stupid?"

I stood up a little straighter when he said that, as I might have for my father during a lecture, but I don't really know what I had in mind. If it were to threaten him, I must've been out of my skull. I would have had as much chance of threatening him as does a mouse of intimidating a hawk, just before the kill. (Not to mention the hound!) Perhaps I just meant to show him that I didn't approve of his talking about me like that. But, in fact, my bravado had the opposite effect I'd intended--it merely annoyed him, as I could tell by the way he arched his thick, black brows, and ironically twisted the corner of his mouth.

"Well, are you going to say something boy? Otherwise, I've got work to do."

I turned my eyes to his dark feet (the dog still glaring viciously at me with its horrid pink eyes) so I wouldn't have to look at him. Then I tried my next trick--to play the deserving orphan. I slouched a bit and wrapped my arms around myself, trying my best to look cold. I said quietly, "I was wondering, sir, if you might have something to eat. I've been traveling most of the day and I haven't had a thing since my house burned down last night in the storm. Both my parents died in the fire, and I'm a bit out of sorts."

"Oh, please," he said. "Save the sad stories, okay? Just tell me, are you willing to work for your keep?"

"Well..." I said, shuffling my feet.

"Get lost!" he snapped, quickly closing the door.

But I was faster: I threw my boot in the jamb. "Wait!" The hound rose up on its front paws and began to growl.

Meanwhile, the man leaned his enormous head out toward me, slowly, and I backed away from the door as he bent down toward me. He brought his face within inches of mine, so that I saw the light weirdly glistening in his dark eyes; I could smell a pungent, garlicky odor that hovered about him. Then in a slow, terrible voice he said, "You want to eat something here, you've got to work!"

I shifted uneasily on the porch and moved my foot back out of the jamb. "Sure, what did you have in mind?"

He opened the door a bit. "Come on and I'll show you what has to be done." He led me through the house, the hound at his heels. It was smoky and dim inside, the ceiling draped full of braided garlic, sausages hanging from strings, and several sets of gum boots. Along the walls rested all sorts of tools--spades, mattocks, axes--as if it were too much trouble for a man like him to bother building a barn. Then he and the dog went right out a back door, which lead out under a covered walkway to a ramshackle corral. I followed him out to a corral, where there were about twenty porkers behind the rails, all wallowing in a pool of foul-smelling mud in the far corner of the pen; and oddly enough, they seemed to be whispering to one another!

He gave me a smack on the shoulder to get my attention. "There's a pile of dung on this side of the pen. I want you to get a shovel and muck it out. You can wheel the droppings out into the fields, and turn 'em into the soil."

I looked up at him to protest, but he gave me a sharp look, as if to say, don't bother! I somehow held my tongue, and he showed me where the wheelbarrow and the shovel were and then started back inside. "Stay here, Gytrash!" he called over his shoulder, and the dog lay down by my feet, watching me. To say that the day, which had started so well, turned into a disaster is rather an understatement. I suffered the turmoils of the damned. To begin with, the pigs, which really could talk quite well, began to speak out loud, saying such things to one another as, "Bite it when it comes in" or "You come around one way, and I'll get it from the other side."

I wasn't quite sure if they were serious, so I stood there, wondering what to do. Then the hound began to growl, and I felt my stomach sink. There was nothing to do but start, so I eased myself over the rail, shovel tightly in hand, and immediately one of the larger porkers snorted, chasing me around the pen a few times. When I saw my chance, I wheeled around and smacked his pink head with the shovel. "You little bastard!" it screamed at me, ducking its snout under my next blow. I was a bit taken aback by a talking pig, but oddly enough, it didn't alter my task in the slightest. After this, the large one left me alone, though occasionally one of the others would make vicious lunges at me. All the while all of them were muttering about what they would do if they caught me, horrible things too, such as burying me in the mud hole or stomping my head in with their sharp hooves.

But as if this weren't bad enough, there was the issue of the smell. Within a matter of minutes, I was quite convinced that the giant was the proud owner of anus mundi, and I had been given the task of its annual cleaning. It was a smell to sicken the devil, and my eyes leaked bitter tears, while my stomach turned over in disgust, vomiting up the last bitter remnants of something disagreeable I'd eaten into the foul-smelling mud. The pigs all laughed hysterically at the sight, nosing me out of the way for a chance to gobble up the edible bits.

Yet I didn't dare cease, for there wasn't only the hound to contend with. I saw that the giant watched me from his kitchen window, glancing out every so often to make sure I was busily employed. Though I knew nothing about him, his size alone told me not to disappoint him. I even considered telling the truth or what I thought he might accept of it, something about monsterous fathers and neglectful mothers, but bit by bit, as I stared at his face, I came to see that it would be a mistake. So, without taking a break, I hauled wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of pig dung out to the fields, then wrestled the droppings into the dark soil. Everywhere I went, the enormous hound followed, until I hardly noticed him. I worked until my palms blistered, until my muscles ached--until I could no longer notice the smell or the flies or the heat of the sun as it bathed me in sweat and cooked my brain. When the end of the day came, I barely noticed. Perhaps I would've gone on working like that all night if the giant hadn't come out and yelled for me to stop.

I called back to him, confused, "What's that?"

"He said you're not smart enough to know when to stop!" a nearby pig said.

I glanced at the pig, then at the giant, who stood waiting. I climbed out of the pen and I followed him (the hound still at my heels) to the back stoop, where he'd set out for me a bucket of water, soap, and a rough piece of cloth for a towel. I washed quickly, scraping the grime off as best I could. Then I went in.

The hound followed me, laying down by the blazing hearth. Nearby the man was already seated at a large wooden table, his beard thrown in two heaps over his shoulders, wolfing down what looked like beef stew. It smelled wonderful, and my mouth began to water. I walked quickly over to a three-legged stool opposite him, which suddenly scurried like a crab underneath me, and I nervously sat down on it. After a bit, I grew annoyed with waiting for him to serve me. "Isn't there anything for me?"

He looked up, his enormous mouth jammed full with food, and his eyes sparkled. He nodded. He stood up, went and took a rusted enamel bowl from the cupboard, and walked to the fireplace. What happened next stunned me--he simply bent down, scooped the bowl through the dead cinders in corner of the hearth, and deposited the bowl right in front of me. Then he sat down and went back to work on his dinner, throwing his enormous beard out of the way, as if it were a scarf.

I was outraged and started yelling some nonsense about how he'd cheated me. But before I'd gotten out a dozen words, he shot his arm across the table, an arm, mind you, thick as a small tree and hard as iron. He grabbed me by my hand, and twisted until I was sure my bones would snap, and I howled in agony. "Shut up that noise!" he said, and tightened his grip. When the pain grew unbearable, I closed my eyes and quieted myself, only hoping to pass out, or die. Yet as I grew quiet, he eased the horrific pressure on my wrist. "Hey!" he said, and I opened my eyes. He put a wooden spoon in my hand. "Here! “Quit your fussing and eat!" I gingerly dipped the spoon in the cinders, taking a few ashy flakes, and put it to my lips. He let go of my wrist and recommenced with his dinner, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I sat there, spoon at my lips, until he glanced at me again. With no other choice that I could see, I opened my mouth and shoved the spoonful across my tongue. The ashes were dry and coppery and bitter. I was prepared to choke, but the odd thing was, once I'd gotten accustomed to the taste and the grit, it really wasn't so bad. In a few minutes, I had most of the bowl gone. The giant glanced up, twisted his mouth in an ironic grin, and scooped up the bowl. In another moment, he'd refilled it, and I was hungrily devouring my supper.

After the meal was over, he showed me where to draw the well water and how to wash and put away the various plates and bowls. Then he rose, took his chair over by the fire, and motioned me to sit by him. I stood up and my chair followed me until I stopped. I sat down next to him.

"So what manner of thing are you?" he asked, extracting his pipe from his pocket. The hound lay alert at his feet.

"A boy," I said, wanting to say, a man.

He leaned down toward the fire, and a flame reached out and licked the tobacco till it glowed red and reflected in his dark eyes. "Obvious enough, but what kind of boy?"

It was a question I hadn't much considered until that moment, and it caught me off guard.

"Are you a louse?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"A shirker?"

"No!" I said.

"Well, what then are you?"

"I'm just a boy," I said, hoping it would satisfy him.

He stared at me, narrowing his dark, enormous eyes. "Boys of your sort never have such simple stories."

"What? You don't believe me," I started, and I saw that he obviously did not. He leaned back on his stool, the smoke from his pipe forming some unknown symbol just over his head.

"Perhaps you should simply tell me the truth," he said, taking another puff on his pipe, then beginning to scrape the dirt from under his fingernails.

"Truth, what truth? I told you what's happened to me," I said, wondering how much he might've guessed from the lies I could no longer remember.

"Yes," he said, "but you only told the part that suited you."

I kept silent, knowing that if I refused to speak he couldn't trip me up with any tricks.

"Well, so be it," he said, giving his dog a pat. "But you'll tell me soon enough, I warrant. Matter of fact, before I'm done with you, you'll beg to tell me the truth, I imagine. The whole bloody business."

I sat up with a start and stared at him, my mouth hanging open in surprise at his choice of words.

He grinned at me, flicking a speck of dirt on the floor. "Zacroy rot!"

"What did you say?" I asked.

"Close your mouth, boy. You'll catch flies."

******

The next day I woke early, wrapped in a greasy sheepskin by the hearth. It took me a moment to realize where I was, but gradually, as I heard snoring, then saw where the giant lay fast asleep in a hammock, I recalled my situation. I eased myself out of the skin and made for the door. Only as soon as my hand touched the iron knob, the hound began to bark loudly. I heard a yawn, and the giant rolled out of a hammock, which was nailed to the high ceiling, and set down an enormous leg, then climbed out of the hammock, looking suspiciously at me. "Don't just stand there! Make me some breakfast, boy! Hot tea and porridge!" I scrambled away from the door, as the giant went and washed himself out back. "Monster!" I said to the dog, which still lay by the hearth, and it seemed to wink at me with one pink eye. In the kitchen, I rummaged through the cabinets until I'd found the items for the giant's breakfast, then I rekindled the embers of the fire until it was blazing, and put on a kettle. We ate quickly in silence, and afterwards the giant took out his pipe and smoked, gazing sanguinely out the window at the blue sky. "Today, I think you should build me a fence."

I looked at him and smiled, grateful that it wasn't to be another day of shoveling shit. But I might've known that things with him couldn't--or wouldn't be‑‑exactly as they seemed. After we'd gathered the shovel, pick, maul, wedges, axe, and saws, he loaded both the dog and me in his wagon, gave the horsewhip a crack, and his white mare took off along a rutted lane toward the northern end of his property. The fields eventually ended in a wood; however, that didn't stop us. He drove the horse along a dark track through the wood, until we came to some marshy ground, covered over with huge plane trees that must've grown there undisturbed for a hundred years. It was all very dark and gloomy and thick with the smell of rotting things; yet in the half light of the trees, I could see a bit of fencing that someone had started, even though it looked like the work had been done so long before that it probably would’ve been better to tear it all down and begin again.

The giant hopped down, the dog at his side, and unloaded the tools. "Your fence here should meet up with my fence that way." He pointed to a gap in the forest.

I looked off into the misty distance. "You got to be crazy! You want me to build a fence out here? By myself?” I stared this way and that at the dark mouth of the forest. “Why there might be wolves in these woods." Even at my father's farm, we'd had to defend ourselves against their intrusion.

"Might be," he said, "but I doubt they'd want to mess with the dog."

I shook my head in disbelief, wondering how long it would take me to fence all the way back to his fields. But before I could even think to challenge him, he hopped up in the wagon and was about to whip the mare into action.

"Hey, wait a minute!" I protested. "Aren't you going to leave me anything to eat and drink."

The giant laughed. "Right, I almost forgot." He reached behind him on the buckboard and threw down a grey sack. I heard the cinders clink--ashes! "You'll find a creek there behind you a ways in the wood." He pointed. "If you have any problems, all you have to do is whistle."

"Whistle?" I said.

"Like this," the giant said, and blew a long, low note. The dog pricked up its ears.

Then the giant cracked his whip. "I'll see you at sundown!" he called, and in a moment his wagon disappeared around a bend in the road.

The dog immediately let out a low growl, as if to say, get to work! I contemplated walking away, but the presence of the dog, not to mention the issue of walking away into the misty forest made it seem an impossible option. So I went to work. I felled several small cypress trees that I found in a stand at the edges of the oaks, then proceeded to split them into rails. By midday I'd split enough rails for three sections. I stopped long enough for a short lunch of cinders and some creek water, then napped with the dog in the sun. When I awoke, the dog seemed upset, barking and nipping at me to get up--as if I'd slept too long to suit him, so I worked twice as hard until sundown to make up for the hours of sleep.

When the giant returned, I'd fenced nearly three lengths. "That's a start, at least" was all he said, as he surveyed the work, then whistled for the dog, who leapt up next to him. I simply climbed into the back among the tools, stretched out and slept, as we drove home.

******

I worked for the giant for several months in this fashion, gradually fencing the northern end of his land under the guard of his hound. Winter made the work gradually harder, requiring gloves and a heavy coat, though fortunately, the hound and I gradually came to an understanding of sorts: I did my work and wouldn't try to run off, and it left me alone. In fact, as time wore on, it would sometimes leave me alone in the later part of the day. Maybe it went for a walk or a drink. Who knows? I imagined it must've been terribly boring to sit watching me all day.

One cold winter afternoon I found this to be the case. I simply had looked up at one point, and the hound was not where he had been laying. I thought nothing of it, busy with fitting a finished rail into a post. I was dreaming of the past in the way I would have liked it to been, complete with someone, anyone who might've loved me for what I was, when I heard a leaf crackle in the dark of the woods behind me. I looked up, thinking it was the dog--but it wasn't. I saw a shadow move between two trees, a large, grey shadow. I looked about me and saw where my axe lay about twenty feet off, and I sprinted for it. At the same moment, I saw a large timber wolf lope out of the woods, its teeth bared, coming directly my way. My mouth went bone dry, and I snatched up the axe and watched, horrified, as the beast moved quickly and quietly toward me.

Just then, I remembered what the giant had said about whistling, and I managed to wet my lips and let out the faintest of whistles as the beast sped toward me. Time seemed oddly slower as I raised the axe, and the wolf began to quicken its pace to close the space between us. I crouched, waiting to whirl the axe at its head, but just as the wolf was ready to lunge, the giant appeared. He stepped out of the woods and screamed. It was the most horrible sound you can imagine, like the sound of the world tearing along its bone seams. The wolf's eyes grew large and frightened, and it bolted off into the shadows.

The giant came over and shook me. "Where's the hound?" he said.

"It's gone off." I noticed that my knuckles were white around the axe handle.

The giant whistled, and the hound came running in an instant. But when it came up to lick its master's hand, the giant gave it an enormous kick, which sent the beast flying. It crouched against the earth, whimpering, while he scolded it, then the giant came back over to me.

He stared at the fence, then raised his hand, pointing at a slight angle toward some unseen point. "More this way," he said, then walked off.

I stood there reeling for a moment, not sure whether I should follow him or run off or simply sit down with axe and wait. However, nothing seemed more logical than simply going back to work. After all, what would he have said if I suddenly appeared at his cabin? Where would I have gone without his help? It had become apparent to me how much I had come to rely on him. At dark, he came to get me without any explanation. But that evening after dinner, as we sat by the fire, I asked him about the scream.

"What about it?" he said, scratching his enormous beard.

"What was that?" I asked.

"It was a scream, nothing more nor less."

"But it was so horrible. It was like the end of the world."

He took his pipe from his pocket and lit it. "Oh no, the end of the world will be much worse, I wouldn't wonder."

I wanted to ask him how he knew about the end of the world, but somehow I knew he wouldn't answer. "Where did you learn to scream like that?" I asked.

"Where does anyone learn to scream? Did your parents teach you?" he asked, not looking at me.

"No, I think I taught them," I said, not looking at his eyes.

"That's the usual story," he said, completely unsurprised.

"Not in my case," I said, wanting to tease him with a piece of the truth.

But he just smoked his pipe and stared into the flames until the time came to go to bed.

******

One day when spring sat just beyond the edge of our fields, when the giant brought me to the fence, he said, "You're too far from the creek now for water there. Today I want you to get your water from a pool by that large oak over there."

I turned to where he pointed.

"Only drink from the bank. It's deep in the center, and people have been known to get stuck there. You understand?"
"Sure," I said, "whatever you say."

When the giant left, I got to work. Though it was still winter, the day quickly grew hot. I stripped off my coat and began to work harder. Somehow, oddly enough, I'd begun to enjoy the feel of the solitude and hard work. The dog lay in the shadow of a large oak, and I labored. In fact, the day went quickly as I fenced the giant's fields. I stopped for a late lunch, eating my bagful of cinders, then walking to the pool for a drink, the dog at my heels. Only when I got there, the water looked so cool and inviting, I couldn't resist wading out into the middle. What a terrible mistake! For when I came to the very center of the pool, I tried to lift a leg, and I found I couldn't. It wasn't a matter of being stuck--my legs felt as if they were totally asleep and cold, as if the flesh were no longer mine. I looked down, trying to see what the problem was, and I noticed where the water lapped, my legs had turned to stone! Worse still, as I struggled to extract myself, I seemed to be gradually sinking into the water, so that in a matter of some minutes, I had sunk to the point where I could feel that horrible distant chill as my belly turned to granite.

To say that I was horrified at my predicament is to call death an interference in our worldly plans. I would've whistled right away, except for the fact that I had done the very thing I'd be warned not to. I couldn't imagine what he would do to me, but the prospects were one worse than another. So instead of whistling, I lost my head and began to scream, desperately trying to twist or throw myself out of the water. Yet it was no good. I was held fast by the weight of myself, and I could no more move what had become stone than I could flap my arms and fly. The dog watched me on the bank--its pink eyes wide with curiosity and terror--and howled with me as I screamed.

But eventually my voice began to fail, and I began to see how desperate things had become. The water was already lapping at my chest. I realized I would have to whistle or drown, so I pursed my lips and let out a long, low note. Then I waited. It seemed to take an enormous time for him to arrive, and the water slipped up around me, smooth as a new skin, and I held my hands high in the air so as not to wet them and have them turned to stone. But, oh, how they ached hanging there over the dark water! And finally, only my neck, head, and arms lay above the pond's surface.

Just then, I looked up and noticed the giant sitting on the mossy bank next to his dog, patting its head, and scratching it behind the ears. He looked like he'd been there for some time watching me. "I've come to hear your story," he said.

"What? What story?" I gasped.

"The one you wouldn't tell me before," he said calmly.

"Listen, just get me out of here and I'll tell you everything you want to know," I pleaded.

He shook his head. "That's a bad bargain. Why not just tell me first and I'll help."

I could no longer hold up my arms, and I finally let them go with a deep groan. In a moment, I could feel them sink heavily by my sides and freeze. The water was now lapping at my chin. "Listen. How do you expect me to tell you a story now?"

"Well, just tell it quickly," he said. "Otherwise I don't imagine you're going to tell it all."

I saw that he was deadly serious, so I told him as fast as I could. But even in explaining how I had killed and them, even in telling him of how my father had mistreated me, how my mother had watched it without saying a word, I saw that there were things he might not ever really understand, just as still they baffled me. And so, as I spoke, I remembered how even a week before I had killed them, my father had yanked me by the hair into the barn, dragged me into the straw, and threatened to whip me for smart-mouthing him. He lifted his razor strop, but when I stared indifferently at him, he put it down.

He turned and took an axe handle from the dim, dusty corner. "Come here," he said menacingly.

I backed away, but it wasn't much use. He pounced on me and wedged the axe handle between my jaws. In another minute, he pried me open wide enough to slither inside. I felt him slip within me, cleaner than a hand into tight-fitting glove. "Now," he said, both to himself and me, "where should I begin? Perhaps with an apology to my parents?" In spite of my feverish attempts to resist, I felt my own head nod in response--and even worse, even then, as I told this same story to the giant, I felt some shadowy part of him still there inside me.

As I finished speaking, I had to tilt my head skyward so my mouth wouldn't fill with water. Through my one good ear (the other was already stone), I heard him say, "See, I told you that one day you'd beg to tell this story."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach out, grab me by my hair, and yank me out of the water. In a moment, I lay gasping on the bank, touching myself here and there to see what had happened to my body. But somehow, whether it was his doing or not, my body had returned to its normal state, all traces of the stone gone! Then he passed his hand over my eyes to close them, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

******

When I awoke, I felt refreshed. I found myself wrapped in my greasy sheepskin at the foot of the hearth. The giant was awake as soon as I opened my eyes. We washed together, and I quickly prepared him breakfast. After we'd eaten, I expected him to load me in the cart, and take me to the fence, only he didn't, right away.

"So, what sort of boy are you?" he asked.

I licked my lips. "I don't know."

"That's the first honest thing you've told me," he said and nodded with a smile, then clapped me on the shoulder. "You've learned what you came here for. Now the real work begins." He seemed a little sad, but I assumed it was not for me. Then he walked me out to the wagon, the dog moving slowly beside him, and we loaded on the tools and drove out to the fence.

******

That day as I worked, the portion of the fence that I was working upon emerged from the forest, and I saw I was not fifty feet from the giant's fence. I knew that I'd complete my work that day. The sun moved its way along its shiny, blue track, and I split rails as fast as I could. I didn't even stop for lunch, but worked straight on, digging postholes, notching the posts, and laying in the rails. By sunset I had fitted the last rail in place, and I sat down against the post and waited for the giant to come fetch me.

Only he never did. And I began to realize that he would not be coming at all. Eventually, I began to shiver from the chill and the falling dew. I got up and together the dog and I walked home through the blackness of the forest and fields. Of course, he had gone. The cabin was empty of everything that he might need, though there were still most of the tools and the kitchen things. He'd even left the herd of talking pigs, which yelled angrily from their pen to come feed them. "What the hell did you mean by leaving us without any dinner?" the chief pig grunted at me as I slopped his herd down. "Did you want to starve us?"

That night the dog and I saw by the fire, and strange as may seem, I missed him. Or rather, we both missed him. Even the magic stool shuffled slowly about when I moved, as if its heart were heavy with the loss. In the days that followed, as I worked in the fields near the house, I kept expecting him to suddenly come striding up to me, or to tap me on the shoulder, but he never returned.

But I stayed and tended the land and the cabin he'd given me. He left no note, nor any indication of what it was that he was about. Yet after a time I came to understand that if nothing else, that was his way. When winter came that year, I returned to my family farm long enough to have a last look. I considered raising a small wooden shrine to my dead parents, but it would’ve only been an afterthought. The following year when spring arrived, I walked into the nearest village and paid the matchmaker to find me a wife. Later in the season, a small girl of seventeen with blue eyes and bright red hair stood on my doorstep with a priest by her side. And so I was married, and the loneliness I'd known was ended.

So the years passed. My wife gave me two sons, whom I have named and raised as best I could. We have grown prosperous, and our fields have flowered, safe behind the fence that still borders our land. In the evenings, I often go out walking, his dog with me, close to my heels, and I will go a long way along the fences, sometimes even as far as the section of cedar rails that I once built. It puts me to thinking of the past. In fact, it is with me almost always now, as my sons will soon be out of boyhood. I wonder at the giant's terrible kindness to me, and how he saved me by forcing me to say what I barely knew myself. Better that I had drowned than not tell that story. Better that he had let me join my parents in their whatever hell they inhabited than not confess.

When I have walked as far as I can, I turn back and hurry home, the lights of my home sparkling in the distance, calling welcome to me across the fields. It is a beautiful sight, and makes my heart swell with things that I cannot explain. When I come in, I always greet my wife with a show of love that she finds hard to understand, but accepts; then before bed, I like to go in and look at my sons, asleep beneath their heavy blankets, and give them each a silent kiss on their cheeks. Standing over them, I cannot help but wonder where he is. And I ask myself, looking down at their innocent, boyish faces, how soon will their souls cry out for a discipline of ashes? What fences will they need to build in the depths of a dark wood?