He felt those mighty fingers closing more tightly around him again, and then — he couldn’t believe his ears! —the giant began humming the same tune that Roxane sang to the children in the evening. Did giants sing human songs? Whether they did or not, this one was obviously happy with himself and the world, even if the toy with the black face was broken. Perhaps he was thinking about giving the other strange creature that had fallen into his hand so suddenly to his son. Oh no! Fenoglio shuddered. Suppose the giant child pulled him apart the way children sometimes dismember insects?
You fool, he thought, you arrogant old fool! Loredan was right. Delusions of grandeur, that’s your trouble! How could you think there are words to control a giant?
Another stride, and then another.., good-bye forever, Ombra. Presumably he’d never find out now what became of the children. And Mortimer.
Fenoglio closed his eyes. And suddenly he thought he heard his grandchildren’s high, insistent voices: Grandfather, play dead for us. Of course! Nothing easier. How often he’d lain there on his sofa without moving, even when they prodded his stomach and his wrinkled cheeks with their little fingers. Play dead.
Fenoglio uttered a loud groan, made his limbs go limp, and fixed his eyes.
There. The giant stopped and looked at him in dismay. Keep your breathing shallow, Fenoglio told himself. It would be better not to breathe at all, but then your stupid old head would probably burst.
When the giant puffed into his face once again he almost sneezed. But Fenoglio’s grandchildren had puffed in his face, too, although with considerably smaller mouths and breath that didn’t smell quite so strong. Keep still, Fenoglio.
Still.
The mighty face became a mask of disappointment. Another sigh rose from that broad chest. A cautious prod with his forefinger, a few incomprehensible words, and the giant kneeled down. The downward plunge made Fenoglio feel dizzy, but he went on playing dead. The giant looked around for help, as if someone might come fluttering down from the trees to revive his toy. A few snowflakes fell from the gray sky — it was getting colder again — and settled on the giant’s huge arms. They were as green as the moss all around, as gray as the bark of the trees, and then finally white, as the snow began to fall more thickly.
The giant sighed and murmured to himself. Obviously, he really was severely disappointed. Then he put Fenoglio down on the ground as carefully as he had set down the Black Prince, gave him one last experimental prod with his finger — Don’t move, Fenoglio told himself! — and sprinkled a handful of dry oak leaves on his face. They had wood lice in them, and other creatures of the forest floor, most of which had a great many legs, and all of them immediately looked for new hiding places in Fenoglio’s clothes. Keep playing dead, he thought. Didn’t Pippo once put a caterpillar on your face ? And much to his disappointment, you still didn’t move!
And he did not move, not even when something very hairy crawled over his nose. He waited for the footsteps to go away and the ground beneath him to stop vibrating like a drum. Away went the helper he had called. Away he went, leaving Fenoglio alone again with all his other creations. Now what?
All was still. There was only the faintest vibration left in the distance, and Fenoglio pushed the dead leaves off his face and chest and sat up, groaning. His legs felt as if someone had been sitting on them, but they would still carry him. But which way should he go? Follow the giant’s footsteps backward, of course, he thought. After all, they ought to take you straight back to the tree with the nests. You’ll be able to read the tracks easily enough for yourself
There. There was the last footprint. How his ribs hurt! He wondered if one of them was broken. If so, he, too, would have a claim on Roxane’s attentions at last. Not an unpleasant prospect. Although something else awaited him on his return: Signora Loredan’s sharp tongue. She’d certainly have something to say about his experiment with the giant. And then there was the Milksop. . .
Involuntarily, Fenoglio quickened his pace in spite of his aching ribs. Suppose the Milksop had come back and brought them all down from the tree by now: Loredan and the children, Meggie and Minerva, Roxane and all the others? Oh, why hadn’t he simply written that the Milksop and his men were struck down by the plague? That was the trouble with writing, there were such an infinite number of turns the story could take. How were you to know which one was right? Go on, admit it, Fenoglio, he thought, a giant just sounded more magnificent. Quite apart from the fact that the plague would hardly have stayed down at the foot of the tree.