The Last of the Gullivers by Carter Crocker Page A

show you,” Charlie whispered. “Anytime.”
    And Michael said, “C’mon, Charlie. Please be quiet.” He wanted to know if Captain James Cook survived the stormy sea.
    As the bruises faded and the cuts healed, the boy didn’t notice the sunlight stretching longer and the air growing warmer around him. He didn’t notice the new weasels being born, and their weasel-parents needing extra food for them.
    The monsters came to the Garden City more and more, on their murderous hunts. They seemed to grow bolder, sensing, somehow, that change was coming. Again and again, the tower bell rang and the Little Ones raced to their secret shelters.
    When the all-clear sounded, their little lives went on. Construction crews returned to work on the Great Hall. They had built the walls and the impossible dome was taking form: wood scaffolds held the masons who lay the herringbone brick that vaulted to its peak.
    Outside Flestrin’s Wall, in a meadow by the cottage, where the clover was ready to bloom, Lem taught Michael to use the old rifle and they practiced on weasel-sized bottles. He showed the boy how to cut back the weeds where the vermin might breed. He passed on every possible trick to keep the Little Ones safe from the dangers of a wide and heartless world.
    On a warm morning in March, a coat of waterproofing beeswax was spread on the roof tiles and the Great Hall was finished. Burra Dryth’s dream was now real and stood twice as tall as any building in the city. Its fresh-cut stone shimmered in the sun as its flowing walls and windows rose to the startling dome. The main chamber was decorated with mural and mosaics and held the locked vault of the Inevitable MaGuffin. There was a celebration that afternoon, with speeches made and essays read by schoolchildren. There was dancing and singing to the ever-same, never-same tune.
    Philament Phlopp had been working for weeks on a new fireworks display. As the night fell, the show began and rockets painted delicate pictures—brief sparkling scenes from the history of their Nation—on the dark still sky.
    Michael leaned close when Burton Topgallant said: “Look at this little monster.” He was holding something, pinched between thumb and forefinger, but Michael couldn’t see anything.
    â€œWhat is it?” the boy asked.
    Topgallant put the thing in a small jar and gave it to Michael. And still the boy could see nothing. “It’s what our scientists call a
flflfl
,” the G.P. explained. “It’s not often you see one.”
    Michael peered into the tiny glass. “I still don’t see one.”
    â€œA
flflfl,
” Topgallant went on, “is a flea that lives on the back of a flea of a flea. They’re really very small.”
    â€œYes,” the boy nodded. “Really.”
    â€œAnd yet, it doesn’t hesitate to bite me. Imagine! It has no sense of its smallness,” Topgallant said as he took back the jar and let the unseen creature go. “Just as it has no sense of my BIGNESS.”
    From across the Garden City, the tower bell began a sudden pealing. A weasel had slipped over the Wall.
    Lemuel came from the cottage and handed Michael the old rifle and said, “You better take care of that.”
    And the boy said, “Why me?”
    This was the day of Vernal Equinox, when the world reaches its own crossroads and seasons change. On this day, light and dark are equal. On this day and no other, it is said, you can balance an egg on its pointy end.
    â€œWhy not you? It’s your time.” The old man started away. “Besides, I have to go now. I can’t say when, or if, I’ll be back.”
    The bell was clanging, louder and faster. More weasels were coming.
    â€œGo where?” the boy asked. “What’re you talking about?”
    â€œI’m going to find her,” Lemuel answered.
    â€œWho, find who?”
    â€œMaya,” said Lem as he headed out of