77 gigantic
four years after the battle of hackham heath
The boy was simply huge, Malcolm thought, wondering how much food it would take to feed him. All that prodigious growing had to have a fuel source, and it would be up to him to provide it. Then he shook his head, reminding himself of the task at hand. One problem at a time.
The boy—he couldn’t have been more than eight—was sitting on the floor of the main cabin (and the only cabin, really: the others were barely frameworks, all unstable supports and sagging roofs), cradling the black-and-white body of a border collie. Time and again, a sob would wrack his gigantic frame, and it seemed as if the world itself was shaking.
The healer tried unsuccessfully to get the boy to drink some water, but he only turned away and hugged the dog harder.
“I’m very sorry, but she won’t come back,” Malcolm said softly, bending down. Red-rimmed eyes met his, but that didn’t alarm the healer quite as much as the blank stare and pallid face. “She won’t come back, but you can.” And I can’t help you if you refuse to be helped, he added silently.
There was no response, so Malcolm tried a different tack. “What was her name?” he offered, holding out the cup of water again.
“Eb’ny.” The boy made no move to take the cup, but he didn’t shy away, either.
Malcolm took that as a good sign. “And what’s yours?”
There was a murmur he couldn’t quite make out. “Come again?” Malcolm asked gently.
“Trobar,” the boy whispered. “M’name’s Trobar.”
