Free The Last of the Gullivers by Carter Crocker Page A

Myron. “What about—me?!”
    â€œWhat do you need with a bike? He’s only, what, ten?” Fenn coughed and told them both to go home and have a good Christmas.
    And Michael said, “Thank you.” And, “I’m twelve.”
    He took the new bike on a long wandering course through the village. He flew through the Market Square, past Gadbury’s, past the Bookshop. He rode by the Youth Court and up the hill, where the big houses were. He saw the girl named Jane getting in her father’s car. He waved to her and nearly drove the bike into a tree.
    When she waved back, her father asked, “Who’s that?”
    â€œHis name’s Michael,” she told him.
    â€œWho ran under the car,” Mr. Mallery remembered.
    â€œYes, that’s him.”
    â€œI’ve known kids like him,” her father went on. “They never go anywhere, never change, never grow. One day, he’ll wake up and be forty and right where he is now.”
    After he’d checked in with the Court, Michael rode to Lemuel’s cottage. The streets of Lesser Lilliput, empty under the light snow, had been decorated for the holiday. Everything was strung with garland and light, tiny wreaths on tiny doors, and a three foot tree in the town center, heavy with ornament.
    He found some of them in the parlor of a house, bundling into costumes, Upshard Tiddlin adjusting each one, adding touches to their made-up faces. From the Topgallant house, not far away, came the sounds of a lively party: cider scent and music,
that
music
,
filled the cold air.
    Michael knelt in the snowy street and watched a dozen Little Ones, all in costume, slip through back alleys and gardens, laughing like schoolchildren. They ran the short blocks to the Topgallants’ and pounded the door.
    â€œCome, come,” they called, “let the mummers in!”
    The door was opened to them and they were greeted with food and drink and they began a noisy little play. One of them, dressed as Santa Claus, cried out: “Here I am, good Father Christmas, am I welcome or not? Don’t tell me that Christmas has been forgot!” All the children of Lesser Lilliput swarmed as he tossed hard candy among them.
    There was music, magic, juggling. Frigary Tiddlin tried reciting a holiday poem, but had a fit of giggling and left the room, red-faced. Everyone clapped anyway and Hoggish raised a glass and said:
    â€œA toast to our Host! To the Grand Panjandrum!
Mm, fine cider, Ms. Topgallant. And you made it nice and watery so it wouldn’t run out like last year. Join me, friends. In this time of Peace, Love, and Joy, let’s toast the man who has kept us safe! Well—never mind the awful fire that nearly
KILLED
us all. And, of course, the little incident with those monstrous
CREATURES
from beyond the Wall. We can’t expect too much of him, can we? He is only a man, no better or worse than any of you.”
    There were some coughs, some shuffling and foot-scuffing in the uneasy silence that followed. Then, someone thankfully clattered a bell and called them to dinner and brought the whole awkward thing to an end. But Hoggish didn’t care. It was a first step. He was sowing the seeds of doubt. And in time, those seeds would bear fruit.
    A new fire was stoked and the Lesser Lilliputians feasted on tiny servings of boiled beef and veal, buns, grilled Barnsley lamb, cheeses, dumplings, cake; and they sang a Christmas carol set to their one eternal tune.
    As Michael was leaving that night, he turned to look at the fat moon rising by the chimney, by the old empty nest. “It’s a stork nest,” Lemuel told him. “Maybe the only pair left in the country. They spend their winters in Africa, a thousand miles from here, but they always come home.” And, he added, “A stork on the roof is good luck, you know.”
    â€œYou never told me the rest of the story,” Michael said, “about what happened