A Tale of Giants
Sit and listen, small giants,
for the endtimes have found us,
and I’ve one final story to tell.
Then, the river began to dry up.
Then, the river did dry up, and the valley went with it.
By this time, the mob of small giants who climbed the treacherous hill by the waterfall had small giants of their own, nameless small giants weathering their third cycle of seasons, growing small giants who needed to eat food constantly. So, the grown giants did the only thing they could: they went to the shamanfolk.
The tribe’s shamanfolk, in turn, did the only thing they could: smoked heavily on their concoction of herbs and ordered a rain dance.
That night, rather than enjoying a peaceful evening powwow, the Monks Tribe gathered on the large island between the split flows of the Wanaque River. They all wore special ceremonial garb – bird feathers, ‘coonskins, and the head shaman wore the pelt of a bear. With their hands joined, they began to dance. Massive clouds of dust exploded as their feet beat the dry floor of the valley. The wind whipped and howled. Glimmering stars blinked on and off in the starpool. Denizens of all shapes and sizes heard the giants doing their dance that night; many fled, but more were drawn to the wild dubious rhythm of the giant tribes’ stomping footpace. They danced and danced and danced and the moon rose and rose and rose, then it sank and sank and sank and the great shine rose and rose and rose, but the giants did not stop dancing and dancing and dancing. For many days they kept up their routine, even when the small giants all fainted from exhaustion, even when the grown giants felt the bones in their feet shattering, even when the shamans became delirious and saw the spirits of their ancestors flying around the tribe in a ghastly yellow-green cyclone churning skyward into infinity the Monks Tribe did not cease their rain dance.
Then the last giant fell unconscious to the dirt. When they began to wake, the rain had begun to fall. At first they rejoiced and there was much celebration; the Monks Tribe was saved! The river would flow once more, their crops would resume growth, the fish and the wild game would come back! The giants of the Monksville valley did their dance for the Great Spirit and it saw, and it clapped its hands, and it delivered.
Shinecycles passed and the monsoon didn’t cease. More passed and the storm still did not relent. The floods began and the gardens were ruined. The cabins and huts began to collapse. The rain fell upon the valley in troves, unceasingly and without mercy.
The Monks Tribe convened and held a powwow. The village’s two power players, Black Smith and The Giant, had very differening ideas of how to deal with this mess. Black Smith suggested the tribe should head to the higher grounds of the Minelands and settle there, and a good number of giants rejoiced at the idea. The Giant suggested they head south to the bottom of the waterfall and resettle on the shores of the Wanaque Res’, and significantly less giants seemed on board. So, to remedy this dichotomy of thought and aspirations for the future of their kind, the tribe split in two: three quarters of the Monks Tribe went to the Minelands to settle and called themselves the Tribe of the Forge; the rest took to the south and settled along the long northern stretch of the Wanaque Res’, decidedly keeping their original namesake.
The rain fell for days after the split, then kept falling until it could fall no more and the dark clouds finally left the sky.
The Giant was the first to inspect the aftermath, and he was duly amazed; atop the crag where the Wanaque River once flowed into the Reservoir there was a massive dam, likely built by beavers after the giants had taken cover. As the remainder of the Monks Tribe emerged into the world, The Giant climbed the treacherous climb and nearly fell right back down when he saw what he saw: the valley was gone, filled with water past the brim of the dusty downslope.
A gentle breeze blew The Giant’s hair back as he stood atop the plateau. He fell to his knees with tears in his eyes, tears of joy, tears of gratitude, tears any grown giant will cry when they finally land the massive lakebreather they relentlessly pursued their entire life. Droughts have come and gone in the past, and no giant is a stranger to famine regardless of the grounds they settle on, but those days were now the past. The Monksville Reservoir was born.
This has been the end of the fifth subchapter of the first chapter of The Monksville Chronicles. Here is everything you need to know about it:
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If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~