One king’s fall gives reign to another.
Two beings float cold from The Dome.
The Giant falls back and wipes the watery vomit from his lips. He takes a deep breath, and then another, holding his eyes tightly shut against the fetid reality around him. The waters will be soiled, ruined forever; the rot will be taken by the current of the stream channel and cascaded down the waterfall into the Wanaque Reservoir, it will seep into the soil and travel far and wide until the entire planet at large succumbs to the toxins. All the giants, whether of the Monks Tribe or the Tribe of the Forge, all the giants in the area drink from this Reservoir, rear crops from this soil; their livelihood is ruined. They’ll have to move again, they’ll have to pack up the villages… and all their many structures. They’ll have to build a new fleet of carriages, tame another herd of whitetails. They’ll have to close the mines and dig the forges out of the ground, and…
“We can’t leave… it’s too late. Our roots are ingrained in Monksville’s soil. The endtimes have found us, there’s no way to escape.”
The Giant takes to the sole of his boat for a good short while and toys with his mind, tries to fool himself into believing there may be another way, a way to survive this apocalypse. The shamanfolk claimed the flying squirrel was a sign from the Great Spirit of good things to come… they’ll soon learn how wrong they were. The Giant must return to them, he must warn his tribesfolk, he must… he must prevent the inevitable, he must fight the will of the Great Spirit. He must sprout wings and fly. No… there is only one thing The Giant must do now, one thing he’s ever had to do.
The Giant must catch his fabled muskellunge, before it’s forever too late.
Gripping his oars with a desperate determination, The Giant spins his watercraft around and takes the longpole in his right hand. He casts the line, lured with the mighty spoonplug, the only one of its kind, and drops the hooked thing into the water above the riverbed. Then, once the pole is securely fastened to the mount at the tail of his boat, The Giant takes his oars and begins to row. He rows his boat like he’s never rowed before, like he’ll never row again, outpacing death, racing against time, dragging the grand spoonplug behind him.
This has been the fifteenth subchapter of the last chapter of The Monksville Chronicles. Here is everything you need to know about it:
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page. Here’s that.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~