Chapter Eight: In which Sophie Encounters the Stuff of Legends
By Calcifersgrl
Lady Artemis: will the giant turn out to be Howl? . . . I do hope not . . .
= ). But we shall see, won't we? Hehe. That would be telling. And I never tell. . . (Okay, I know. This author's definitely going weird – who quotes from themselves?!? )
Caudex: Thanks, Caudex for the movie info. Sigh, 2004 just seems way too far away. Oh and yes, I am a Tolkien fan as well. I've always liked the title "There and Back Again." I probably should have done a disclaimer or something . . . yikes – I'll do a disclaimer for Chapter Eight then. Last thing, what does Caudex mean?
Angelicarising22: hmm . . . saying anything would give it away. But let me just say that I think not. Howl will be appearing soon, but probably not as soon as I thought. Funny, isn't it?
ChocolateEclar: the Masterman as one of the kidnapped characters . . . hmm. That would be telling, and my lips are sealed!
Lightening Bug: Sufficiently scared by your multiple personalities threat. (Okay, okay – but that's not to say that threats work. They don't, by the way.) LOL. Anyway, go ahead and e-mail me the HMC fic. I would love to read it. Gosh, I love it how everyone's catching on the HMC fanfic fest. Wahoo!!!
And to Everyone Else who has ever read my story: Thank you so much for the Reviews!!! (Hint Hint: I would love to someday break one hundred reviews!)
And on with Chapter Eight
***
"What ingratitude," Sophie muttered. "If only I could do green slime. I would wish it by the bucket load on that – that creature." She pictured the Masterman's laughing face framed by curling olive black hair. The mental portrait automatically shifted; the regal nose upturned and the sincere blue eyes glazed over to a haughty coolness. It was just her luck to have the influx of the giant coincide when the Masterman happened to be going through his versatile personality cycle. "Nice, my foot!" she muttered and snorted derisively. She glowered at the shut door as if to will the Masterman to open it at her command, but she didn't know how to make objects other than inanimate obey her will. Besides, she rather thought she had overdone her magic, or at least had gone about it all wrong. She had a nagging suspicion that she was in dire need of some magical guidance – but it just wasn't the time to doubt her sorceress abilities. There was a giant loose in the halls beyond, and she needed to focus and assess her newfound trouble.
It was still so hard to believe. A giant – like those told to her in the worst and scariest of her childhood fireside stories – actually existed and was going to trollop her any moment. She could almost imagine the ogre-ish features peeping out of the darkness, stretching its misshapen green claws to ensnare its victim . . . . Sophie shuddered and immediately blotted the image out of her mind.
It was dark out, with the promise of torchlight in the faint distance. Sophie shied away from the light – all the easier it would be for the giant to find her out. She could make out the faint lines of moth-eaten tapestries lining the walls, and took a deep whiff of the musty smell that pervaded the hallway. She winced, as a tickling sensation crept up her nose. She held her breath, trying not to give into her impulse to sneeze. The feeling passed, and she resorted to breathing regularly and not too deeply. All in all, she had not come out of the same door she had entered.
She wondered at the absurdity of the castle: the doors that led to different places, the Masterman, and of course, the giant. The changing doors were convenient in her current case; it had transported her to another side of the castle, one, hopefully, far away from the Giant. As of the moment, she couldn't hear the thundering footsteps of the Giant, but she knew of no rule that said a giant was above tiptoeing. He could be scuttling around the moth-eaten hallways, as cautious and as quiet as she was being now. And now for the Masterman . . . . She knew of no person more confusing than him, with the exception of Howl. But even Howl was decipherable. Once she had figured out his faults, he had almost been an open book to her . . . almost. She had underestimated his ability as a wizard. Underestimated his ability to charm any woman . . . regardless of how old she might appear to be.
But the Masterman . . . there was no question that the dark-haired young man was pleasant and physically attractive, but he was also infuriating and lacking in a definite personality. And as for his actions, he had turned her out into the night-infused castle to face an unknown and formidable foe.
Sophie could have smirked as she realized the Masterman's latest trait: he was a coward. "So like a man," she quietly said to herself, "to try to save his own tail first." For the first time, she noticed the similarities between Howl and the Masterman: charming, adorable, noble, vain, cowardly to a fault, etc . . . . The one thing that the Masterman lacked of Howl's traits was Howl's maddening habit of refusing to be pinned down to anything. She dearly hoped she lived long enough to introduce the two of them. She wondered idly how Howl would react to meeting someone just as irresponsible, narcissistic, and cowardly as himself.
She crept across the corridor, past the myriad of decrepit and grotesque statues of gargoyles; her hand steadied herself against the wearied wall, bracing her ascent up the gloomy hall. The torches flickered warningly, dancing their faint beams across the peeling paint on the walls, illuminating the way she had come. The statues were even more deformed than they had appeared in the dimness. The long red carpet that adorned the floor had once been rich and intricate, but it had been ignored for centuries, and now gathered an inch layer of dust. The torchlight glimmered over the cracked mirror that hung on Sophie's right. She grasped the torch's handle, careful not to spill the hot oil on her hand. Despite her care, a thin trickle of the substance sizzled on her flesh. Sophie cursed under her breath, using one of the many words she had learned from Martha.
She shifted the torch to the other hand, and pressed the burned hand against the coolness of the mirror's surface. Despite the mirror distortions, she could make out reddish fair hair, green eyes that did not reflect her apprehension, and a slightly bruised face . . . .
She looked away. The vibrations from the Giant's thundering footsteps shook the mirror slightly. He was getting closer. Sophie calmed herself with the thought that the Giant hadn't the faintest notion that she was even in the castle. He was probably confronting the Masterman with his latest kill and coercing him to tell a story. As Sophie thought this, her anger at the Masterman vanished. He was trying to save his own tail . . . and hers, she amended.
It would not have done for the Giant to find her in his treasury room; there was only one exit, only one way to escape. But, she concluded, it was still extremely spineless of him to rely on her to pave the way for his escape. It made her feel rather exploited, a feeling she was altogether too familiar with and hated.
She had reached a door. On opening it, she heard silence in the impending dark. She hastily snuffed the torchlight and closed the door behind her.
The new room was infused with light. Sophie wondered how she could have mistaken it for darkness. The room stretched for miles upon miles, it seemed; she could not even see where the opposite walls began. There were twenty columns, as thick as a tree, holding up the dome ceiling. On the right, there was a golden throne embossed with precious stones that Sophie thought she had seen somewhere before. It finally dawned on her. The night before she had left the Moving Castle, Sophie had seen the Witch sitting on the golden throne, a silver tiara perched on her improbable hair, reeling Howl in with a chain. Sophie frowned; they had been talking about fish, was it?
A tall shadow fell across the throne, startling Sophie into perceiving the Giant, the stuff of legends, for the first time. Clad in a ragged maroon garment that hung loosely about his large frame, he was twenty-five feet tall, at the least, bearing a ten-foot-long wooden club. Even the handle was thicker than Sophie's head. She shivered. The Giant was not as deformed as the creatures of her childhood had been. He was quite manlike, but was devoid of hints of civilization. His straggly dark hair was matted with blood, encasing a thick-set face smudged with dirt. He had saucer-like eyes that did not blink, and when he did, they narrowed to thin slits.
He grinned suddenly. Sophie shuddered and drew back into the shadow of the column. Her hand groped for the doorknob behind her, but found to her chagrin, that the door didn't even exist anymore. She glanced nervously at the advancing creature. She crossed her fingers and hoped he hadn't seen her.
He grinned again, showing a full mouth of teeth. "Fee Fi Fo Fum!" he roared, crashing forth at a leisurely pace. "I smell the blood of an Englishman! Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread!" He drew out the last words, enunciating them clearly.
Sophie's knees wobbled; he had seen her, to be sure. She pressed herself flat against the marble column, counting slowly to herself. She would run after fifteen counts.
"I smell the blood of an Englishman!" he bellowed again. He grinned again toothily; Sophie's stomach dropped unpleasantly. She assessed the creature that stood tramping and hollering in front of her. The Giant was the epitome of stupidity. Were it not for the massive knuckles that unconsciously clenched and unclenched the hilt of the club, and the terribly enormous teeth, and his altogether largeness in general, she would have regarded him with the utmost scorn. As gargantuan as his fist may be, his brain must have been the size of a pea. She had never had any patience with mammoth, intimidating creatures who stamped their foot and gnashed their teeth trying to intimidate. She didn't bother reserving any for this Giant.
She only had to worry about outrunning him, that was all, she told herself. He has no brain, she reminded herself. He has no brain . . . . What next erupted out of the Giant's mouth surprised her and broke her assumption.
The Giant dropped the traditional Giant habit of rhyming and spoke casually and only a bit off from intelligently, devoid of the nauseating heavy breathing and grunting. "I be getting bored of this game, Pretty Lady. I know you there, so you might as well come out!"
Sophie winced and bit her lip. Five. Six. Seven.
"Women are always so harebrained," said the Giant who advanced slowly. "Your hair like glint off candlelight and blood. Even I, so pea-brained, notice it. Come out, come out! You can't hide from me forever, Pretty Lady."
Sophie dug the sole of her shoes into the marble floor, ready to run at a second's notice. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
The Giant inhaled sharply as if to take in a glorious smell, and started his rhyme again: "Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread." He licked his lips greedily.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sophie took a deep breath, but didn't run. Instead, she came out from behind the pillar. "First of all," she said pointedly. "I'm not English."
The Giant looked suspiciously at her, his saucer-like eyes narrowing to mere slits. "Are you sure?" he asked and scratched the few scraggly hairs on his chin.
"Quite sure," said Sophie fervently. "Secondly, I'm not a man, as you can see. And thirdly, well it's no wonder you're starving . . ."
"Yes," agreed the Giant ferociously and looked at Sophie with a hungry glint in his eyes. "I be very starving."
"Because," Sophie hurried on, "I'll bet that human bones don't make the greatest dough. Rather crunchy and – and tasteless. And you probably don't have any yeast – and without yeast, your bread doesn't rise," she concluded somewhat triumphantly.
"How do you know?" asked the Giant, with a sideways tilt to his head. A drop of saliva dribbled down the corner of one mouth.
"Because," Sophie said, trying to gamble for time, "my sister, Martha, works at Cesari's, a bakery, and that's how they make bread. Yeast and proper dough are the correct ingredients. Bones are – are bad for bread. Yes, very bad for bread," she said adamantly.
The Giant growled and glared purposely at her. "I like bones. I like bread crunchy and tasteless. I like flat bread. But," he paused and looked at her sideways, again. "You not English?"
"No," said Sophie, risking a small smile, hoping to win him to her side. She stood with her back pressed against the column, her fingers crossed for luck.
His eyes crossed and became flat disks again. "Is your name Jack or Jackie, mayhaps?" he asked warily.
"Of course not!" Sophie shook her head and smiled. "My name's Sophie."
"Good," the Giant growled and bared his massive teeth at her. His eyes had resumed their narrow slits. "All the better to eat you with, my dear." He lunged forward.
That's the wrong line, Sophie thought, panicking. He's not supposed to say that! But at least she got her frozen legs to move from the spot they seemed to have been glued to.
The Giant whipped his club from his side and smashed the first column. Splinters flew and dust swirled. Sophie barely dodged out of the way. Being an avid reader of the sciences had never appeared useful until now. She ran at a zigzag, grateful that she had learned that much at school; the Giant was heavier and thus, once his gigantic mass was set in motion, it would be harder for him to change directions.
She cut around a pillar. The Giant stumbled over some fallen stone, and crashed headlong into the column. He shook his wild mane free of the dust and stone bits, and let out an eldritch roar. His dark eyes pulsed with a sort of feverish rage. But as he chased after her, he seemed to be running blindly, only going by the sound of her feet pounding across the marble floor. She swerved in and around the gorgeously intricate pillars, only to have the Giant, who was a mere ten feet behind her, smash into them, though that was not by his design.
The Giant's arm was bleeding freely, having suffered enough confrontations with sturdy stone columns. Still, he pursued her, hobbling on his slightly bloody foot, and clutching one side of his stomach.
That, Sophie thought, is why you shouldn't eat people in the first place. They're indigestible, and cause stomach cramps.
But despite the Giant's apparent side ache, he appeared to be gaining on Sophie. At first, he was a full giant's length behind, but slowly and surely, he came to be merely a hand span away from her. If he stretched his arm forward enough, he could almost touch her shoulder . . . . The saliva ran freely out of the corner of his mouth as he hounded after her.
Delectable, indeed, Sophie thought indignantly. The Giant would be sure to rip her arms and legs off first to insure that escape would be futile. But she wouldn't allow herself to be caught, at least, not if she could help it.
In and out of the stone rubble, Sophie spent her remaining energy on moving her legs. Left, right, left, right. They didn't seem to need the encouragement though. She felt utterly winded, her arms pumped unfeelingly by her side, and she had reached the point where her legs moved entirely by their own will. They were numb; she could feel the coldness stretch up her legs and take hold. On top of that, the setting in front of her had started to blur. She blinked to keep the haze from settling into her vision. It didn't help. Gathering some of her left over energy, she concentrated on shoving the blurriness away from her eyes. She reminded the blurriness that she needed to see, and added that it was most impolite for them to barge over her eyes in a crisis.
Her vision cleared . . . and settled on a door. Fifty feet away from her. She charged forward, feeling the muggy breath of the Giant on her head. Faster, she thought impatiently to her feet. She willed her jellied legs to pump even faster. She flung herself headlong through the door, into the welcome darkness, into another reality . . . into relief.
She was safe.
For the time being.
Somewhere on the other side of the castle, she heard the Giant's wrathful and frustrated howl echo off the resonant walls. He had flung open the door that Sophie had hurtled into, only to be greeted by disappointment and the realization that there would be no "nummy" bones to grind at the moment.
Sophie sagged to the ground in relief, grateful that her heart could stop pounding out of her chest and her muscles could relax. Once jelly, she was now lead. But then her head perked up, and dismay crossed her features. Curly black hair, olive complexion . . . the Masterman – she had to rescue the Masterman! Painfully, she pushed herself off the floor, and began to hobble down the narrow hallway. It was better lighted than the corridor she had traveled up in, and better kept. The floor and walls were made of polished wooden planks. A few tapestries were strung across the walls, all of to which Sophie paid absolutely no attention. She wobbled unsteadily, her legs seeming to fold under her, and fell against the wall.
"I shouldn't do this," she said meaningfully to herself, and then did it anyway. She talked the pain away, like she had done before. It didn't feel right, using her magical ability for selfish and petty needs. And it felt like there was a whole other side to her talent that no one had ever instructed her in. There would be consequences, she knew, but could only hope they wouldn't be too severe.
Cured of her weariness, she continued down the hallway at a reasonable pace.
***
Author's Note: This chapter was very weird – and it doesn't sound right, but oh well . . . . Tell me what you thought of it.
Secondly, are Sophie's eyes green? Or are they grey? I know Howl has green eyes, and Lettie has blue eyes, and does Martha have grey eyes?
Tell me if you know . . . thank you and please do review!!!
1
By Calcifersgrl
Lady Artemis: will the giant turn out to be Howl? . . . I do hope not . . .
= ). But we shall see, won't we? Hehe. That would be telling. And I never tell. . . (Okay, I know. This author's definitely going weird – who quotes from themselves?!? )
Caudex: Thanks, Caudex for the movie info. Sigh, 2004 just seems way too far away. Oh and yes, I am a Tolkien fan as well. I've always liked the title "There and Back Again." I probably should have done a disclaimer or something . . . yikes – I'll do a disclaimer for Chapter Eight then. Last thing, what does Caudex mean?
Angelicarising22: hmm . . . saying anything would give it away. But let me just say that I think not. Howl will be appearing soon, but probably not as soon as I thought. Funny, isn't it?
ChocolateEclar: the Masterman as one of the kidnapped characters . . . hmm. That would be telling, and my lips are sealed!
Lightening Bug: Sufficiently scared by your multiple personalities threat. (Okay, okay – but that's not to say that threats work. They don't, by the way.) LOL. Anyway, go ahead and e-mail me the HMC fic. I would love to read it. Gosh, I love it how everyone's catching on the HMC fanfic fest. Wahoo!!!
And to Everyone Else who has ever read my story: Thank you so much for the Reviews!!! (Hint Hint: I would love to someday break one hundred reviews!)
And on with Chapter Eight
***
"What ingratitude," Sophie muttered. "If only I could do green slime. I would wish it by the bucket load on that – that creature." She pictured the Masterman's laughing face framed by curling olive black hair. The mental portrait automatically shifted; the regal nose upturned and the sincere blue eyes glazed over to a haughty coolness. It was just her luck to have the influx of the giant coincide when the Masterman happened to be going through his versatile personality cycle. "Nice, my foot!" she muttered and snorted derisively. She glowered at the shut door as if to will the Masterman to open it at her command, but she didn't know how to make objects other than inanimate obey her will. Besides, she rather thought she had overdone her magic, or at least had gone about it all wrong. She had a nagging suspicion that she was in dire need of some magical guidance – but it just wasn't the time to doubt her sorceress abilities. There was a giant loose in the halls beyond, and she needed to focus and assess her newfound trouble.
It was still so hard to believe. A giant – like those told to her in the worst and scariest of her childhood fireside stories – actually existed and was going to trollop her any moment. She could almost imagine the ogre-ish features peeping out of the darkness, stretching its misshapen green claws to ensnare its victim . . . . Sophie shuddered and immediately blotted the image out of her mind.
It was dark out, with the promise of torchlight in the faint distance. Sophie shied away from the light – all the easier it would be for the giant to find her out. She could make out the faint lines of moth-eaten tapestries lining the walls, and took a deep whiff of the musty smell that pervaded the hallway. She winced, as a tickling sensation crept up her nose. She held her breath, trying not to give into her impulse to sneeze. The feeling passed, and she resorted to breathing regularly and not too deeply. All in all, she had not come out of the same door she had entered.
She wondered at the absurdity of the castle: the doors that led to different places, the Masterman, and of course, the giant. The changing doors were convenient in her current case; it had transported her to another side of the castle, one, hopefully, far away from the Giant. As of the moment, she couldn't hear the thundering footsteps of the Giant, but she knew of no rule that said a giant was above tiptoeing. He could be scuttling around the moth-eaten hallways, as cautious and as quiet as she was being now. And now for the Masterman . . . . She knew of no person more confusing than him, with the exception of Howl. But even Howl was decipherable. Once she had figured out his faults, he had almost been an open book to her . . . almost. She had underestimated his ability as a wizard. Underestimated his ability to charm any woman . . . regardless of how old she might appear to be.
But the Masterman . . . there was no question that the dark-haired young man was pleasant and physically attractive, but he was also infuriating and lacking in a definite personality. And as for his actions, he had turned her out into the night-infused castle to face an unknown and formidable foe.
Sophie could have smirked as she realized the Masterman's latest trait: he was a coward. "So like a man," she quietly said to herself, "to try to save his own tail first." For the first time, she noticed the similarities between Howl and the Masterman: charming, adorable, noble, vain, cowardly to a fault, etc . . . . The one thing that the Masterman lacked of Howl's traits was Howl's maddening habit of refusing to be pinned down to anything. She dearly hoped she lived long enough to introduce the two of them. She wondered idly how Howl would react to meeting someone just as irresponsible, narcissistic, and cowardly as himself.
She crept across the corridor, past the myriad of decrepit and grotesque statues of gargoyles; her hand steadied herself against the wearied wall, bracing her ascent up the gloomy hall. The torches flickered warningly, dancing their faint beams across the peeling paint on the walls, illuminating the way she had come. The statues were even more deformed than they had appeared in the dimness. The long red carpet that adorned the floor had once been rich and intricate, but it had been ignored for centuries, and now gathered an inch layer of dust. The torchlight glimmered over the cracked mirror that hung on Sophie's right. She grasped the torch's handle, careful not to spill the hot oil on her hand. Despite her care, a thin trickle of the substance sizzled on her flesh. Sophie cursed under her breath, using one of the many words she had learned from Martha.
She shifted the torch to the other hand, and pressed the burned hand against the coolness of the mirror's surface. Despite the mirror distortions, she could make out reddish fair hair, green eyes that did not reflect her apprehension, and a slightly bruised face . . . .
She looked away. The vibrations from the Giant's thundering footsteps shook the mirror slightly. He was getting closer. Sophie calmed herself with the thought that the Giant hadn't the faintest notion that she was even in the castle. He was probably confronting the Masterman with his latest kill and coercing him to tell a story. As Sophie thought this, her anger at the Masterman vanished. He was trying to save his own tail . . . and hers, she amended.
It would not have done for the Giant to find her in his treasury room; there was only one exit, only one way to escape. But, she concluded, it was still extremely spineless of him to rely on her to pave the way for his escape. It made her feel rather exploited, a feeling she was altogether too familiar with and hated.
She had reached a door. On opening it, she heard silence in the impending dark. She hastily snuffed the torchlight and closed the door behind her.
The new room was infused with light. Sophie wondered how she could have mistaken it for darkness. The room stretched for miles upon miles, it seemed; she could not even see where the opposite walls began. There were twenty columns, as thick as a tree, holding up the dome ceiling. On the right, there was a golden throne embossed with precious stones that Sophie thought she had seen somewhere before. It finally dawned on her. The night before she had left the Moving Castle, Sophie had seen the Witch sitting on the golden throne, a silver tiara perched on her improbable hair, reeling Howl in with a chain. Sophie frowned; they had been talking about fish, was it?
A tall shadow fell across the throne, startling Sophie into perceiving the Giant, the stuff of legends, for the first time. Clad in a ragged maroon garment that hung loosely about his large frame, he was twenty-five feet tall, at the least, bearing a ten-foot-long wooden club. Even the handle was thicker than Sophie's head. She shivered. The Giant was not as deformed as the creatures of her childhood had been. He was quite manlike, but was devoid of hints of civilization. His straggly dark hair was matted with blood, encasing a thick-set face smudged with dirt. He had saucer-like eyes that did not blink, and when he did, they narrowed to thin slits.
He grinned suddenly. Sophie shuddered and drew back into the shadow of the column. Her hand groped for the doorknob behind her, but found to her chagrin, that the door didn't even exist anymore. She glanced nervously at the advancing creature. She crossed her fingers and hoped he hadn't seen her.
He grinned again, showing a full mouth of teeth. "Fee Fi Fo Fum!" he roared, crashing forth at a leisurely pace. "I smell the blood of an Englishman! Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread!" He drew out the last words, enunciating them clearly.
Sophie's knees wobbled; he had seen her, to be sure. She pressed herself flat against the marble column, counting slowly to herself. She would run after fifteen counts.
"I smell the blood of an Englishman!" he bellowed again. He grinned again toothily; Sophie's stomach dropped unpleasantly. She assessed the creature that stood tramping and hollering in front of her. The Giant was the epitome of stupidity. Were it not for the massive knuckles that unconsciously clenched and unclenched the hilt of the club, and the terribly enormous teeth, and his altogether largeness in general, she would have regarded him with the utmost scorn. As gargantuan as his fist may be, his brain must have been the size of a pea. She had never had any patience with mammoth, intimidating creatures who stamped their foot and gnashed their teeth trying to intimidate. She didn't bother reserving any for this Giant.
She only had to worry about outrunning him, that was all, she told herself. He has no brain, she reminded herself. He has no brain . . . . What next erupted out of the Giant's mouth surprised her and broke her assumption.
The Giant dropped the traditional Giant habit of rhyming and spoke casually and only a bit off from intelligently, devoid of the nauseating heavy breathing and grunting. "I be getting bored of this game, Pretty Lady. I know you there, so you might as well come out!"
Sophie winced and bit her lip. Five. Six. Seven.
"Women are always so harebrained," said the Giant who advanced slowly. "Your hair like glint off candlelight and blood. Even I, so pea-brained, notice it. Come out, come out! You can't hide from me forever, Pretty Lady."
Sophie dug the sole of her shoes into the marble floor, ready to run at a second's notice. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
The Giant inhaled sharply as if to take in a glorious smell, and started his rhyme again: "Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread." He licked his lips greedily.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sophie took a deep breath, but didn't run. Instead, she came out from behind the pillar. "First of all," she said pointedly. "I'm not English."
The Giant looked suspiciously at her, his saucer-like eyes narrowing to mere slits. "Are you sure?" he asked and scratched the few scraggly hairs on his chin.
"Quite sure," said Sophie fervently. "Secondly, I'm not a man, as you can see. And thirdly, well it's no wonder you're starving . . ."
"Yes," agreed the Giant ferociously and looked at Sophie with a hungry glint in his eyes. "I be very starving."
"Because," Sophie hurried on, "I'll bet that human bones don't make the greatest dough. Rather crunchy and – and tasteless. And you probably don't have any yeast – and without yeast, your bread doesn't rise," she concluded somewhat triumphantly.
"How do you know?" asked the Giant, with a sideways tilt to his head. A drop of saliva dribbled down the corner of one mouth.
"Because," Sophie said, trying to gamble for time, "my sister, Martha, works at Cesari's, a bakery, and that's how they make bread. Yeast and proper dough are the correct ingredients. Bones are – are bad for bread. Yes, very bad for bread," she said adamantly.
The Giant growled and glared purposely at her. "I like bones. I like bread crunchy and tasteless. I like flat bread. But," he paused and looked at her sideways, again. "You not English?"
"No," said Sophie, risking a small smile, hoping to win him to her side. She stood with her back pressed against the column, her fingers crossed for luck.
His eyes crossed and became flat disks again. "Is your name Jack or Jackie, mayhaps?" he asked warily.
"Of course not!" Sophie shook her head and smiled. "My name's Sophie."
"Good," the Giant growled and bared his massive teeth at her. His eyes had resumed their narrow slits. "All the better to eat you with, my dear." He lunged forward.
That's the wrong line, Sophie thought, panicking. He's not supposed to say that! But at least she got her frozen legs to move from the spot they seemed to have been glued to.
The Giant whipped his club from his side and smashed the first column. Splinters flew and dust swirled. Sophie barely dodged out of the way. Being an avid reader of the sciences had never appeared useful until now. She ran at a zigzag, grateful that she had learned that much at school; the Giant was heavier and thus, once his gigantic mass was set in motion, it would be harder for him to change directions.
She cut around a pillar. The Giant stumbled over some fallen stone, and crashed headlong into the column. He shook his wild mane free of the dust and stone bits, and let out an eldritch roar. His dark eyes pulsed with a sort of feverish rage. But as he chased after her, he seemed to be running blindly, only going by the sound of her feet pounding across the marble floor. She swerved in and around the gorgeously intricate pillars, only to have the Giant, who was a mere ten feet behind her, smash into them, though that was not by his design.
The Giant's arm was bleeding freely, having suffered enough confrontations with sturdy stone columns. Still, he pursued her, hobbling on his slightly bloody foot, and clutching one side of his stomach.
That, Sophie thought, is why you shouldn't eat people in the first place. They're indigestible, and cause stomach cramps.
But despite the Giant's apparent side ache, he appeared to be gaining on Sophie. At first, he was a full giant's length behind, but slowly and surely, he came to be merely a hand span away from her. If he stretched his arm forward enough, he could almost touch her shoulder . . . . The saliva ran freely out of the corner of his mouth as he hounded after her.
Delectable, indeed, Sophie thought indignantly. The Giant would be sure to rip her arms and legs off first to insure that escape would be futile. But she wouldn't allow herself to be caught, at least, not if she could help it.
In and out of the stone rubble, Sophie spent her remaining energy on moving her legs. Left, right, left, right. They didn't seem to need the encouragement though. She felt utterly winded, her arms pumped unfeelingly by her side, and she had reached the point where her legs moved entirely by their own will. They were numb; she could feel the coldness stretch up her legs and take hold. On top of that, the setting in front of her had started to blur. She blinked to keep the haze from settling into her vision. It didn't help. Gathering some of her left over energy, she concentrated on shoving the blurriness away from her eyes. She reminded the blurriness that she needed to see, and added that it was most impolite for them to barge over her eyes in a crisis.
Her vision cleared . . . and settled on a door. Fifty feet away from her. She charged forward, feeling the muggy breath of the Giant on her head. Faster, she thought impatiently to her feet. She willed her jellied legs to pump even faster. She flung herself headlong through the door, into the welcome darkness, into another reality . . . into relief.
She was safe.
For the time being.
Somewhere on the other side of the castle, she heard the Giant's wrathful and frustrated howl echo off the resonant walls. He had flung open the door that Sophie had hurtled into, only to be greeted by disappointment and the realization that there would be no "nummy" bones to grind at the moment.
Sophie sagged to the ground in relief, grateful that her heart could stop pounding out of her chest and her muscles could relax. Once jelly, she was now lead. But then her head perked up, and dismay crossed her features. Curly black hair, olive complexion . . . the Masterman – she had to rescue the Masterman! Painfully, she pushed herself off the floor, and began to hobble down the narrow hallway. It was better lighted than the corridor she had traveled up in, and better kept. The floor and walls were made of polished wooden planks. A few tapestries were strung across the walls, all of to which Sophie paid absolutely no attention. She wobbled unsteadily, her legs seeming to fold under her, and fell against the wall.
"I shouldn't do this," she said meaningfully to herself, and then did it anyway. She talked the pain away, like she had done before. It didn't feel right, using her magical ability for selfish and petty needs. And it felt like there was a whole other side to her talent that no one had ever instructed her in. There would be consequences, she knew, but could only hope they wouldn't be too severe.
Cured of her weariness, she continued down the hallway at a reasonable pace.
***
Author's Note: This chapter was very weird – and it doesn't sound right, but oh well . . . . Tell me what you thought of it.
Secondly, are Sophie's eyes green? Or are they grey? I know Howl has green eyes, and Lettie has blue eyes, and does Martha have grey eyes?
Tell me if you know . . . thank you and please do review!!!
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