A House for the Last Giant

How it begins

The giant brought his own doorstep. He carried it under one arm, wrapped in a blanket, and set it outside Clara Bell's workshop with the care another person might give a sleeping cat. It was wider than her cart.

'I was told you make houses,' he said.

'I make doors, mostly.'

'Everyone does.' He looked down the village street. Every door along it had closed. 'That may be the difficulty.'

Clara put away her plane. The stranger's boots were patched with sailcloth. Moss grew in the seams of his coat, but someone had brushed it neatly. On his shoulder sat a wren, inspecting the village with open disapproval.

'How large a house?' she asked.

'Not very. A room for sleeping. A room for making soup. Somewhere I can stand without apologizing.'

She fetched her longest measuring tape. It reached his knee. The wren gave a small dry chirp.

'Emil Rowan,' the giant said, as though this explained the rest.

Clara knew the name. Everyone knew it. Emil of the broken bridge. Emil who had held the river back during the flood. The schoolhouse mural showed him roaring at the mountains, all fists and teeth. In person he had carefully mended cuffs and seemed worried about crushing her cabbages.

'You saved this valley.'

'Three valleys,' he said. 'But I only need one address.'

She looked beyond him to the old quarry, where the village had always stored things it could not use and could not bear to throw away. It would be easy to build there. Nobody would complain about the view. Nobody would need to change their road or move a fence.

Emil followed her gaze. His face became politely empty.

'No,' Clara said, surprising them both. 'We should start by finding out where you want your window.'

The giant sat down on his doorstep. The village street shook once, very gently.

'I've never been asked that before.'