Will I ever see him again? George thought. The giant had left the beach and was wandering in a daze through the valleys and ravines of the Green Mountain. As he wandered, memories of them together flooded back to him. The stream where they had dabbled, the meadow where they had slept. There would be no more back-rubs with Tim’s horns, no more hunts to find the tastiest grubs in the forest. Gone. He was gone.

He came across a clearing with a big, twisting tree in the middle, and lay down at its roots.

It was the big, twisting tree he and Tim had come to that evening and got into a knotty debate about the Soul of Nature. That evening long ago came back to him now, as if it were happening all over again. That evening… Tim had swiftly leapt up onto a thick branch of the tree, hoping that George would follow him up. George didn’t climb the tree because he was afraid he might break it. So he waited on the ground, as Tim tip-toed along its branches. But Tim stopped when he saw George staying on the ground. Tim hated the differences between them sometimes, and worried they were too different to ever last together. George looked up into his eyes, saw that Tim was afraid, and sang him these words:

When the world is spinning so fast,
And you don’t believe we can last,
Remember me by the roots of the tree.
My heart is steadfast. Wait and see.

At that, Tim leapt down to the ground and they hugged, and the world was serene – but that was the past. George’s mind returned to the present, and his heart returned to sorrow. He looked out over the ocean. Tim was gone, and he was alone.

The other creatures on the mountain hated to see him so miserable, and did their very best to console him.

“My dear giant, have you tried taking up a hobby?” asked the Toucan. “I hear making expressive sand-sculptures can be very therapeutic…”

“Now, now, let it all out George. Don’t stifle your emotions, or they will only come back stronger and surprise you when you least expect it.” advised the Owl. “What about writing some bad poetry?”

“Ahh, so sorry old boy,” said the Sloth. “Why don’t you try and find another fella to shack up with, you know, just for the night?”

“That is a disgraceful suggestion!” bellowed the Badger. “Resist the urges of temptation with unwavering abstinence. Though if you’re inclined to sin George, perhaps you might try it with a female beast? It would be wrong to dismiss it before you’ve given it a fair go.” The Badger’s hypocrisy was in vain.

Alas, the giant was inconsolable. He screamed at the mountain, “Bring him back, bring him back!”

Sometimes, when a voice cries out in pain, the world listens. And on this day, George’s plea was heard by the Soul of Nature, the force that breathes the gentle wind, lives in the roots of trees and gives the bird its flight. The Soul of Nature carried his message across the skies through the floating clouds. As they moved, the clouds began to bulge and twist with the aura of a newborn dragon soaring through the heavens.

***

In a little fishing village some way along the coast from the Green Mountain, three men were going about their daily business of doing very little. They were loitering about the port, watching boats they weren’t sailing, scrutinising fishermen they didn’t approve of, and heckling those that they begrudgingly respected. These three men had once trained as fishermen themselves, though they had soon given it up when, out on the sea, they found out fish did not readily jump into their nets and ask to be eaten. They were widely regarded in the village as low-life of the highest order, a motley crew of fools with big dreams and bigger delusions. Mind you, it was easy to forget that fortune had not been kind to these men. They had not been blessed with upbringings where anyone took very good care of them.  But now that they had found each other, their fortunes were looking up.

First up in the trio was Squiddly Dit. He got very excited about big ideas, but never managed to convert that enthusiasm into actual adventure. His impatience meant he could never play the long game, and spent a long time thinking about what could be (but probably never would).

Next up was Koogy Delbbog. He was not a man of thought, and had a ‘hands on’ approach to life. He was, surprisingly, the emotional rock of the group, and kept the others afloat during personal storms. Sadly, he had never been taught the basics of language, so instead he made suggestive noises.

Finally, there was Jip Japester, their crafty leader. He always had a plan to get them rich quick, but also had a terrible knack for underestimating how long plans took to put into effect. He believed he had descended from the great geniuses of ages past, and that the gods had made some terrible mistake when he had been born in this godforsaken village.

However today was not to be like every other wasted day. The Village Resident’s Association had recently announced their annual bonanza to encourage physical activity amongst the population of fishermen, who were prone to sitting around all day gripping their rods. It was a competition, with the details laid out on a poster stuck proudly to the Association’s notice board in the port:

“Worthy residents, you have one week to catch the rarest creature you can find and bring it to the Village Hall. The winner will receive a fabulous set of hand-cast, bronze cooking pots, with waterproof coating, along with a year’s supply of fishing bait.”

The minds of Jip, Koogy and Squiddly were all on the splendid prize, and filled with some doubt. How would they compete with villagers who could actually fish?  At that very moment, the three miscreants looked up to the sky. The clouds began to bulge and twist with pink and blue light, making a purple dragon that shot out breaths of golden fire.

To Jip, Koogy and Squiddly, three men who were hungry for inspiration and adventure, this was a sign.

“I have a fool-proof plan,” Jip announced with confidence. “Boys, we have a great journey ahead. We will need a boat, and I know just where to find one.”

Written by Henry Hudson
@henrycehudson

Illustrated by Rebecca Hopkinson