Giants and Ogres Read Free Page A

kind of hunger that drives you to do desperate things.
    When I was young, I lived for a time in the house owned by one of my uncles. When he died, though, the family dispersed, and I was again on my own.
    For a time, I turned to begging, though my pride rebelled fiercely. There were many others like me, doing the same thing. One day a group of the other beggars, fearful of competition, chased me outside the villagegates, threatening injury or worse if I dared return.
    So I went to the mountains, thinking that if I must die of starvation, I would at least die surrounded by beauty. I wandered for a time, sleeping in leaf-filled hollows, until I came upon a cave just off one of the paths. I made it my home. That summer I lived on berries and in the fall I gathered nuts. I was neither hungrier nor less hungry than in the village, but the surroundings were far more pleasant. The towering heights, the tall trees, and the breathtaking hurl of the waterfalls provided a backdrop of savage beauty. Yet the mountain had a dangerous side, because of the steep cliffs, the narrow paths, and the chasms that fell away into echoless depths that defied imagination.
    People from all over the world came to walk the paths of the mountain I lived on, to witness for themselves this terrible beauty. When times became lean and the icy lash of the winter winds turned the land white, a thought came to me—there might be money to be made from these travellers. I was not proud of the thought, but I was again hungry, and it is said in our land that hunger is the mother of desperation.
    I stole back to the small village at the base of the mountain and pilfered what I needed from the rubbishheaps. Working with frozen fingers despite the small fire in my cave, I cobbled together a mask. I set my handiwork against the wall and studied it in the barely adequate light thrown out by the flickering flames. The main part of the mask showed grey, sickly skin. There were sharp, pointed teeth in a large mouth, and the mask was crowned by two blue horns sprouting from the top. I nodded in approval. It would scare me. I was certain it would scare others.
    Tingling with anticipation the following morning, I waited for the first travellers to pass, for still they came despite the weather, drawn to the mountains in all seasons. Eventually, I heard voices along the path. I leaped out, wearing my mask and uttering a fearsome and desperate howl. My threatening visage frightened the two elderly hikers so much that they emptied their pockets and give me all their money, in exchange for letting them pass without harm. After they went on their way, I allowed myself a dance of joy. My plan had worked!
    And so stealing became my job. I was good at it. Between times, I took off my mask and walked to the village to buy food. It was a living, and it was better than begging.
    All of that changed when Hisao came.
    Hisao’s speech was smooth, though when I think of it now I think I should have noticed something artificial about that smoothness. He claimed to be a spirit sent by the mountain. He spun a tale of how the mountain resented having so many visitors who no longer cared about beauty but left trash and failed to respect the wildlife. He said the mountain would be obliged if I continued my activities, and he promised that if I remitted any items of value to him, he would bring me food and drink. I welcomed this offer, for in truth it had become more and more difficult for me to make the journey to the village, and I would often lose a whole day of work doing it. Besides, I was lousy at bargaining and sensed that I often paid much more than was necessary for the goods I purchased. So I agreed, and the thought that I would be serving the mountain took some of the shame from what I was doing and lent me purpose.
    Something seemed to harden in me after Hisao’s departure. How far that process had gone, I did not know until I went to take my mask off one night—and was