Bigger Than Life

Chapter 6: Needly Greens

You watched wordlessly as he heaved himself off of his bed, and stumbled past the stove and tools, straight back out the door. You didn't know where he was going, but now was as good a time as any to find an escape route, should you need one in the future.

There was an open window behind you, with no glass or shutters. You figured it was because there wasn't quite enough sand and heat around for him to forge panes of glass, but in reality, it didn't matter much to you. You picked yourself up from your sitting position, and climbed up the cutting board so that you could peer out the enormous window.

Trees. Trees and mountains, for as far as the eye could see. Right below the window, there was a sill that extended slightly past the window frame. If need be, you could press yourself against the outer wall to hide from sight.
It was a very steep fall, however. It wouldn't be safe for you to jump from here.

As you pondered your options, a familiar sound filtered into the room. Like a thousand seams bursting and cracking at once. From your firefighting experience, you knew that Paul was felling trees just outside. A great deal of them, too.

But why? There were already logs beneath his stove. Surely he couldn't need more firewood so soon. Toothpicks maybe? Chopsticks? Probably not. But you really had no way of knowing.

The cabin door swung inwards, and he stomped in with a fistful of small, skinny pine trees, and a large axe dragging along the ground behind him.
That thing frightened you. Both as a nature enthusiast, and a tiny human being. The amount of destruction an axe like that could cause to both the ecosystem and humans like yourself wasn't something you cared to think about. So you didn't.

Paul set the tree trunks down on the table in front of you, and did a double-take once he realized how close you were to the open window.
"Hey, careful, Y/N!" He exclaimed, his voice cracking on the second word, "A draft comes through that window, I don't want you to fall out and get hurt. Or worse!"

Cute.
That is, until his hand came grabbing towards you. You tried to dodge it, but failed, and cursed yourself silently for sitting out all those days in high school gym class.

Like before, he was careful not to graze your arm, with his surprisingly soft hand cradling you like one of those curvy wicker chairs. You knew struggling wouldn't get you anywhere, and did little more than keep yourself upright as he tucked you into a shirt pocket over his heart.
"There's this little thing called communication," you called to him, "You should try it sometime!"

He let out the tiniest gasp that was even possible for someone his size.
"Oh, sorry! I should be asking first, right? I'm sorry, I'm so clumsy..."

"I'm over it," you replied, "But I got a question for you!"

"Oh, what's up?" Paul said, as he bent down over the stove.
You held on tight to the fabric of his shirt, in the fear you might fall out and go splat on the stovetop. He pulled out a very large, very deep iron pot.

"What's on the menu?" you asked him, still gripping the fabric tightly as he carried the pot outside, "What do you even eat?"

"Oh! Uh..."
He seemed mildly uncomfortable with the question, like he thought you had ulterior motives for asking him about his diet. Which is understandable, of course, he has feelings too—but you couldn't shake the anxiety over this guy's intentions.

"I'm a vegetarian!" He replied, his tone sounding somewhat forced, "Don't worry! My momma used to tell me people would be less scared of me if I only ate plants..."
He trailed off with a bit of sourness, and it was then you realized you could hear his heartbeat. It was loud, but muffled enough that you needed to focus to hear it. The beats were a bit fast. He was nervous.

Your comfortable pocket hammock shifted as you felt him kneel down, and again you heard the flow of water. You peeked out over the seam of the fabric, and saw him filling up the pot with water from the same lake you saw him bathing in. The Sun was getting a bit low. It'd be dark out soon, again.

How unsanitary. It's a miracle he's not died of an infection yet.

You had to agree. It wasn't the cleanest habit to drink and eat with the water you clean yourself in.

Once it was filled, though, you noticed him start brushing his fingers through the water.
"What are you doing that for?" You inquired, attempting to see his face past his beard.

"I'm taking the fish out, or at least I'm taking out as many as I can... there's always a few swimming around. I rather not boil water with anyone in it, I know I wouldn't like to be boiled in my own house, that's for sure."

"Probably good thinking," You told him. He seemed extremely dedicated to this diet of his, at least the 'no meat' part. You still wondered, though, about the specifics.
"What do you need the water for, then? What are you going to boil? You don't have any giant vegetables, do you?"

He stood back up once he was satisfied with his work, and held the pot in one arm while he used his other hand to wipe his brow.
"Oh! That's what those trees I picked are for. I boil them so they get nice and soft and then I peel the bark and eat em' like that."

You couldn't imagine a life of eating just hot soggy wood. Good on him, though, it must not be easy. You doubted he could actually enjoy the taste of that.
"Does it taste good?" You asked, "Or do you wish you had better food?"

He rested his hand over his shirt pocket so you didn't bounce around too much as he stomped back up the hill.
"I mean, it's good enough for me. Some trees are sweeter than others, I can usually smell the difference."

Quite the sniffer he has, yes? I guess the fairytales are true. He can probably smell your blood. I bet it smells better than boiled woodchips.

You ignored the nay-saying voice, at least as best that you could.

When he got back into the cabin, he placed the pot over the firewood and set you down on the pillow on his bed. It was a bit rough, and by the sound it made when you sat down, you assumed it was full of dried grass. He grabbed the trees off of his table, and then sat down beside you, making the ends of the mattress lift up. Knowing his own weight, he held the pillow in place so you didn't tumble down towards him.
"Is this all you ever eat? Doesn't it get old and bland?" You asked, watching his hands as he used flint to create sparks for the fire.

"Pshh, nah," He said, "It doesn't bother me. I'd rather eat this stuff than anything I'd need to kill. Yuck."
Once he successfully lighted the firewood, he placed the flint under his bed, and rested his weight back on his hands.
"Don't worry though," Paul said, turning his gaze to you, "That's not the only thing I ever eat. Sometimes, on special occasions, I'll mix some flour I made together with milk and fry it. It's a weird sort of flat, soft bread, but it's good with tree sap."

Wait a minute.
"You mean pancakes?"

"What are pancakes? That sounds really good!" He said, smiling, his buck teeth resting on his lower lip.

"I think those things you make could be considered pancakes. We have those for breakfast where I'm from," You explained, "But you use milk? Where do you get the milk from?"

He sat up quickly enough to throw you off balance on the pillow.
"OH!!! I get it from my cow!! Her name is Babe, I can't believe I forgot to introduce you guys!"

Again, he sounded so familiar. Paul Bunyan, a giant, who eats pancakes and has a pet cow named Babe.
But you just couldn't put your finger on why! It was so frustrating!

Oh, I almost pity you. I never realized how well that ignorance worked. Maybe I'll explain it to you later, hmm? Would you like that?

As much as you hated that voice, it seemed to know more than you did.

It might be worth putting up with, just so you can have the extra support in the future.