“Wow,” Pi stood there with her mouth open. “He’s as big as my mom, and he’s heading straight for the wall we just fixed.”

A deep-throated, “Whack!” echoed across the plain followed by a sound like smashed pottery, only louder.

I clambered up the dirt embankment as I pulled on my remaining boot.

The giant was twice as tall at the stonework he was smashing. Thirty feet if he was an inch. He swung a tree like a club which shed green leaves with every shuddering impact on the wall. He had a shaggy mane of brown hair, was bare-chested, and wore a dirty pink blanket with yellow cat faces tied around his waist. The soiled makeshift kilt wasn’t the best choice for clothing for the giant. Every third or fourh swing it proved to everyone within a quarter-mile that the giant we were dealing with was a male.

“Holy mountain oysters,” breathed Gemma. “I really hope the big guy doesn’t fart.”