The school day always felt long, even when we learned interesting things. Today, though, was special. As soon as I burst through the workshop door, my satchel thumping against my back, I had something important to tell Papa. He was hunched over his workbench, his brow furrowed as he tinkered with a tiny, whirring gadget. Rocky, Papa’s old stone golem, stood silently beside him, sweeping stray metal shavings into a neat pile.
“Papa! Papa!” I called out, dropping my bag with a thud.
Papa looked up, his usual serious expression softening a little when he saw me. “Lyra, my little spark. How was your day?”
“Amazing!” I exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Guess what we learned in Master Elara’s history class?”
Papa smiled, a real, crinkly-eyed smile. “Tell me, my bright star.”
“We learned about Obelus!” I said, puffing out my chest like I’d discovered a great secret. “Master Elara said that a long, long time ago, Obelus wasn’t just built on the ground like other cities. She said… she said it was built on a giant, like Rocky!”
Papa’s eyebrows went up, and he leaned back against his workbench, a thoughtful look on his face. “On a giant, like Rocky, you say? That’s quite a story.” He chuckled softly, and even Rocky, who was still sweeping, paused for a moment, his stone head tilted ever so slightly in my direction, as if listening.
“Is it true, Papa? Really? A giant held up our whole city?” I pestered, my excitement bubbling over. “Was he a friendly giant? Was he very, very strong?” I imagined a huge, mossy creature with kind eyes, its shoulders broad and sturdy beneath our bustling city.
Papa’s smile lingered for a moment longer as he looked at me, a warmth in his gaze. “Well, it’s certainly a captivating tale, Lyra-bug. One that has been passed down through generations.” He stood up and came over to me, placing a hand on my head. “Imagine the view from up there, wouldn’t it? To see the whole world spread out beneath you, carried so gently…” He looked over at Rocky, a nostalgic expression on his face.
But then, as if a switch had flipped, the warmth in Papa’s eyes seemed to recede, replaced by that familiar, focused glint. He straightened up, his posture becoming more rigid. “But, my dear Lyra,” he said, his voice taking on that precise, scientific tone he used with his colleagues, “while such stories are wonderful for inspiring the imagination, we must always remember the importance of facts. Science, real observation and understanding, that is what guides us to the truth.”
He gestured around the workshop, to his tools and his intricate creations. “Obelus is a marvel of engineering, of magical innovation, of carefully balanced structures and precisely placed enchantments. While the idea of a giant holding us up like Rocky… is… a nice thought, the reality is far more complex, far more fascinating in its own way.” He gave me a quick, almost absentminded hug.
“Remember that, Lyra. Stories are lovely, but facts are the foundation upon which true understanding is built.” He turned back to his workbench, the familiar furrow returning to his brow, leaving me a little deflated, the image of the friendly giant slowly fading behind the solid, scientific reality of my father’s world. Rocky, however, continued to sweep, his movements slow and steady, as if pondering the tale of the giant long after Papa had dismissed it.
Papa went back to his intricate work, the whirring of tiny gears filling the workshop again. I watched him for a moment, the image of the giant from Master Elara’s story still vivid in my mind. It was a much nicer thought than all the complicated explanations Papa always gave.
I wandered over to Rocky, who was still sweeping near the corner. “Do you think it’s true, Rocky?” I whispered up at his big, still face. He didn’t answer, of course, but he did pause his sweeping for a moment, his stone gaze seeming to drift towards the high window, just like it had when Papa mentioned the view from a giant’s shoulders.
Life in our workshop settled back into its usual rhythm. Papa tinkered, I did my lessons, and Rocky quietly went about his tasks. But the story of the giant stayed with me, a little seed of wonder planted in my mind.
I started noticing things more, the way our house sometimes creaked in the night, the slight slant of the floor in my bedroom that made my toys roll in funny directions. I even overheard Mama talking to Mrs. Gable downstairs, mentioning that the cracks in the old bakery wall seemed to be getting a little wider. The grown-ups still used words like “settling,” but there was a new, almost worried tone in their voices now.
Papa, though, seemed more focused than ever on his work. He was building a new kind of lens, one that he said could see the very fabric of magic. He’d spend hours peering through it, muttering about aetheric currents and dimensional rifts.
And, as always, he’d talk to Rocky. “See how the light bends through this crystal, old friend? It’s almost like the world is made of invisible threads, all vibrating in different ways.” Rocky would stand nearby, his presence a constant in the workshop.
Then I started noticing little things about Rocky that were… different. He’d sometimes stop his work and just look at things, really look, like he was trying to understand them.
Once, a fat bumblebee buzzed into the workshop, bumping clumsily against the windowpane. Rocky, who had been carrying a heavy box of metal scraps, carefully set it down and then very slowly extended a finger towards the bee. He didn’t try to touch it, just held his finger still until the bee buzzed away.
Papa, who had been engrossed in his lens, looked up and watched the whole thing. He didn’t say anything, but he looked thoughtful, a little crease forming between his eyebrows.
Papa’s “experiments” with Rocky continued. He’d show Rocky different objects – a flower, a cog, a piece of polished wood – and ask him what they were. Rocky never spoke, of course, but he’d sometimes point to a similar object in the workshop or make a small, grinding sound with his stone limbs that Papa seemed to interpret.
“Yes, that’s right, Rocky, that’s metal,” he’d say, nodding slowly, like he was confirming a complex equation.
The feeling of things being slightly off in Obelus grew stronger. The low hum under my feet seemed more persistent, and Mama started looking even more tired. I heard her and Papa talking late one night, their voices hushed. Mama mentioned something about the foundations of the Grand Library and how some of the oldest scrolls had to be moved because of… shifts.
Rocky, my silent, steady friend, started to slow down. He wouldn’t always respond when Papa asked him to do something, and his movements seemed stiff and heavy. Papa would check his gears and runes, his scientific mind searching for a logical explanation.
“Just a bit of wear and tear, old fellow,” he’d say, but there was a worried edge to his voice. One afternoon, I was drawing a picture of a sky-sailor, and I accidentally dropped my favorite blue crayon.
Before I could reach for it, Rocky, moving slower than usual, bent down and picked it up, placing it carefully back in my hand. His touch was cold and rough, but the gesture… it felt kind.
Then came the day Papa sat in front of Rocky, his hand pressed against the golem’s chest. The workshop air shimmered with that faint, golden light. Papa’s eyes were wide, like he’d glimpsed a secret hidden in plain sight. He stayed like that for a long time, his face full of a strange mix of wonder and sadness.
Slowly, Rocky’s head tilted, the way he always did when Papa spoke to him. But his stone eyes remained still. The golden light faded. Rocky was quiet, so very quiet. Papa stayed there, his hand on Rocky’s chest, a deep sadness in his eyes.
It made me think back to what Master Elara said about Obelus being built on a giant, like Rocky. And then I understood. Papa always said science was facts, but maybe, just maybe, Rocky had been his own kind of giant, always there for him, strong and silent. And now that his giant was resting, Papa looked like he was carrying a much heavier load all by himself.
