Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ATLAS
There was nothing quite as unpleasantly distinctive as the smell of adolescent boys.
Atlas wrinkled his nose in disgust as he stomped the mud from his boots on the steps outside the kitchen door. “Ms. Fumley has been feeding the intruders again, Phoebe.” He looked down at the white goose that stood at his feet. “She doesn’t seem to understand that it just encourages them.”
The DeJuyant estate had been built at the top of one of the highest mountains in Cygnus, the location chosen precisely because it was nearly impossible to reach unless one knew the secret.
Generations of Atlas’s family had lived there in peace, unbothered by the residents of the sprawling city that lay at the base of the mountain.
It was a peace that Atlas had taken for granted until about a year before, when someone leaked the secret of the Beanstalk—a narrow crevice in the cliffside with thick, hardy vines that clung to the rock.
At well over seven feet tall, Atlas was able to scale the Beanstalk with ease.
He simply braced himself against the cliffs on either side and used his width to his advantage.
For an average-sized person, however, the climb was a much more dangerous endeavor, as it was a forty-foot drop to sharp rocks below if they fell from the summit.
Dangerous, but not impossible, especially with the support of the vines acting as makeshift ropes.
And dangerous, but not impossible, endeavors were apparently incredibly enticing to teenage boys.
When the first self-proclaimed adventurer had shown up a year ago, he had taken one look at Atlas, then turned tail and run.
Atlas had hoped that would be the end of things, but it was only the beginning.
Every few weeks another young man appeared, eager to catch a glimpse of the “giant” that lived at the top of the mountain.
His housekeeper, Ms. Fumley, sometimes took pity on them and fed them before sending them on their way, but her kindness only seemed to exacerbate the issue.
If there was anything more enticing than dangerous, but not impossible, endeavors, it was a dangerous endeavor with the added reward of delicious food at the end.
“This is getting out of hand,” he muttered.
Phoebe let out a honk of agreement.
“If it’s a giant they want to see, maybe we should give it to them, eh, Phee? Maybe they just need a few good scares to keep them at the bottom of the mountain.”
The goose shook out her wings before hopping up the steps and waddling through the open kitchen door.
“Good plan. We’ll just charge right in and catch them by surprise.
” Atlas stomped up the steps and across the wooden floor, purposefully making as much noise as he could.
He contorted his face into an angry scowl and bellowed, “What is that I smell, Ms. Fumley? Another boy you’ve brought to boil for my breakfast tomorrow? ”
He shoved open the door to the small, informal dining room, using enough force to send it banging into the wall.
A tall, gangly, freckle-faced youth at the table stood so fast that his chair clattered to the floor.
His face went white as a sheet, and an unintelligible squeak left his mouth before he turned and ran out of the room, tripping over his own feet as he went.
Atlas waited until he heard the sound of the front door slamming to turn his glare on Ms. Fumley, who stood on the other side of the table. “You need to stop feeding them.”
The housekeeper put her hands on her round hips. She had looked the same for as long as Atlas could remember—gray hair, soft curves, and sharp, bright eyes that didn’t miss a thing. “I’ll feed whom I like. Those poor boys are always hungry after working so hard to climb up the cliffs.”
“They’re coming up here to gawk, and you’re rewarding them.”
“You reward them when you charge in like a raging bull. They’re looking for a thrill, and you’re giving it to them.
Being chased away by a terrifying giant is a much better story to tell their friends than having a warm meal with a boring old lady and a soft-spoken man who spends far too much time alone.
Now, wipe that scowl off your face before it stays that way, and you ruin whatever small chance there is left of you ever finding a wife. ”
“I don’t need a wife.” He dutifully cleared his expression anyway.
“Well, I’m certainly not going to be looking after your house forever.” Ms. Fumley sank slowly into one of the wooden chairs, using the table as support.
Guilt lanced through him. “If you’re looking to retire…”
“Tut, tut, boy.” She waved a hand. “Who said anything about retirement? But the point is that I won’t be around forever, and you’re going to need someone to look after you and make sure you don’t turn into a grouchy old hermit—or more of one, anyway.”
Atlas stepped around the table to pick up the overturned chair. “I’m not grouchy.”
Ms. Fumley dropped her chin and lifted her eyebrows.
“And I’m not a hermit. I have you and Phoebe to keep me company.” He turned the chair sideways and sat down, angling his knees so they didn’t hit the table. At the mention of her name, the goose flapped her wings and jumped onto his lap, settling down with a throaty purr.
“The bird doesn’t count. You need to find someone with fingers, not feathers, which means you need to get off this mountain.”
“Yes, well, unlike the rest of the population, Phee doesn’t stare at me like I’m some sort of freakish display in a traveling circus. Or scream and run when I enter the room.”
Ms. Fumley’s expression softened. “You can’t change their minds by hiding away, Atlas.
They’ll never be able to know you if you never give them a chance.
” She pushed off the table to stand. “I better get back to work before my knees decide to be done for the day. You think about what I said. I want to spend my last years spoiling your children, not herding geese.”
After she left, Atlas sat for another moment, running his oversized hand over the soft feathers on Phoebe’s head. “We already tried that, didn’t we, Phee? There’s no point in going down the Beanstalk; the giant in the sky is always more welcome than the monster in their midst.”
The afternoon sun was hot on his neck and shoulders as Atlas pulled the last bushel of peaches from the hand cart and set it beside the kitchen steps.
The trees had produced more than usual, and despite having spent the entire day harvesting, he still had at least another three or four days to go.
His back already ached from the constant bending.
“I think we’ll save washing these for tomorrow,” he remarked conversationally to Phoebe, who was at his heels as always. “The only thing happening tonight is a hot bath and a book.” He put his hands against his lower back and leaned backwards to stretch the tired muscles.
Phoebe honked in appreciation before wandering to a patch of grass and tearing up bits.
Atlas watched her for a moment with a fond smile before stooping down to pick up the handles of the cart and pull it towards the barn.
As he approached the wooden structure, the air suddenly erupted with the sound of disgruntled squawking from the chickens inside.
Atlas dropped the cart and ran, stopping only long enough to grab a long-handled axe from beside the pile of split logs outside.
“Stay back, Phoebe!”
He kicked the door open, holding the sharp tool firmly with both hands and ready to swing at whatever animal had managed to get inside and disrupt his flock.
“Well, that’s certainly a way to make an entrance.”
The unfamiliar voice stopped him in his tracks, and Atlas blinked several times, certain that he was seeing things.
There was a man in his barn, crawling on his hands and knees as he emerged from underneath one of the roosting poles.
Once he was clear of the chickens, he stood, brushing the straw from his trousers.
Though everyone seemed short to Atlas, the man was probably of average height.
His dark hair was messy, littered with feathers and bits of straw, and he wore a leather vest with more buckles and pockets than could possibly be useful.
A matching satchel was slung over one shoulder, and he adjusted the strap as he looked up at Atlas with a charming grin that probably got him out of a fair share of trouble.
“Do you greet all your visitors by brandishing an axe, or am I just special?”
The question jarred Atlas’s brain back into motion. He twisted his grip on the handle. “You’re not visiting, you’re breaking in.”
The man looked around. “Did I break something? I was trying to be very careful.”
“Get out.”
The unwanted visitor turned his attention back to Atlas. “Before I go, I just have one question, Mister…” His voice trailed off expectantly.
“Atlas,” he growled.
“Atlas,” the man repeated. “My name’s Jax.”
He took a step forward, intending to intimidate Jax, but the intruder held his ground and simply bent his head back farther.
“Look, Lassie—can I call you Lassie? Anyway, I don’t suppose you’ve seen anyone else lurking around here lately? Tall, white hair, evil eyes that gleam, general mayhem in his wake, has a habit of breaking and entering?”
“The only person matching that description is you.”
“Really?” Jax’s eyes widened, and he touched the top of his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen my reflection, but I didn’t realize I would age that quickly.”
“You have five seconds to leave before I start swinging.”
Jax tsked and shook his head disappointedly. “Your hospitality could use a little work, Lassie.”
“Four seconds now.” Atlas slowly, deliberately lifted the axe just a little higher.
Phoebe wandered in, waddling between them with an unbothered, unhurried air that completely ruined the threatening tension of the moment.