Chapter 6

Vera spent that night in the village, or rather just outside its walls. She feared she might roll over the little houses and their occupants if she tossed and turned in her sleep. The ground was rough and the air was chilly. As she shivered uncomfortably, Vera longed for less revealing clothing or at least a blanket. She drifted off to sleep thinking of her bedspread back home covering the Southlands like tarpaulin.

The next morning, she made her way through the countryside of South Piconorea. Lord Fallowmark (who had spent the night in the village jail, much to his protests) was perched upon her shoulder and tied once again to her hair. Priestess Regan occupied a similar position on the other shoulder, navigating their course. Vera had to keep the two little people separate for they were still bickering and ready for a fight. Only the massive barrier formed by her neck kept the duo from killing each other.

Vera had followed the tiny dirt road for a time but found that she was once again destroying the path with her enormous footprints. The deep depressions left by her heels and toes were making the roadway unusable for carts and wagons. She had encountered a few such vehicles on her journey and most had either veered off the road to avoid being stepped on or successfully avoided her feet only to get their wheels caught in the ditch-like footprints she left behind. Merely walking through this land, Vera was creating quite a traffic pile-up and a number of accidents.

Mortified, she stepped off the path and helped free any wagons that were sidelined by the ditches. As she scooped up the little wagons and wains, she chuckled at a childhood memory of old computer games. “Your wagon has been wrecked by a giantess” was certainly never an obstacle in The Oregon Trail.

Once the vehicles were removed, Vera tried to smooth over the ruined road as best she could with the sole of her foot. She then took to walking in the tall grass rather than causing further damage to the public roads.

Behind her, the people of the village were scurrying to keep up with her vastly long strides. Many had chosen to accompany her on her journey to the capital, considering it a holy pilgrimage. As she passed other towns and settlements, tiny citizens emerged from their homes to get a look at the “goddess” in their midst. They flocked to her crowd of followers, swelling their ranks. Vera glanced back at the mass of miniature creatures in her wake. She was beginning to feel like the Pied Piper.

The young woman was suddenly aware of the view she was giving her minuscule acolytes. She thought of hundreds of tiny eyes peering up at her mountainous backside as it swiveled and flexed above their heads. Vera blushed and tried to concentrate on the path ahead.

“Could be worse,” she thought. “At least I’m not wearing a thong.”

As she traveled further south, she chatted casually with Regan. The miniature priestess seemed quite fascinated by the theological implications of Vera’s “sacred race.”

“And you say there are whole cities of gigantic celestials such as yourself?” the little woman asked as she sat comfortably on the wide, smooth shoulder.

“Yeah,” Vera explained. “Where I come from, everyone is this size. I’m nothing special, really. I hate to break it to you.”

“Nonsense, Honored One! All emissaries of the Goddess are to be valued and cherished. For you dwell in the Silver Cities beyond the Circles of Piconorea. You live in Her holy presence!”

“Uh, right,” said Vera nervously. She wasn’t sure how—or if—she could break it to the priestess that her “goddess” was likely just an ordinary woman of the ancient past. All evidence pointed to She-Who-Is-All being just a castaway like herself.

“Hmmph. Silver Cities. Of all the idiotic, delusional twaddle,” Fallowmark muttered from the other shoulder. Only Vera’s over-size ear could hear him but she shot the little man a dirty look just in case.

“What did I tell you about playing nice?”

“Oh dear, forgive me, ‘noble goddess,’” Fallowmark mocked sarcastically, making an elaborate flourish with his arm. “Oooh, are you going to smite me?”

Vera pursed her lips and blew a quick breath onto him. The sharp jet of air sent Fallowmark careening off her shoulder. Still tied to a strand of hair, he dangled upside down, bobbling slightly against the side of her arm. Fallowmark shrieked as he found himself suspended above a two hundred foot drop.

“You clumsy oaf! Are you trying to get me killed?!”

“Don’t tempt me,” Vera said. “You’re working on my last nerve. Now, where were we, Regan?”

Fallowmark felt the blood rushing to his head and watched as his helmet plummeted to the distant ground. “Wait! You can’t just leave me here!”

Vera grabbed the strand of hair and pulled it around in front of her. She allowed Fallowmark to dangle just above the yawning chasm of her cleavage like a pendant on the end of a necklace.

“Would you rather be sent back into the Canyon of Doom?” she asked him, lowering the strand further.

“No! Anything but that!”

Vera pulled him back up and returned him to her shoulder. “Then shut up.”

“Honored Vera,” continued Regan, “tell me more of this ‘God’ that you mentioned earlier. Such a concept is foreign to our scriptures. Does the Goddess have a male consort in the World Beyond?”

“Not exactly,” Vera said. “Where I come from, some of the, uh, celestials follow a different deity. Three of our biggest religions are centered on a male being that they call God or Allah or other variations.”

“Three different faiths with one deity?” Regan repeated. “Fascinating. They must get along splendidly!”

“Well…not all of them,” Vera had to admit. “Sometimes they argue or debate or distrust each other. In really extreme cases, there’s even conflict and terrorism and wars.”

“Wars!” said Regan incredulously. “Over religion? How foolish! You know, that could all be averted if they just followed the true faith. Ours, I mean.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Vera told her. “You can see the dilemma.”

“Well, I hope this God you speak of at least values women as highly as our Goddess does,” Regan replied. “We are, after all, cast in the Holy One’s image.”

“Um, well…” Vera said. “In some religions back home, women can’t be members of the clergy.” Regan gasped in shock. “Religious groups also tend to get up in arms about things like abortion and birth control and…well, I guess you wouldn’t really know what that is.” Regan was staring at her quizzically. “Hmm. I probably shouldn’t even go into the whole ‘Original Sin’ debate…”

“How very backward,” Regan chided. “As you know, our Goddess values women as the makers and nurturers of new life. We are prized for our heightened intelligence and compassion. Women are the cornerstones of society here in the Southlands.”

Vera was starting to wonder if these primitive little people were as primitive as they seemed. This Goddess cult didn’t seem half bad…minus the attempted sacrifices and suicides and whatnot. That had been pretty bad actually.

At last Vera approached the capital of the South and stood outside its defensive walls. Her followers gathered at the city gates, begging the guards for entrance. Vera of course would not fit through the gates. She doubted they were wide enough for her shoulders or hips. As in the North, she would have to simply step over the wall.

Though the tremors in the earth had likely alerted the people to her presence, there hadn’t been time to properly warn them or empty the streets. She would have to be very careful.

“Um, pardon me,” she called across the knee-high wall. “I’m about to enter your city. Please clear a path for your safety. Thanks. Er, have a nice day.”

Heart pounding, Vera stepped over the wall. Sure enough, the people cleared the streets and left a wide open path for the giantess. They stood lined up in the sidewalks on either side of the main road, looking up at her expectantly. Vera was quite startled at the efficiency and speed of this maneuver.

“We have been preparing for the Goddess’s return for many centuries,” Regan explained. “There have been procedures and plans in place for this blessed day. When the scouts brought word of your arrival, the people of the capital ran numerous drills in anticipation.”

“Well, that was thoughtful of them,” said Vera. “Should I, uh, tell them I’m not the Goddess though?”

“Best not to shatter their illusions just yet,” Regan answered. “I will call the congregation together later and explain your emissary status.”

“Emissary status,” Vera repeated uneasily. “Right.”

She turned and looked at Fallowmark, peering down her nose at him. “Are you going to mind your manners while we’re here?”

“Manners? Are you mad? This is further south than any man of the North has ever been,” he said excitedly. “The perfect opportunity to learn the enemy’s secrets and assess their strengths and weaknesses!”

“Honored Vera, this Northron spy has already seen too much!” Regan exclaimed. “Are you sure you will not change your mind about a sacrifice?”

“Sorry, kiddo, not going to happen,” insisted Vera. She looked at the haughty, satisfied expression on Fallowmark’s face (she had to squint a bit to see it but the intolerable air of smugness was unmistakable).

“Just be nice when we meet the queen, Ozzy.”

“Queen? Ha!” he scoffed. “I do not recognize the sovereignty of the South! What do I care for some tribal princess squatting in her hovel among savages?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say,” Vera sighed. She turned to Regan. “I suppose we can’t have him saying rude things to Queen Elfwina, can we?”

“No indeed, my lady.”

Vera untangled Fallowmark from her hair as the little man fought and protested.

“Oh relax,” she said. “I won’t send you back to the canyon. Tell you what, let’s find another place for you.”

With her other hand, she tugged open a cup of her bikini top and dropped him in. The tiny commander landed on a canopy of dark material in a huff. Looming over him was the huge, fleshy mass of a gigantic breast, its colossal nipple almost as large as his body. He was about to scream obscenities up at her when Vera released her grip and let the bikini snap back into place. Fallowmark was now pressed tightly against the wall of her breast, his arms and legs splayed out at his sides. He wriggled and squirmed about until Vera flicked him through the black fabric with her finger. The little lump in her top held still at last.

“Ugh, I wish I had pockets in this outfit,” she lamented. “Fallowmark’s been to second base twice now and I don’t even like the guy.”

As Vera walked down the wide processional way at the center of the city, the tiny crowd cheered. They tossed garlands of flowers into her path, which were of course completely obliterated under her vast feet. The road cracked and splintered under her weight; a pity for it had seemed so well kept up. The people stumbled as the earth shook with each of the giantess’s mighty steps. In the distance, Vera could hear the ringing of church bells and a chorus of voices singing hymns to the Goddess.

At the end of the processional road was the queen’s palace. Its design was far different from the stark, practical fortress of Chancellor Brogan in the North. Queen Elfwina’s citadel was more elaborate and exotic in design. Its walls were shining white and its towers were topped with rounded domes and minarets like a miniature Taj Mahal. Marble tiles on the walls formed mosaics depicting scenes of the Goddess towering over tiny cities or holding minuscule men in the palm of her hand. Vera was unnerved by one that seemed to show condemned criminals being fed to the Goddess as a sacrifice. They were marching to their doom across a wooden platform not unlike the one she had sat below hours earlier. Below them, the head of the Goddess was shown in profile with her jaws open wide.

Just as Brogan had done, Queen Elfwina stepped out to greet Vera on a balcony. The queen was a heavy-set woman of considerable girth (as Piconoreans go). To Vera, this meant only that the lady was as big as one of her larger toes, rather than her pinky toe. Elfwina had short auburn hair that was gradually fading to gray. She was clad in a long purple robe with white fur trim. A golden crown topped with green jewels was on her head and she fairly sparkled from the many necklaces, medallions, and rings which she wore.

As she reached the end of the balcony, the queen bowed low before the giantess. “Great Goddess, we welcome you to South! If You will it, I shall abdicate and return rule to Your most holy personage, as it was in days of yore!”

She removed her crown and, dropping to one knee, offered it to Vera with head bowed. Vera knew this was only a ceremonial gesture. Even so, she tried not to giggle at the infinitesimal crown. It wouldn’t even fit on her littlest finger, let alone her head.

“Please get up, your majesty,” she said. “There’s no need for that. I have no wish to rule here. And, as your High Priestess will tell you, I’m not actually a goddess.”

Elfwina looked up in shock, rising once again to her feet. Vera knelt before the palace so that her shoulder was closer to the balcony. Once she was in range, Regan called out to the bewildered monarch.

“It’s true, my queen. Honored Vera is but an emissary of She-Who-Is-All. The Goddess has not yet come again.”

“I…I see,” Elfwina remarked. Mingled disappointment and relief filled her face. Though she had been prepared for this day since childhood, it was clear that the queen was not yet ready to give up command of her country.

“Nonetheless, this is an auspicious day,” the queen continued. “A holy messenger walks among us and the Old Tales come true! The Goddess’s Throne has been prepared for your arrival, my gracious lady.”

“Look, this is all really nice of you,” Vera told her, “but I don’t want your throne either. I’d probably squash it with this big butt of mine.”

“You misunderstand,” said Elfwina. “The Goddess’s Throne was built in days of old for She-Who-Is-All. If your Holy Mistress will allow it, we offer it to you. Come, lend me thy hand. The Throne is just beyond the palace.”

* * * *

As Elfwina directed her, Vera made her way around the palace to a wide expanse of gardens and fields. At the center of this area was a large marble throne built to Vera’s scale. The woman stared at it in astonishment. This was the first normal-sized object she had seen in several days. It must have taken years, maybe even decades, for the little people to construct such a thing.

The throne was covered with a layer of tiny cushions that had been sewn together by hours of embroidery and craft. There had to be several hundred of them. A tiny staircase was built into each side of the throne, leading up to the long armrests. There was also a tall wooden crane device that could lift objects up to the throne’s occupant via a pulley system. Vera goggled in amazement at the South Piconoreans’ ingenuity. There were a few cobwebs here and there that had to be cleared away but for the most part, the Southerners seemed quite prepared to entertain someone of her size.

“Please be seated, my lady,” Elfwina implored. “We will attend to your every need.”

Before long, Vera was being pampered more than she ever had been at a spa or on the ill-fated cruise that brought her to Piconorea. On each armrest, tiny people were painting her fingernails with brushes and paint-rollers. This was quite a task for she’d been growing her nails out and some were almost as tall as the little folk were. Far below, Piconoreans were gathered at her feet, attending to the same task on her toenails. Most had been forced to climb up onto her massive feet and straddle each toe to get an unobstructed path. Mischievously, she wiggled her toes now and then, causing them to cling tighter like cowboys at a rodeo.

Elsewhere about her body, servants were scrubbing her skin with minute sponges, washing off a layer of sea salt and accumulated grime from her travels around the island. Some were gathered on her shoulders, washing the smooth skin below them, as well as the huge trunk of her neck. Some were sitting on her collarbone as comfortably as if it were a bench. A few daring souls had descended further and were perched precariously on the shelf of her breasts. They were on hands and knees, scrubbing away at this colossal outcropping of flesh and steering clear of the treacherous chasm at its center.

On Vera’s lap, servants were sliding in soap suds across the planes of her thighs. This area had been lathered up so much it could have doubled as a skating rink for the little people. A few of them crested her knees and slid down her shins like skiers, leaving a trail of soapy water. Yet another detail of servants had propped up ladders in her lap to scrub the wide wall of her belly. They were armed with push-mops that could have been used on an elephant. The last regiment of attendants was clustered atop Vera’s head, lowering a tiny washerwoman on a rope to give Vera’s face a good scrubbing.

Having so many small creatures on her was an odd sensation at first. Vera had to resist the instinct to squirm and fling them away as if she were covered with ants. Once she adjusted, however, she began to find it soothing. Their presence was ticklish but the little servants were quite skilled. As the teeny sponges scrubbed away, it began to feel like a full body massage.

“Ahhh…” she sighed contentedly. “Now this is the life!”

She had no sooner said this when she was reminded of how vulnerable these little beings were. The simple act of sighing sent their world into an upheaval. The dangling washerwoman was thrown forward by the force of her breath and came swinging back to collide with a smack into Vera’s lips. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in sent several tiny people staggering. A few had tumbled headfirst into the valley of her cleavage, from which their compatriots were trying to retrieve them. Even the people near her stomach had been upended when a shift in her diaphragm toppled their ladders and sent them falling back onto her legs.

“Whoops,” Vera said, a sentiment she had expressed numerous times already. She peeled the washerwoman off her upper lip and returned her to the top of her head. Carefully, she slipped her fingers down her décolletage to rescue the men from their spelunking adventure. She pulled them out and gathered up the others from her chest. Vera parted her breasts and peered down into the gap.

“Everyone accounted for?” she called. “We’d better get you guys some lifelines before you’re swallowed up in here.”

Once the scrubbing was complete, Vera allowed the servants to disembark. She offered a cupped hand to anyone who required assistance getting down from the peaks of her towering form. As soon as everyone was back at ground level, she was asked to turn over so that they could wash her back.

This proved an awkward arrangement. Vera could not simply sit on the throne and be pampered when flipped around. Instead, she knelt upon it and gripped the backrest, balancing herself.

“You know, I could just find a lake and wash myself the conventional way,” she said as she hunched forward uncomfortably.

“Nonsense, Honored One,” a servant insisted. “It is our pleasure to bathe you. You should not have to exert any extra effort.”

The little people scurried up the staircases and scaled her arms dexterously. On the ground below, other servants were holding a wide blanket, spread like a canopy. One by one, the cleaning crew pushed off Vera’s shoulders and slid down her back, leaving a soapy trail. Like luge riders, they hurtled down her spine, tickling all the way, and plummeted off her tailbone. Their friends caught them in the blanket as firefighters would catch a victim leaping from a high window.

Another crew had departed the stairwell on the seat of the throne. Cautiously, they gathered below Vera’s gigantic, looming form. The servants split up, scrubbing the backs of her legs and climbing up onto the soles of her overturned feet to wash these as well. The bottoms of her feet were the dirtiest by far, as Vera had been walking barefoot through the streets and country roads of Piconorea. In time, these were washed clean and small pebbles and debris were plucked from between her toes.

The bravest among the servants climbed to the back of Vera’s heels and reached up to take hold of her bikini bottoms. They scaled the black fabric and clung to the edges, rubbing their sponges over each gargantuan cheek of her backside.

“Whoa!” Vera cried as she felt this. “What are you guys doing down there?”

“Merely being thorough, my lady.”

As soon as she was sufficiently clean, Vera was allowed to sit down upon the Throne once more. Below her, a small army of waiters was loading vast amounts of food and drink onto the pulley platforms. These were hoisted up for Vera’s perusal and enjoyment. She sipped from a metal tankard that was as large as a Piconorean cottage. She wondered if they had forged this or if it was a relic left over from the arrival of a past castaway. Whatever the case, Vera accepted it gladly. The mixture of fruit juices and alcohol within tasted a bit like a mimosa.

Vera once again found herself gobbling up large piles of fruits, veggies, and pastries, as well as entire cows and other barnyard animals that had been roasted on spits. Most of the servants had now departed. The only little people nearby were a handful of waiters that ascended the stairs with pitchers to refill her tankard. One of them carried a ladder and placed it against the side of the mug. His allies climbed up periodically and stood on the rim, pouring more “mimosa” into the huge cup.

They were so silent and efficient that, in time, Vera forgot they were there. On one occasion, she lifted the tankard before the whole crew had a chance to climb back down. One of the waiters was thrown off balance and slipped off the rim, landing in the drink with a splash. Vera raised the mug and continued to sip. As the metal chamber was upended, the waiter found himself being swept towards the huge crimson gates of Vera’s lips. He collided with these fleshy masses and held onto the upper lip for dear life as his legs and lower body were pulled inside.

Vera felt something hit her lips and quickly pulled the tankard away. The tiny waiter was still caught between her lips with only his upper body visible.

Vera mentally scolded herself. “You’d think I’d learn by now,” she thought. Still, if these little folk were going to constantly end up in her mouth, she figured she might as well have fun with it. Vera pursed her lips and sucked inward, slurping the man the rest of the way in.

“Excuse me, maître d?” she mumbled, calling down to the departing servants on the armrest. Each word sent the hapless waiter tumbling about on her tongue. “There seems to be a man in my drink.”

Vera leaned her head down near the other waiters and opened her mouth wide. The little men were astonished to see their coworker sprawled upon the giantess’s enormous tongue. Vera extended her tongue until it touched down on the armrest. She let the man roll down it to freedom. He landed in a wet heap and tried to shake himself back to his senses.

“I hope he wasn’t an added ingredient for flavor,” Vera said.

“Er, no, my lady,” the head waiter answered. He quickly did a head count of his staff, making sure no one else was missing.

“Good,” Vera told him with a smile. “Otherwise, before you know it, everyone will be wanting one!”

To be continued...