Edgar climbed out onto his chest. He stood, staring out at the rising moon, the river on whose water it was reflected, the dark ridge of the distant mountains, and the road that led back to his village, back to Melisande.

He wondered if she had waited for him, or if she had married Martin Plellman after all.

The giant’s clothing was so coarsely woven that the threads were almost like the rungs of a ladder. Now that the giant was lying down, it was only a few hundred feet to the ground.

Edgar took a deep breath of the clean, clear air, and released it with a sigh.

Then he began to climb the giant’s shirt—not down, but up—onto the giant’s chin, where the stubble grew so thick it was like a grove of small pine trees. Across the loose and pendulous lip Edgar climbed.

Then he lowered himself back into the moist cavern of the giant’s mouth, where his home and friends lay waiting.

There’s Nothing Under the Bed

I SUPPOSE I can’t really blame my parents for not believing me when I told them about the weirdness under my bed. After all, adults never believe a kid when he or she talks about that kind of thing. Oh, they’ll believe you’re afraid, of course. But they never believe you’ve actually got a good reason to feel that way. They’ll certainly never believe you if you tell them something horrible is lurking under the bed, waiting to take you away.

But you and I know they should. You and I know that there are terrible things that hide there, waiting to catch you, snatch you, steal you.

At least, I know. Because now I’m one of them.

I’m not sure when I first realized there was something wrong under my bed. I must have been fairly young, because I can remember that one night, when I was about five or six, I rolled a ball under the bed by accident. I heard a popping sound and started to cry because I knew I would never get my ball back from the weird gray nothingness down there.

So clearly I knew about the nothingness by then, and understood that things disappeared into it. But at the time I was upset simply because I had lost my ball. Like a kid who needs glasses but doesn’t know it and just assumes things look fuzzy to everyone else, too, I figured that was just the way the world was.

Besides, everyone loses things in their bedroom—socks, pencils, yo-yos, homework you’re certain you did. It wasn’t until I began staying overnight at friends’ houses and saw the incredible messes under their beds—messes that didn’t disappear—that I realized something was truly wrong at my house.