He made it to the top of the street on tiny, waddling stumps. A moment later they were swallowed up, and with nothing left to steady him, his round form began to roll down the other side—slowly at first, then faster and faster. He became unstoppable, flattening houses and wagons and people as he went, growing larger all the while.

He careened into the harbor, hurtled down a splintering dock, and then splashed into the sea, making a wave so big that all the boats around him swamped. Submerged and drifting, he began to grow faster than ever, his grass and earth and sand and seaweed spreading over the water to form a small island. The transformation was so all-consuming that he did not notice the approach of several of the emperor’s warships. He felt it, though, when they began to fire their cannons into him.

The pain was incredible. His blood made the sea shine golden in the sun. He thought his life was about to end—until he heard a familiar voice.

It was his father, calling his name.

Cocobolo plowed into their midst with a great rumble. The wake he made knocked over the emperor’s warships like they were toys. Zheng felt something link with him beneath the surface of the water, and then his father was pulling him out to sea. Once they were away from danger and all was quiet, his father used bent coconut palms to catapult earth into the holes that had been shot through Zheng.

“Thank you,” Zheng said, his voice a loud rumble that came from he knew not where. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Of course you do,” replied his father.

“You were keeping watch,” said Zheng.

“Yes,” said his father.

“For all these years?”

“Yes,” he said again. “I had a feeling you’d need my help one day.”

“But I was so cruel to you.”

His father was quiet for a moment. Then he said: “You’re my son.”

Zheng’s bleeding had stopped, but now he felt a worse pain: incredible shame. Zheng was well acquainted with shame, but this type was new. He was ashamed by the kindness he’d been shown. He was ashamed at how he’d treated his poor father. But he was ashamed, most of all, of how ashamed he’d been of himself, and of what he’d let that turn him into.

“I’m sorry, Father.” Zheng wept. “I’m so very sorry.”

Even as he cried, Zheng could feel himself growing, his sand and grass and earth creeping outward, his seaweed thickening into a forest of submarine kelp. The coral reef that encircled his father linked itself to the one beginning to form around Zheng, and with a gentle tug, the elder Cocobolo led the younger still farther out to sea.

“There’s a wonderful spot near Madagascar where we can relax in safety,” said the elder. “I believe you need a nice, long nap.”

Zheng let himself be pulled along and, as the days passed, he began to feel something wonderful and entirely new.