The Ten-Tower Titans

In a certain part of the world, far to the east, there is a tribe known as the Ten-Tower Titans. They have among them many men of great girth and height; thus, they pridefully declare themselves Titans, to differentiate themselves from their neighbouring tribes. But their village, built with love though it was, has not a single tower within it. They are named the Ten-Tower Titans because of their coming-of-age ceremony, wherein each Titan must destroy ten towers in a single day to be considered a man.

Now, they are Titans, so for the most part this is not too difficult. Perhaps accompanied with a parent or family friend, the young Titans wander out into the world, wreak ruination upon church steeples and watch-towers, and return with cobblestones on their knuckes and grins on their faces. But one boy, named Timothy, was smaller than most of his tribe. Just eight feet tall - far too short to topple towers!

Before his coming-of-age day, Tim had considered his predicament, and created what he thought was a rather cunning solution. From branches and loose stones, he built ten towers himself, of various shapes and sizes - but none larger than three feet tall. He rose at dawn on his thirteenth birthday and led his father and uncle to his carefully concealed stash of towers, which he smashed down with great vigour.

"Well? Am I a man now?" Tim asked timidly.

"Hmm," said his father, Thomas.

"Hmm," said his uncle, Theodore.

"No," they concurred.

"But I smashed ten towers in a day!" Tim complained.

Theodore scratched his chin. Thomas twiddled his thumbs.

"That last one didn't really count," Theodore decided. "You built two towers on one box. Only counts for one."

Tim threw up his arms. "Well, I'll build another, then!" he yelled, and began gathering up sticks.

"No," said Thomas. "I will assign the last tower that you must destroy."

Tim looked at his father in surprise. He had never heard of this before. "What tower must I destroy, father?" he asked. "The watchtower at Threewalls? The bell tower at Eastabbey? The minaret in Moskovch?"

"That one," Thomas said, pointing.

Tim looked up.

And up.

And up.

"The... five-hundred foot Tower of God, father?" he asked incredulously. "Isn't that a little much?"

Thomas pointed.

Sighing, Tim set out.

It was late afternoon by the time Tim arrived, accompanied by Uncle Theodore. He looked at the tower; its firm, concreted-brick walls, its reinforced buttresses. Tim punched a wall, as a test. He winced and sucked on his bleeding knuckles.

After a few failed attempts, Tim got a plan. Working with his belt-knife, he severed a large limb from a nearby tree. Working with the tree-limb, Tim weakened parts of a nearby buttress, managing to wrench a five-foot segment from the bottom. Working with the heavy piece of buttress, Tim systematically demolished the bases of all the other buttresses. Then he improvised a shovel and dug all along the base of the tower proper, digging a three foot deep hole along one side.

The wind whistled fiercely as the sun cast its dying rays on Tim. The Tower of God, deprived of its outer supports, began to sway slowly in the wind. Tim went to the far side of the tower as it began to sway unevenly, tipping toward the excavated side. Tim fell suddenly into shadow as the sun began to slip over the horizon. Shadow slid up the side of the red-lit Tower. Tim was running out of time.

He looked at his Uncle Theodore, standing impassively a hundred feet away, looking back at Tim.

He was too far away to reach the Tower.

The Tower swayed back.

Tim spat the fiercest spit of his life at the tower wall.

Slowly - ever so slowly - the Tower of God, unsupported and undermined, fell to the ground with a thunderous roar.

And Timothy Tieu, Ten-Tower-Toppler, was forever after known as the Man who Spat God Down.

Author's Note: I wrote this story in my head on the seven-minute ride to school to-day. While typing it up for the blog, I realized that this is the second blagopost to involve the children of giants. I wonder if it will become a theme.