Tiny Summer Kingdoms

Red bleeds into blue. Blue drenches white. White drips, drips, drips to the stone below.

The world is angry, hot, a dog’s breath welcomed in waves. The sun seeks to restore a golden brown over the land, and I yearn to be free from her urgent undertaking. But I control myself. The shade is cool. The insects buzz. The birds chirp.

And I watch my icicle drip, drip, drip.

Below, the splashes of sugar gather a crowd. Ants. Beautiful little ants, with sapphire blue bodies, and a single golden crown upon their heads. I know it is just a dot, but to ants it could be their royalty, come out from baked halls of dirt and stone, to gather my sugary gift for their Sapphire Majesty.

As I wait, and sweat, and smile; the ants work hard. They gather balls of liquid to steal away, perhaps unaware my gift is given freely. The ants arrive in a great blue wave, their gold crowns shining, their many feet fast on burning stone.

I would make them a carpet if I could, but alas, I know not how.

In apology I lay down the teat in full, the icicle melting its mass to be taken to underground manors.

Black tidings. A shiver races down my spine. The clouds above so white and full do not properly warn the ants below to the danger. For on the horizon, over by the lawn chair, the invaders have come. I stand tall the benevolent god that I am and form the bulwark between by chosen ants and those who would strip, plunder, and destroy.

They arrive a black tide, chanting death, with eyes burning for my sugared blessing. They know the heat beats upon us giants, driving us indoors, making us mad and slow. They know me too. They know that I alone do not relent.

I think fast. I dash inside. Arriving out none too soon with a straw hat, a sun-blocked nose, and a tiny bottle of sticky honey, I find the battle has begun. The front lines are vicious, far darker a scene of blood and gore my young mind has never seen.

I set to work making things right. The road the invaders has built is long and winding. Their six stamping feet apiece pull together to form a requiem of sorrow for those they must destroy. I know they mean no true harm, no true ill. It is simply a sign of these hot times. Of what must be done when the baking heat has scorched everything under the proud gold sun.

With drizzling honey, I cleave their path. Their reinforcing recruits find drizzled gold instead, and suddenly their thoughts of conquest fade. Who needs a molten icy treat when they have the sun’s own gold in their hands? But their warriors fight on, and I cannot help.

I have tried before, the benevolent god that I am. But even my child’s hands are far too large, and my patience far too small to see even a single crowned queen safe from harm. Instead I take drastic measures. I built up my breath, like a god of storms and wind, like Zeus himself, and blow the battlefield clean.

Their soldiers, their wounded, their hopes, and their dreams are dashed across stone and into grass.

The defenders rally, their blue shells forming a wall, their golden crowns high. The invaders flee, seeking their brethren, finding gold. I am a god of two worlds now. Two dynasties of proud ants. The crowned sapphire blue, and the smouldering, warlike, black.

If only these had been my only ants to tend to. I snatch up what remains of the molten icicle, shake free her ants, and bring the frosted treat north. Into the garden I venture, through jungle thick grass, and into the shady trees hiding hidden monkeys. I find The Rock. Babylon by any other name. A tower to the enlightened so tall it comes up to my knee.

I heave at her gates, pushing, straining, seeking an audience with her people.

The Rock resists. As always, she is shy, uncertain, with a fickle memory that never remembered my coming and going. Her sentries peek their gleaming eyes from her towers, their copper armour shining. A hidden army, they descend in a gallant charge, intent in halting the giant invader.

But they are the smallest of ants. Little pinprick things, whose kingdom stands only due to their cleverness, and not at all to their stature. On top of being small, they are few. No legion of black. No sparkling shield wall of golden crowns. They are fractures, despondent, and weak. They are my favourite.

I am very careful not to hurt them as I push; I would never want to do that. Not to this child kingdom, filled with ants fairy tall, but brave as wolves, and fierce as lions. However, I push a little less as the show starts. Greedy thing I am. This task could have been finished now, tried and true tester of The Rock’s defences as I was. But what kind of little boy would I be if I hadn’t the time to see the Knights’ gallant charge?

They arrive upon the walls as titans of war. The Paladins Supreme. The Heroes of The Rock. They stand five times the height of a soldier, and I imagine their lofty challenges to a duel as they descend with careful grace. Unlike their pinprick brethren, the Knights had jaws made for fighting and heads thick as shields. They are graceful, and they have stopped no end of forested enemies at The Rock’s many gates.

Before they can make glorious battle with my fingers, I heave The Rock tall.

She gives in with a struggle, rending the earth beneath her, and baring the rich soil of Under to me.

Under squirms with workers, and businessmen, and nurseries. It is the grandest city in my realm, deep, and rich, and well acquainted with a great god’s curiosity. They have built shrines to my coming and sing the songs of my arrival. For even if their defenders zealously defend against my touch, these tiny copper glints never forget what comes next.

I place the last of my icicle in a gap free of their homes. I drizzle some golden sun on top. I watch as they swarm, so excited, as if a party. They are a kind, shy, and happy little people. They are my favourite. I let The Rock down gently, and retreat so they can feast without fear.

About the sun beat’s hot against my head. My titan's legs swerve and fumble. It is a bit too hot for divine intervention today, perhaps tomorrow, when it is cooler, I will return. Until then I hope each of my chosen people are happy for their blessings.

I look up one last time, to where the golden sun hums loud and scorches the sky. I hope somewhere up there is a being who sees me as I see my ant kingdoms. A kind being. One who would take great care, the same as I do with The Rock, and blows only gently to stop the bad things when they come.

Inside I am an eight years old lord of nothing. Outside I am the Friendly Titan, the God of Blessings, the Ender of Wars, and Guardian of The Rock. But even god’s need their rest, and my weary eyes have watched my people so intently they fall numbly close as I plop into bed.

It is warm here, and sticky, and gross. But my heart is full to bursting with the joy of my people. My dreams are as sweet as the nectar I bestowed.