At night her love was strong. He made grotesque noises and did not sleep peacefully, but there, as he dreamed, he loved her as he did when he was new. She told him stories and he followed her everywhere. He put himself in her care and was weak. That was how she remembered loving him when she first saw him helpless on the muddy banks. That was how he allowed himself to be loved in his dreams.
He began work on his tower. Day in, day out, until very late in the evening, he dug and pulled water-worn rocks from the stream’s bed, dragged them through the forest, and stacked them to make his tower. He talked to Miranda about his plans. It made Miranda happy to think that Etham was working for her, for them, but at the same time, she felt him moving further away from her. She became weaker. Where once she shone brilliantly even in the daylight, now she flickered dimly even at night. She no longer had the strength to get nuts from across the stream in the morning. She could no longer understand the lessons of the owl or the snake. The mourning dove seemed to speak another language, distant and senseless. She did not even have the strength to fetch a raspberry with honey, and she suffered because she had to search for the warmth in her heart that at one time had overwhelmed her.
Eventually, they no longer explored the forest’s wonders in the evening. Eventually, they were both too tired, Etham from his work and Miranda from waiting. Etham didn’t seem to notice that much had changed. He was now a full-grown ogre, a powerful giant. He was satisfied to eat the rock bread that he made all by himself. He had his work. There was steady progress on the tower, moreso everyday. He had forgotten so much.
A mighty tower of stone that would last for all time! That is what he wanted. That is what he saw in front of him ever in his mind’s eye. That is what he worked for. That is what he willed. A mighty tower: he said it to himself again and again. A mighty tower: he said it each time as though he had never heard the words before. A mighty tower: he said it as though by repetition the sound itself would create his masterpiece: mighty, Mighty, MIGHTY!
The hours and the days became longer. He worked alone. He worked with only one thing in his mind: a mighty tower of stone that would stand taller than the oaks, a mighty tower from which he could look upon the forest from on high, a tower in which he would be king. Miranda slept unnoticed now in the smaller, non-pointy ear of the ogre. She sobbed when she woke and it was still day, because in the day the ogre saw nothing but his work and his unfinished goal.
He pulled rocks from the stream and stacked them high. His muscles grew so strong from labour that he could not think of anything else. He thought only of his strength and his work and his end. He stank like a beast because he sweat in the sun and he never bathed. He loved himself and all that he did. In the evening, he was proud of the work that he had done that day, he ate the rock bread he had made that morning, and he went to sleep thinking about what work was to be done when he awoke.
It was only when the ogre was deeply asleep and far away from himself that he began to dream. Sometimes Miranda heard his true voice then, the one that remembered how to speak with her. It was only when he was far away from himself that he became soft enough to kiss again, soft enough to love and be loved. Miranda herself never wakened. She did not have the strength. She slept and sighed. She smiled a listless smile for the joys she once knew and flickered, a pale grey sadness, that no one, not even the snake was keen enough to see. The ogre became tougher and harder until he refused to dream. Sleep became just time lost from work.