Strong

I saw him once uproot a tree with his bare hands.
It was in the late summer and he was on the Brokenhood helping with chopping wood. It was before he went on his journey, before everything. He said he liked the tiring, dreary work; liked the getaway. Of course he would be coming home to the Neverhood in two weeks, but in the meantime he was with us and we admired him.
I couldn't help but be fascinated by how strong he was.
The tree was a dozen-year-old pine, the kind where the root is deep and holds fast. It had grown in the back of the garden, and mother had been talking for years about getting rid of it before it overshadowed everything around it. The root posed a problem. We could cut the pine down, but as long as the root stayed in the rich soil, the tree would grow again and again. Father promised on and off that he would build a robot for digging, but he never got around to it.
Nike sized the tree up, crouched at the base and hugged it close. He paid no mind to the pointy needles, and as I watched, he tensed his entire body and pulled the tree from the ground. It was like watching Ceola pull grown carrots out of the vegetable patch. The root sputtered out of the earth, leaving a deep puncture in the ground. Nike threw it to the ground, wiping sweat from his forehead, and grinning at me victoriously. I felt a pang of excitement – and of fear.
I can't bear the thought of having that solid strength on top of me. He could break me in his hands like a dry twig. Crack, crack. Easy as that.
But… then again. For someone so insanely strong, he is so easy to pin down.


     

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