When Peach-pit lifted the Rock, the Earth stopped working.
“You done it now,” said Apple-seed pushing one dirty finger into her mouth and moaning so loudly mountains stirred in their sleep. “You done and broke it now.”
Azure skies, shot through with golden threads to keep the stars from falling, dimmed as Peach-pit looked up. The Rock was still heavy in his massive hands and his tongue waggled a loose tooth. “I done did nothing, ‘seed. I just done what I did. I can undone what I done did.”
And he did.
Or tried to as Apple-seed fingered her nose to stem the waterfall of winter she’d come down with. “You won’t plug it like that,” she said, but she might well have been talking to herself about herself because Peach-pit wasn’t listening. Peach-pit was twisting, this way and that; hammering and yammering his Rock in the Earth.
When it didn’t go back, when it didn’t quite fit, Peach-pit began to chisel; tapping and chipping, snapping and clipping. Stones fell as he worked and became huts and houses, tracks and roads, strewn and scattered across the Earth.
“It’s too small now,” said Apple-seed, sneezing into the rubble and filling the fissures with primordial snot. “Needs to be fat to fit. Needs to be fat to fit,” she said, patting her tummy.
Peach-pit looked at the Rock.
Peach-pit looked at the Earth.
“It’s no done good,” he said at last. “It don’t fit like it done any more.”
“You done broke it,” said Apple-seed.
“I done broke it,” said Peach-pit.