With a deep bellow the mountain raises and the Earth shakes. The ground is torn. Large roots and rocks pour from the being’s undercarriage. It moves its head, swiveling it from side to side, its mouth opening and closing, bits of stone chipping off its gnashing teeth, crashing into the forest below as its tongue attempts to work a word. Yellow eyes glow bright in the gloom searching for the one who called.
“Mother!” The twenty-billion-tonne creature bellows.
Mother stands in a small flowered glen in urine soaked garments.
The book worked.
“Come,” she stutters unsure, but her progeny obeys.