Gulliver in Lilliput

The sea does not care if you are a king, a simple sailor, or a ship's doctor. When it decides to rise, it swallows everything in its path. On a dark, howling November night in the year 1699, a great English merchant ship called the Antelope was driven by a violent storm onto a jagged rock in the middle of the East Indies. The ship split apart like a dry walnut. In the screaming wind and the pitch black spray, the crew was scattered into the churning water. Six of the sailors, including the ship's surgeon, a tall, observant man named Lemuel Gulliver, managed to lower a small rowboat into the surf. They rode with the desperate strength of men who knew the deep ocean was waiting to claim them. But a sudden towering wave caught their tiny craft and flipped it over into the foam. Gulliver never saw his companions again. He swam, gasping for air, pushed forward by the wind and the tide, his boots dragging him down like lead weights. He swam until his arms felt like hollow reeds and his chest burned for want of breath. Just as his strength was about to give out completely, when the cold water was beginning to fill his mouth, his toes scraped against something solid. It was sand. With the last of his energy, Gulliver dragged himself out of the surf, stumbling up a gentle sloping beach. The wind was dying down and the storm was moving away, leaving only the soft, rhythmic sighing of the waves. He walked for a short distance onto a flat grassy meadow, but he could not go a step further. He collapsed onto the soft turf, rolled onto his back, and fell into the deepest, heaviest sleep of his entire life. When Gulliver finally opened his eyes, the sun was shining brightly, warming his face. He felt rested, but when he tried to lift his head to look around, he found he could not budge. He tried to move his left arm, but it was pinned fast to the earth. He tried to lift his right hand, but it was glued to the ground. He tried to turn his head, but his long hair, which he wore down to his shoulders, was pulled tight and fast to the soil. He was lying flat on his back, completely immobilized. Gulliver blinked against the bright light and began to feel his body. Across his arms, his legs, his chest, and his neck, he could feel thousands of incredibly thin, tight bands. It felt as though a giant spider had spun a web over him while he slept, pinning every inch of his body to the earth with tiny invisible pegs. As he lay there in wonder and growing alarm, he felt something alive moving on his left leg. It was light and nimble, advancing gently over his shin, past his knee, and up onto his chest. It walked with tiny, delicate steps, coming closer and closer to his chin. Gulliver strained his eyes, looking downward as far as he could without moving his head. There, standing on his chest, was a human creature. But it was a human creature unlike any Gulliver had ever seen, or even dreamed of in his wildest travels. The little man was not six inches tall. He was perfectly formed with handsome features, wearing a tiny, elegant coat of a strange design. In his hand, he held a bow and an arrow no larger than a sewing needle, and on his back was a tiny quiver. Gulliver was so utterly astonished that he let out a great, roaring shout of surprise. The sound of his voice was like a clap of thunder to the little creature. The tiny man shrieked in terror, turned on his heel and leaped off Gulliver's chest, tumbling into the grass below. Gulliver could hear a sudden frantic rustling all around him, like hundreds of mice scurrying through dry leaves. He could hear tiny high-pitched voices shouting commands in a language he had never heard before. He struggled to free himself. With a mighty heave, he managed to snap the strings that bound his left arm…

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