In her dreams she hears that shrill anthem cutting through the night like a spear through fat and hide—
She wakes up with it echoing in her ears, passing down in forlorn verses to the tip of her curious tail, ‘AHHHHHHOoooo—’. It quaves at its end, rising to such disquiet that it could be mistaken for the discordant chatter of a banshee fête.
It is something she cannot mimic, really, with her horse’s mouth – those flat, grinding teeth and the wild, fearful brain.
(It is like losing a language.)
In her dreams, she is chasing!
She is pursuing. She is scenting things in the air – fur and meat; sweat and musk – that, in the waking world, never give her pause. Taboo things.
Horse. Prey. Thing of flight that grazes under wide, open skies.
(It is like feeling a phantom in her own skin. A splinter with whom she shares a blood supply.)
She watches mother dig a small hole under a thick, pink-flowered bush. She lays in it, flattening herself into the cool, damp soil.
The heat is oppressive, but she loves her waterlocked country. She loves the dark folded rock against the violent brightness of hibiscus clusters; she loves the pale, sandy beaches that separate the island from the mainland, and the swim across that channel.
When they are getting ready for bed, mother tells them of the two gods:
Of the Mother, whose made of everything and more – of earth and seeds and branches and hibiscus flowers – and she guides nature with her hands. Nature, and the nature of things.
Of the Trickster. Canid spirit, alive on a breeze that says, ‘AHHHHHHOoooo—’. Made of clay and paint and fur, whose laughter breaths rivers into gullies and mischievousness into little girls like them.
Mothers eyes are closed, but her ears are always awake. “Be safe,” she says, when Mauve turns to leave her in her shaded place.
“Always,” she replies, in a tone that says it cannot promise anything. Mother knows her grasp is tenuous and growing weaker by the second. Her girl has always been willful. They were always impish and feral-hearted, Gardenia and Mauve. Now they are parting from her for the second time. First from her body. Now in the independent spirit that crawls across their skin and tickles the adventurous bones in their limbs.
She runs. She runs past purple-skinned ferns and large, fire-wrought boulders. She examines jewel-toned beetles carrying twigs to unknown locations, deep to the heart of a hollow, rotty log.
She follows these things – whimsy that take iron-footholds in her imagination and curiosity – away from the roiling heart of the island to the long, slim band of sand and volcanic rock that means the end is nigh. She stops, her hooves sinking a bit as she settles into the earth, sweat lathering her neck like the foam that spits up from the ocean's tongue as it licks out to the shore and pulls a meal of sand back into its mouth.
@[magnus]? @[Canaan]? whoever.
She wakes up with it echoing in her ears, passing down in forlorn verses to the tip of her curious tail, ‘AHHHHHHOoooo—’. It quaves at its end, rising to such disquiet that it could be mistaken for the discordant chatter of a banshee fête.
It is something she cannot mimic, really, with her horse’s mouth – those flat, grinding teeth and the wild, fearful brain.
(It is like losing a language.)
In her dreams, she is chasing!
She is pursuing. She is scenting things in the air – fur and meat; sweat and musk – that, in the waking world, never give her pause. Taboo things.
Horse. Prey. Thing of flight that grazes under wide, open skies.
(It is like feeling a phantom in her own skin. A splinter with whom she shares a blood supply.)
She watches mother dig a small hole under a thick, pink-flowered bush. She lays in it, flattening herself into the cool, damp soil.
The heat is oppressive, but she loves her waterlocked country. She loves the dark folded rock against the violent brightness of hibiscus clusters; she loves the pale, sandy beaches that separate the island from the mainland, and the swim across that channel.
When they are getting ready for bed, mother tells them of the two gods:
Of the Mother, whose made of everything and more – of earth and seeds and branches and hibiscus flowers – and she guides nature with her hands. Nature, and the nature of things.
Of the Trickster. Canid spirit, alive on a breeze that says, ‘AHHHHHHOoooo—’. Made of clay and paint and fur, whose laughter breaths rivers into gullies and mischievousness into little girls like them.
Mothers eyes are closed, but her ears are always awake. “Be safe,” she says, when Mauve turns to leave her in her shaded place.
“Always,” she replies, in a tone that says it cannot promise anything. Mother knows her grasp is tenuous and growing weaker by the second. Her girl has always been willful. They were always impish and feral-hearted, Gardenia and Mauve. Now they are parting from her for the second time. First from her body. Now in the independent spirit that crawls across their skin and tickles the adventurous bones in their limbs.
She runs. She runs past purple-skinned ferns and large, fire-wrought boulders. She examines jewel-toned beetles carrying twigs to unknown locations, deep to the heart of a hollow, rotty log.
She follows these things – whimsy that take iron-footholds in her imagination and curiosity – away from the roiling heart of the island to the long, slim band of sand and volcanic rock that means the end is nigh. She stops, her hooves sinking a bit as she settles into the earth, sweat lathering her neck like the foam that spits up from the ocean's tongue as it licks out to the shore and pulls a meal of sand back into its mouth.
@[magnus]? @[Canaan]? whoever.
![[Image: a0vZ3zy.png]](http://i.imgur.com/a0vZ3zy.png)