Status: complete
Dreamscape
Adagio
It was a long, tiring journey, but we did it every year. There was a pull, somewhere behind our ribcages, that drew us South, frost nipping at our heels. The ground at home was barren and turgid with ice. We picked away but there was nothing there for us. We moved on to the good lands.
It began on an unfamiliar lake. I was full of hot, foreign air that felt too dense in my lungs, and I tipped desperately towards the water. From above it looked like a pool of liquid silver, white and bright and full of promise – as we drew closer I saw ripples and darting fish, flashes of yellow between shades of green. It was the first life we had seen since we set off. And yet, something deep down told me the frost was coming, the frost would always come; for some few weeks we might stay here until it caught us up again.
We settled, and I took some time to enjoy the feeling of warm moss underfoot and to stretch out without the expectation of further, continuous movement. It had been some time since we had stopped during the day, and the constant presence of the sun across my back was a comfort I had almost forgotten. The flock nattered and shifted around me – we were tired, but we were hungry. The Winter was an unforgiving mistress and some of us had not eaten well in weeks. I was exhausted and my belly ached for food, but the silver-water lake had piqued my curiosity, too. I thought I might look around for a while and take stock of my whereabouts before I really set down to hunting. The water was calling me.
I took off, away from the tired squawking of the flock, and circled a sandy bank twice before landing in the shallows. The water flowed quietly around me and I felt the currents move across my ankles, undulating like the familiar wind. Still it was smoother, softer, like lines drawn with a broad pencil. It fanned across me and cooled me deep, it settled my heart.
There was a rustle behind me, so I turned, and she stepped long-legged in to my life.
All dark eyes and long lines, silver spine and fish-hook beak. A water-bird, a child of the current. I swore I had never seen anything so pure.
“Who are you?” she said, “these are my grounds.”
“I am Thowra, for the lightning. I will be gone soon.”
She looked at me, or through me; I couldn’t tell quite which, but I felt the cold recede at my feet.
“I am Wirrar, for the river-rocks. You can stay,” she sniffed, “you won’t poach my fish anyway.”
And so she stepped calmly in to my small circle, our four legs making four new currents, our wings together, and we watched the sun set twice – once in the sky and once again over the water.
It began on an unfamiliar lake. I was full of hot, foreign air that felt too dense in my lungs, and I tipped desperately towards the water. From above it looked like a pool of liquid silver, white and bright and full of promise – as we drew closer I saw ripples and darting fish, flashes of yellow between shades of green. It was the first life we had seen since we set off. And yet, something deep down told me the frost was coming, the frost would always come; for some few weeks we might stay here until it caught us up again.
We settled, and I took some time to enjoy the feeling of warm moss underfoot and to stretch out without the expectation of further, continuous movement. It had been some time since we had stopped during the day, and the constant presence of the sun across my back was a comfort I had almost forgotten. The flock nattered and shifted around me – we were tired, but we were hungry. The Winter was an unforgiving mistress and some of us had not eaten well in weeks. I was exhausted and my belly ached for food, but the silver-water lake had piqued my curiosity, too. I thought I might look around for a while and take stock of my whereabouts before I really set down to hunting. The water was calling me.
I took off, away from the tired squawking of the flock, and circled a sandy bank twice before landing in the shallows. The water flowed quietly around me and I felt the currents move across my ankles, undulating like the familiar wind. Still it was smoother, softer, like lines drawn with a broad pencil. It fanned across me and cooled me deep, it settled my heart.
There was a rustle behind me, so I turned, and she stepped long-legged in to my life.
All dark eyes and long lines, silver spine and fish-hook beak. A water-bird, a child of the current. I swore I had never seen anything so pure.
“Who are you?” she said, “these are my grounds.”
“I am Thowra, for the lightning. I will be gone soon.”
She looked at me, or through me; I couldn’t tell quite which, but I felt the cold recede at my feet.
“I am Wirrar, for the river-rocks. You can stay,” she sniffed, “you won’t poach my fish anyway.”
And so she stepped calmly in to my small circle, our four legs making four new currents, our wings together, and we watched the sun set twice – once in the sky and once again over the water.