I LOOK FOR OMENS EVERYWHERE
The island, treasure or not, is the perfect place for O to practice her illusions.
It is strange and new enough that nothing she makes or conjures will ever be too out of place. She is free to paint and sculpt whatever she likes — scores of brightly colored birds feathered in color-shifting minerals; fruits with eyes that blink open and shut against the blinding sun; snakes with tails in their mouths, ouroboros, that go wheeling through the dark forest. And though those exploring the island might watch the things with huge eyes, they do not know enough to realize that they aren’t real, or that the little girl with the axe is to blame.
She stands with her tiny hooves buried in the shifting white sand. At her back the ocean roars and spits salty foam high into the air. Ahead, the jungle stretches back to the end of the world, frothing with birdsong and the wailing of wild cats. Perhaps she should be afraid. But she is not. The magic runs through her veins like fire, and at her side, the hurlbat hangs at its usual comforting weight. There is nothing here that sparks trepidation in her — only curiosity.
Thinking somberly of her mother, she takes a gander at making the sun. A sun. A little one that pops into existence above her head in a totally unscientific shade of purple, turning the pale sand to violet, then winks out the next minute. O narrows her eyes, tries to focus, but it will not reignite. Apparently Solis frowns upon her. Well, whatever.
Something goes rushing past her. A body in a pale shade of gray — she only sees its tail as it disappears into the undergrowth and the wag of his ears, It takes only a moment of deliberation before O goes trotting after him into the undergrowth.
She is light on her feet even in the dense jungle, appreciative for once of her gangly legs and slight weight, and the way they let her weave without pause through the boughs of the trees. Sunlight dapples the damp ground and highlights the sooty parts of her skin. The flash of gray keeps moving through the trees, and she follows easily and deliberately, tossing the hurlbat at her side in her telekinetic grasp as casually as she would a well worn toy.
“Slow down,” she calls out finally, “what are you looking for?”
