Elchanan GOOD SENSE COMES THE HARD WAY
For all its newness, the island does not scare him. He'd alighted here once--briefly--and quite obviously hadn't died. Elchanan has never known fear like he should, and besides, he arrives for the second time under cover of night, when he is always at his most comfortable; the kiss of the moon says it’s alright, it’s alright. The wind is cool and easy, and it doesn’t take much effort for Elchanan to go soaring through it on outstretched wings. The cold ruffles his pale feathers and sinks into the bare places underneath, and a shiver rides up his spine as the salt of the sea rises upward and lowers the temperature another few degrees. It should not be this cold in spring, he thinks to himself with a modicum of concern, and then reminds himself that rules—seasonal, realistic, spiritual—don’t apply here, not in this world full of magic, not on an island whose only base is that magic. From above it could almost be beautiful. The clumps of dark, glossy jungle trees shine bright-silver where the moon touches them and true black where it doesn’t, wafting the clean, pure smell of leaves and dirt up into the air. The bone-white sand ripples in shades of cream and ivory against the blue-black sea. Although he’s too far up to see them, Elchanan can hear the animals—jungle cats snarling and growling, birds chirping, the general rustling of movement. Even when the rest of the world is asleep, the island is teeming with life, teeming with opportunity. Which he has never been one to turn down. Somewhere past the southern edge of the island, Elchanan swoops down, dropping a significant amount of his gained height, and banks a hard left with the flick of one wing to turn back toward the shore. As he dives the wind seems to pick up speed, and he feels it bright and cold against his face, tangling the long cream length of his tail, pressing his dark ears against his neck. The world comes tumbling upward in a curving, swirling mess of blue and white and green, and then, a little faster than expected, he’s landing on the sand in a full-tilt run with his wings stretched horizontal behind him, trying to push back against the momentum of his dive. After a few strides the force dies down, and Elchanan slows to a canter, then a trot. The whole of the shore is a pool of moonlight, now—turning the white sand to silver, turning the crashing ocean to a splash of grays and blues. Elchanan takes a deep, deep breath and smiles as the scents come to him, salt, damp earth, ripe-to-bursting fruits. And someone, a stranger, just across the sand. |
