THEY STOOD UP STRAIGHT AND PURE ON THE STALK, GRIPPING THE DARK LIKE PROPHETS
AND HOWLING COLOSSAL INTIMACIES
FROM THE BACK OF THEIR FUSED THROATS
AND HOWLING COLOSSAL INTIMACIES
FROM THE BACK OF THEIR FUSED THROATS
❀
She hears him. Sort of. Not enough to tell what or who it is, but enough to know it is not the work of the island, for the sound and weight of his footsteps is the only natural thing in this cacophony of shrill singing birds and the murmur of rushing water. All the rest of it is overwhelming compared to the mild fear of a stranger. Her ears almost ring as she tries to absorb it. Everywhere she looks there is something new and captivating to the point that Bexley feels it buzzing in her head like a a swarm of honeybees, feels wonder bright and sugary in her throat as she watches the island with wide eyes.
And as she watches the island, it watches her.
A swarm of tiny dark birds crouch among the trees and weigh down the boughs. Their eyes — little jewels of fire opal and cool, bright titanium — swivel in their delicate heads. And they chirp high-pitched, unsettling melodies that shatter the humid air like glass from their roosts high in the jungle, as if they are trying to draw her in. It almost works. Bexley’s bone-white head lifts toward their noise, as if she is going to seek them out, as if she is about to question; her step slows and she wavers for a moment, debating a turn from her path toward them, then turns back. Focus, focus, focus.
But where is she supposed to focus, what path is she supposed to follow?
And before she can think about it too hard or get too wrapped up in her own misery the stranger clears his throat from a dark place behind her, and Bexley closes her eyes for a brief moment — focus, focus — before turning to face him, hooves slipping in the soft dirt.
She smiles briefly when she sees him. They could be mirror images, one of each other from parallel lines of existence; each burnished in gold and white, the stranger is sooty where she is clean, dark where she is perfectly bright. The silver of his eyes is unnervingly clean. It reminds her a little of the skin of the moon. Her eyes drop, and Bexley notes the set of pure white socks that adorn each one of his feet with a wry look. Cute.
“Yeah,” she responds. ”By you, apparently.” Her voice is rough, maybe from disuse or the salt in the air, and somehow a little amused. In the dappled light she glows faintly, incandescence shimmering over her skin like a glittering veil. She could be a goddess — only of vengeance, though, only of the most painful kind of love. Ethereal but not as in heavenly.
And then she offers dryly, “Cute piercing, fighter bull.”
