My mother nudged me with her nose. “Not so little anymore. True enough.”
I sighed, leaning into her. She was as warm and safe as a patch of sun.
“I’m bored, Maia. I want to have fun. I want to chase my tail. I want to learn new things. I want to go on adventures and be brave.”
“No need to rush toward bravery,” she said softly. “No rush at all.”
“The big ones call me runt. And whelp,” I moaned. “They
say I ask too many questions.” I was rather enjoying feeling so sorry for myself. “I hate being me.”
“Byx,” my mother said, “don’t ever say that. There’s only one you in the whole wide world. And I love that you ask so many questions. That’s how we learn.” She paused. “I’ll tell you something. Something none of the other pups know yet.”
My ears flicked to alert.
“The adults had a meeting last night. We’ll be leaving here at sundown. Heading north, just like the butterbats. Myxo will be leading us. She said we’ve searched in the southlands long enough.”
Myxo was our pathfinder. She had the keenest nose and the best instincts of anyone in our pack, and she’d traveled far and wide looking for more dairnes. Still, though we’d heard rumors of dairne sightings, nothing ever came of them. Our pack was down to twenty-nine members.
“This is a big move,” my mother said. “A sort of migration of our own. We’re going to search for the First Colony.”
“But Dalyntor taught us they’re long gone.” I remembered our lessons about the First Colony, the original group of dairnes who migrated to Nedarra long ago. We’d had to memorize a poem—an extremely long poem—about them.
I love learning more than anyone in my family. But even I have to admit it may have been the most boring poem ever spoken:
Sing, poet, of the Ancients who dared forth—
Brave dairnes, o’er mountains treacherous and cruel,
Who crossed the frigid waters of the north
To Dairneholme, living isle and floating jewel.
That’s all I recall. If Dalyntor hadn’t let us draw maps while he recited it, I would have fallen fast asleep. Most of the other pups did.
“Maia?” I asked. “Do you really think there might still be a colony in the north?”
My mother looked across the meadow to the dark, wind-fretted forest, but didn’t answer. “It’s not impossible,” she said at last.
Dairnes do not lie. There would be no point, since we can always detect an untruth, not just from our own kind, but from anyone.
No other species has this ability. Dalyntor often called it “our burdensome gift,” although I didn’t understand what he meant by that.
Nonetheless, although dairnes don’t lie, we do sometimes . . . hope.
“But you don’t think so?” I pressed, although I could already tell her answer.
“No, my love.” It was almost a whisper. “But perhaps I’m wrong.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong. I’ll bet we’ll find hundreds of
dairnes. Thousands, even!” I stopped myself. “It’s not wrong to hope, is it?”
“It’s never wrong to hope, Byx,” said my mother. “Unless the truth says otherwise.” She gave me another nose nudge. “Now, it’s back to bed for you. We have a long night’s walk ahead of us.”
The butterbats still circled, dipping and twirling just beyond reach. “A few more minutes, Maia,” I pleaded. “They’re so pretty.”
“Not too long,” she said, “and no exploring.” She turned, then hesitated. “I love you, my pup. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I love you, too, Maia.”
A long time passed before the butterbats moved on. Maybe they were amazed to have happened upon some dairnes. Or maybe they were simply enjoying the waves of warm air rising from the sun-touched hive.
As I turned back toward the entrance, something strange, something I couldn’t quite place, caught my attention.
Not a sound, exactly, or a scent.
More like a hunch.
I took a few steps toward the small meadow separating me from a dark line of trees. Beyond it stretched the sea.
I consulted the scents on the whipping wind. The air was heavy with stories.
Was that treefox I smelled? Brindalet? It was hard to pin things down in the zigzag wind.
The forest called to me, silent but compelling, willing me to approach. Golden ribbons of light threaded through the trees. I’d never been there in daylight, only in the dead of night.
No, I told myself. We were forbidden to leave the pack, especially during the day, and most especially without permission.
And I didn’t leave—not much, anyway.
I’d ventured to a stream fizzing with green bubbles. I’d sought the company of a friendly zebra squirrel and her babies. Yesterday I’d visited a cluster of star flowers, scented like sage and sea. It was a lovely spot for tail chasing.
I never took big risks. Never went far. But how could I possibly learn about the world if I never got to see it?
I knew I shouldn’t go. But before we moved on, before we trekked to the next dark place, wouldn’t it be wonderful to view the sea, just once, in daylight? I had only ever seen it by starlight.
My mother was back in our nest. I checked the freshening breeze: no danger.
Only a few minutes to cross the meadow, dropping onto all fours to run. Only a few minutes more to pass through that intimidating but enticing wall of trees.
Just a moment, I told myself. Just a glimpse of the sun, dancing on water.
A moment or two, and then I’d return, having never been missed.
3.
The Boat
I emerged from the towering wood onto a winding pathway. The trees kept their distance from the cliff’s edge, as if they were leery of heights.
The grass was dry and warm, almost brittle. It was nothing like the feel of night grass, cool and damp with dew.
I came upon the remains of an ancient building, squat and crumbled. A watchtower, probably. Dalyntor had taught us a bit about human dwellings. Some were remarkable, he said. And some were remarkably ugly.
I clambered over great, rough-hewn stones that formed a crude stairway. At the top I stood in an ivy-laced gap that was no doubt once used by archers.
And there it was: the sea.
It was nothing like I’d imagined.
This was not a placid, rippling lake. Not a busy, musical
stream. The sea reached forever, as humbling and endless as the sky. An army of waves marched toward the shore, crashing violently in plumes of white spray. Black rocks veined with silver, the ones I’d heard called “Sharks’ Teeth,” pierced the water’s edge like glistening swords.
The rush and rumble of the surf was deafening. I felt as if I were drowning in smells, rich and mysterious.
The breeze stiffened. My ears lay flat and my eyes stung. I looked to the sky and saw an advancing wall of iron-gray clouds. A storm was coming.
To my right a cliff curved in a great arc, nothing but jagged stone besieged by relentless waves. To my left the arc ended in a jutting finger of rock. At the very edge of that sloping peninsula stood a gnarled, leafless tree.