Stavanger Bay and the fire with all the strength it hath

When in the presence of the small inkblot, Szymon found his tongue too heavy and thick to form coherent speech; she confused him, arousing new, unsettling feelings that he had no explanation or coping mechanism for. His natural wont was aggression, but even he knew that was an inappropriate reaction — and he could control it, but it emptied his reserves of effort and patience. While Doe ferried her baby back to the bay, her mate-to-be had wandered as far as the salt flat and had brought back gifts for both Doe and the little sea urchin — it pleased him to provide for the plucky witch doctor, and perhaps if he employed the same tactics toward the fragile foundling, it would provide him some insight on how to interact with her. He didn’t know how to make her whimpering stop once it started; he didn’t know how to please her or whether it was his job to try.

He didn’t know much of anything.

In his mouth he brought a coconut, dried out and drained of its juices by sheer osmosis — the salt had drawn all of the moisture out, leaving a hollow shell. Clumsily he hauled it back to the bay with him, holding it between his paws and using his tongue and teeth to poke all manner of goodies through the hole at the top of it — sweet-smelling herbs and grasses, pebbles, shells. Perhaps the child would like to roll it about, creating a delightful rattling sound — and perhaps she would reject it entirely, which would give Szymon at least some clue of what she needed from him. Rolling around the coconut would help with her coordination, and when she was older he would fill it with sand to help her strengthen her muscles. He was determined she would not suffer his fate. She needed to build strength for the Drop if she wanted to survive it. To that end, he ran down a fat rabbit for Doe and swept a glistening surfperch from the sea. He didn’t realize she’d just eaten.

He also didn’t realize he was interrupting.

Lastly he’d brought an infusion of stinging nettle for Doe’s bee stings, which had been an adventure in and of itself. He dried the leaves by laying them gingerly out on a flat rock, then soaked them in water he’d kept in the summer sun — it had taken the better part of the day, but he worried she would grow sicker without it. It was this task that had occupied him while she was out finding the child, and it pleased him now to tend to her. He chuffed to Doe, nothing that the small creature beside her had already drifted into slumber. Burying the fish in a nearby cache, he nosed the rabbit toward his bright-eyed Chosen One and set the infusion before her. He found he could not ask the questions that swam within him; he wished only that she would eat and drink what he had provided her.