The Sunspire another day, another doug

Haka had begun to drift in and out of consciousness by the time Olive pushed Eleuthera aside and cradled him close, but his sister’s fierce shove and his mother’s brisk jostling anchored him temporarily to the fleeting present. “Hi, Mama,” he slurred, his head bobbling weakly. “Look.” He tipped his head toward the sky, which seemed to blur with colors previously unseen; he didn’t have names for them all, but did she see how pretty they were? As if summoned by his fleeing spirit, three fledglings burst clumsily into the sky after their wide-winged mother. A perennial smile shaped his pale, bloodied lips and stayed there when he turned to look at the mist-shrouded druidess. “Mama, music,” he murmured inanely, too weak now to pull himself closer. He rested his nose on her paws, and as his heart began to slow, “Music,” he mumbled again, “singin’…don’t worry…‘bout a thing.”

He was so tired now — he couldn’t remember ever being this tired before. His tongue poked out to swipe across his nares, and the blood there lent a false sense of ruddy health to his paling mouth. “Every little…thing…” he eked out muzzily, his eyes going glassy, “all right, mama.” Then, quite suddenly, he seemed to struggle against the close of sleep; his forequarters thrashed briefly before the fight went out of him and the fear that had manifested itself briefly upon his fragile features was replaced with his usual lazy smile.

Oaxaca Shakti drew a breath so deep his round little belly swelled with it, and when he let that breath out, it seemed his spirit went with it, as rollicking and easygoing as the tide.