Wheeling Gull Isle Cordelia

WC: 822

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At first, Thresher wasn’t quite sure if Driftwood knew that she was volunteering herself, rather than simply talking about the treasure again. She wondered if she should have articulated her name better, or tried to say it again, to insist that she should be the one to look for treasure. She felt slightly disappointed with herself, and whenever she felt disappointed, she often got discouraged from trying again. Had she not been one to place so much weight on her own shoulders, she might have simply shaken off her blunder and spoken again, insisting that she’d meant her name, rather than ‘treasure.’ Still, the point seemed to have gotten across, and he didn’t ask again if she knew of anyone who would be better capable of helping him go and look for shells...Thank goodness. If he had, Thresher surely would have melted into a sad little puddle of puppy.

He said that there were two more shells, but she was sure that there were more than just two...There had to be hundreds and hundreds of shells along the beach, ones that stayed for a few days, and ones that were brand new and that would have washed up just that morning. Thresher had taken note of shells before, but hadn’t done much with them except admire them. His invitation merited a silly little sideways jig from the girl, whose tail lashed in excited, circular motions. For one who had been so shy a minute ago, she certainly did perk up when she was officially included in something. Bashfulness forgotten, she gave into the dog instincts she had, she zipped this way and that, uttering happy, breathy little huffs as she did so, twirling on her hind feet gracefully before she fell back to Driftwood’s side, as he’d chosen to move a bit more slowly and more carefully than she had expected. It was rude to run ahead, unless given permission to do so, but Thresher could be proper if she wanted to.

He asked her what colour and kind of shell her parents would like best, and she pondered the question for a moment. As a pup who had grown up inside the labyrinth at the island’s heart, Thresher had no problem making her way along the sand and avoiding all shells that could possibly cause her to stumble, or cut her dainty paws. She was exceptionally nimble, and had played many games both with her siblings and by herself which had involved choosing where she could and couldn’t step. Naturally, she also knew to avoid stepping too close to the tiny holes in the sand, knowing full well that if she did, the clam that was buried down below would spit up water at her. It had been a fun game she’d played with her siblings- trying to get each other squirted by the buried clams- but she didn’t dare do such a thing to an adult. While she was playful, she did try to avoid being cheeky.

She had to convince herself to speak, yet again. She emitted a couple exhales that might have carried words, had she not chickened out. Biting her lip, she took a few more breaths, and finally managed to puff out a small breath, on it a word was carried but almost completely torn away by the sound of the water hitting the beach. ”Pearl.” It was a nickname they used to describe her sister, though she was unaware of the fact that some shells did hide pearls. What she meant, then, was a shell that was likely a dark blue shade that faded to grey. It would be simpler, she thought, to find a shell that looked like Six or Grayling, so she ought to find one that might be a bit more difficult to locate. Regardless, she was a bit shortsighted when it came to her explanation, as she hadn’t exactly explained what she meant by that word.

Driftwood almost tripped over a little stream of water, and he seemed to stumble a bit this way and that when looking for- or trying not to step on- shells. Thresher almost giggled, but remembered that it might be rude, especially if he stepped on a razor shell, as those ones could slice through a wolf’s paws easily. He called her attention to a small shell, but her ears turned back the moment she saw it. Having spent her entire life here, she knew the shell of a hermit crab the moment she saw one. Sometimes they were small- barely bigger than a barnacle or a periwinkle, but even the tiny ones could deliver a mean pinch and hang on for dear life. She shook her head violently, and her ever-wagging tail dropped like a flag might as soon as the wind cut out. ”No. Hermit!” She warned, biting her lip and hoping it wasn’t too late.

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