Whitewater Gorge The Door of Death is made of Gold

the woman’s words provoked a shudder along kukutux’ spine. transported to her last days with grandfather, tears rose unbidden to sting the girl’s eyes with a pang of saltwater.

dipping her muzzle to veil them from her savior’s gaze, kukutux sidled close, offering her shoulder for support as they began to move away from the violent rush. ”i am kukutux. i am a healer.”

and a shaman, the spirit whispered, though the duck was unsure she wished to claim such yet. ”when we are clear, let me make a drink for your throat.”