Otatso Wetlands Moonjock

Salty water clogged his fur as Malachi slogged through the wetlands alone. Whatever light had shone as he’d entered the thicket had quickly vanished to the night. Now he trudged by moonlight alone, what little could filter through the canopy’s embrace. Spindly twigs pricked at his back and he stooped lower until he could feel the marshy waters tug at his fur, yet the discomfort of the wetlands only made him press on. He had no choice but to keep his mind on the present here, unless he sought to hang himself on a wayward vine or trip head first into the briny bath. He ducked beneath a low-lying branch, submerging himself in the mucky water before bobbing out the other side. For all their discomfort, the wetlands did the trick. The grief he had felt growing in his chest had since vanished to the bog’s murky depths. He sneezed and water spilled from his nose. The place could have smelled better, though.

As the trees began to lift their branches and water gave way to spongy ground, Malachi felt a stiffness in his legs from having crawled for so long. Runny mud fell from his fur in dancing rivulets and he gave himself a shake before stretching out his limbs one by one. The boy could still feel the weight of plant life clinging to his fur, but decided to attend to hygiene later. He wove his way around a cluster of trees, his nostrils still wrinkling with the marsh’s dank odor, and adjusted his eyes to the light of the dawn - how long had he been in there? The world came into focus and he blinked, froze, then staggered back as his eyes latched upon a crimson stain - a she-wolf - only paces away.