Wheeling Gull Isle A measure of memory

they reached the top.

his own fur was tussled by the wind, curled further by it. he had very much become part of the island during his time here — and it had become part of him. he had stayed here before sweetharbor. when it had been empty and hollow. now he had helped it flourish once more.

the returned face by his side was proof of this.

she pointed out one of the grand trees of the island.

he had no clue of its reach and power. he had often sheltered in the forest for the worst of weather but he had never been in the den of mother tree as she called it.

the entire island? his voice held gentle disbelief. yet he could imagine it so clearly! shall we call it Mother Tree from here on out?

he gave her this honor.