Wheeling Gull Isle solitude

His smile slipped a little when Heda mentioned the word “gospel.” He didn’t know what that meant and it made Caracal feel like an idiot. He forgot about it as she continued, mentioning nurturing those in need of food and medicine. That reminded him of Atautsikut. He wondered how they were doing these days. He swallowed.

The last few words out of Heda’s mouth—before her mention of hunters—gave Caracal pause again. He knew about gods, thanks in part to his worldly ways, though he didn’t think he’d ever heard of any references to “his creation.” He didn’t judge, though his head cocked as he pondered all these differences in his friend.

You’re in your element then, Caracal observed with a friendly laugh. I won’t lie, I don’t know that I follow this stuff about god and gospel, but it sounds like a good place, Heda. And you look happy.

His tail waved as he glanced over at Bartholomew. “Blessed day,” he’d said a moment ago. Was this man responsible for Heda’s new religiosity? Where was he from? Caracal tried not to stare too long, though he was super intrigued by the dude’s appearance in particular.

You said something in there about no expectations, Caracal mused after a beat. What if, he wondered, surveying what he could see of the island beyond them again, I hung out here for a few days? Would that be cool?