Kintla Flatlands ₐｗₒₒₒₒₒ!

Moy curled up beneath an old maple tree, toes sinking into the bed of moss at its base. The leaves at the edge of the crown were tattered, bitten by insects in twisting, pretty patterns. She idly wondered what it was like to be a leaf-eating bug, instead of a tired wolf coming to the end of a long journey.

Short and painful, she thought; she could become caught in a spider’s web as easily as a bird’s beak.

Moy yawned at the moon and her eyes fluttered shut for a moment; it took exceptional willpower to open them again. She wanted to listen to the night’s chorus — the summer wind, frog song, and early crickets chirping — not be lulled to sleep by them. Moy laughed at her folly; she was an early riser, and here she was trying to stay up late like an overtired pup. Still, there was something in the air that kept her from fully dozing off.

A howl rose above the local din, and Moy’s ears flicked curiously. The wind pulled at the beautiful call, distorting it in a way that made it untraceable; it almost sounded like it was coming from more than one place at once. While notable in and of itself — what vantage point were they singing from? — what followed captivated her. Voice after voice joined the rising call, almost as if the Teekon itself was serenading her.

And then Moy heard it. Her sisters and brothers were singing, too! The familiar cadence of her family’s howls was music to her ears, and she threw her head back to join the chorus.