Wild Berry Meadow If you keep on believing..

wherever the child came from did not matter; that she was not born of zharille did not matter either. in her current state, zharille was flooded with enough naturally occurring chemicals to lay a claim upon the bundle and deem them owned. why not? the child was in need of a mother, a protector. zharille could be those things. perhaps by virtue of not being her blood, the desert people would not feel inclined to take this one away from her.

the man lingered but was flat upon the dirt, which satisfied something in her too. he spoke in favor of the child's protection and zharille let a low rumble emanate from her chest — he had best keep himself back, unless he wanted to tempt those teeth.

the child was hiding among her thick, tree-trunk legs. zharille moved so that she was uncovered and looked at her sharply, listening to the muddled words that did not make all that much sense. the tone was wanting.

what is aaba? but she did not listen for long. she moved instead to grab the girl by the scruff of the neck and hoist her up, letting her plump bottom swing. her attention turned in the direction of her lake but her ears turned to every sound, keeping tabs on the man now behind them.

you? you are aaba? i am zharille. it was like hearing a rock slide trying to string consonants together. we go home. to lake.