Wheeling Gull Isle A measure of memory

No matter who it was that claim the island as their home, Thresher still felt it was an important part of her, having been born there and learned the harsh ways of the ocean as she grew through her childhood. She smiled as she ran up the hill.

She glanced over her shoulder- a habit, and for a moment she forgot who she was glancing to see. Often she’d raced with her mate, and had thrown him glances like this- but when she looked back, it was the quiet, solemn Bartholomew who bounded after her. 

Her smile became shy, and it faded when she turned her face to continue winding her way up the hills. 

The wind tousled her thick coat, as it whirled and soared around the hills seeming to lack direction with each mercurial gust. She breathed in the humid air and came to a stop when she could take in the view of the majority of the island from there. 

Still, even within sight, she knew it had its secrets. 

She turned to the forest and uttered a relieved sigh when she saw the tallest of trees, an ancient, weathered blue spruce, peaking high above the others. ”Oh look there! It is the Mother tree! Beneath her roots is a den; it is a good place to find shelter in a storm. Her roots run through the entire island,” She said with breathless fondness.