Wheeling Gull Isle unalaq

Mojag felt more like himself each day, yet in the evenings he felt a stirring in his belly like the sea was inside of him again.

He would watch the sky; some nights it was clear and he'd think of his father. When it became cloudy on occasion he'd imagine his mother.

Tonight, there was a smog lingering upon the sea that made the island feel more isolated. The stars were hidden - the sun, slowly setting, would be out of reach of his gaze too soon enough.

the undead shambled along the line between beach and field, back to its muttering.

"...allofitallpainallstruggleallanguishequalinpointlessnessyettheychosethepathofsufferinginsteadof..."

it was a small, shambling rotund shape in the increasing dark, voice a deep, flat rumble akin to a buzz.

heda stayed away from the cave.
she had become slightly protective of the little boy who had come to live on the island, even temporarily. surely his family was somewhere on the coast if he was here.
in the evening's heavy atmosphere, heda heard the drumming of the voice from the unseen. she cut through the fog, a red-spined wraith.
"hey," she mumbled to him, ears still tipped for the sound of the unseen.

There was a strange sound in among the fog. The boy's ears turned often to follow it, but it was hard to track.

Heda arrived shortly after and appeared to also hear it.

Is that a spirit? Mojag asked with a nervous too-loud whisper.

"a spirit? what? no." 
heda squared her shoulders. "that's — someone new. bartholomew wants her to stay there for a bit. so we need to keep our distance, okay?"
she jerked her muzzle sidelong. "hey. the other day. when you asked me if he's my dad. well, he's not. he's like — like a teacher to everyone. and a friend."

Oh, something about the denial made him deflate.

Turned out no, it was just a person, with a name and -- the mystery of it all was rather disappointing. The man was helping them somehow. The man that wasn't Heda's dad.

But he's so old. Mojag had shed the poor whispering and now spoke openly. Perhaps he had subconsciously picked up on something between the holy man and his disciple.

Regardless, he leveled a look upon Heda. He prays a lot. My anaa calls that spirit-talking. You're sure that isn't a spirit? His little nostrils flared as he took on a defiant expression upon his face.

heda felt defensive of bartholomew, though she couldn't articulate why. "he's not old. he's just — not a kid." she wanted to stop talking now, about him. about fathers. something ugly clenched in her throat and was gone. 
"is anaa like, what, your mom or something?" heda asked with a wry grin. "uh, he prays. to god. and i think he prays to god for her. she's real. but she can't be whole until maybe god makes her that way. or something."

Nobody questioned how he talked back home and to hear Heda now was a little bit surprising, but more-so, he was happy to share; to prove he knew things and that he was smart. Anaa is our word for mothers.

He could've explained that he had at least two mothers, for that is how he saw Kukutux, but he could not focus his mind upon the village for long before his heart hurt. Mojag pushed thoughts of Shikoba and the rain away as quickly as he could.

The boy listened instead. Heda told the story of the ghost woman and how Bartholomew hoped to help her; it only further proved to him that the man was a spirit-talker, but he wouldn't say it aloud any more, since Heda didn't like it.

Can we help her? His curiosity was strong, but stronger still was Mojag's desire to be of use. Does she cry because she is sad, maybe?

mothers. so she had been right. the idea of mothers, however, was not so painful. she had sequoia, after all, and many, many good memories of that beloved face. 
"maybe," she said, but her eyes frowned. she looked at the gangly boy very seriously. "bartholomew wants to keep us safe. you, me, jasmine." her mouth was somber. "don't go near her until he says so. not even if she cries."
the young wolf raised her head, fixing gaze toward the darkened place. "the lion's den is where you go to listen. now it's her turn."
heda did not elaborate.

There were rules to living here. Mojag didn't mind them, although he felt very sad he could not approach the ghost and learn more, or do something to make her feel better. There was a somber look to Heda then, and Mojag realized everyone here had something they were trying to fix, or find.

He went quiet, then. She spoke of a lion's den and it went in one ear and out the other; already the boy had turned off from the idea of the ghost woman, and since he could do nothing for her, it was like she did not exist now.

I haven't met a Jasmine, he murmurs.

Does she cry too?

"she's around," heda assured mojag. "and no, she doesn't cry. now come on," she ordered playfully in the air of an older sister. "i'm gonna teach you how to catch crabs."
heda nudged him roughly, then set off at a trot, headed over toward the greenhills once more.