Word came in as the sun was nearing its noontime peak: they had been sighted. She sat back from her meal with a grunt and then a sigh as she eyed the boy who brought this news to her. There was dirt on his toes and dirt on his nose, but it wasn’t her problem. He sucked a trail of snot hard back into one nostril, then dragged a fist across the glistening trail for good measure, eyes wide like her scrutiny unnerved him.
It probably did, but that wasn’t her problem either.
Once she sent him off to find his mother, she stood with another sigh. It wasn’t reluctance, just the stiffness in her knees. A decade ago, she would have been gone already, laughing as she went, but time took its toll on everyone. Still her heart leapt, even if the rest of her was celebrating sluggishly.
First things first, she’d need to learn the truth for herself. A five-year-old wasn’t the most reliable of witnesses. She retrieved her raven-feather cloak from the hook outside her door where it hung when she wasn’t wearing it. As she swung it around her shoulders, she imagined the excited whispers spreading through the village as people took note of its absence. At this time of year, they would be bound to guess what it was that drew her from her doorstep. Everyone had been waiting for it.
The cloak was heavy and her shoulders bowed under its weight. It caught the sunlight as she moved, curtains of iridescent pinks and blues seeming to sluice to hem from collar. She stood that way for a moment, not really thinking about anything, let alone preparing herself. Just basking in the sun, which felt truly warm for the first time this season. It beat down upon the black cloak and sank into that darkness like it was a well, soaking it in with a thirst that was bottomless.
Then she came back to herself with a slightly deeper breath. Reflecting again on how much easier this had been in previous years, she threw herself into the air. A few heavier strokes to get her aloft, a sharp snap out and downward, then she was able to extend her pinions fully.
She flew toward the coast, beating the warm air with her wings. Closer to town, it smelled of fresh-turned earth and wildflowers, but she passed swiftly from farmland and pasturage into woodland. The trees were evergreens, towering pines with bald soil covering their feet. Resin was sharp in her nose, the must of old needles.
Defiant squirrels chattered on the branches as she passed, chicks in nests new-hatched and screaming for their parents. She had a bad turn when she got too close to a bear way up in a tree. The bear had two cubs with her, and was coaxing—sometimes dragging—them down from the knothole where they must have spent the winter. The new mother did no more than grumble, and she was already well beyond by then, but her heart was pounding.
The coast soon came in sight, and it wasn’t rocky: it was one big rock, a vast black sheet rumpled like a blanket that hadn’t been put back to rights after the bed’s occupant got up. The waves weren’t fierce along this coast, slapping rather than crashing. The smells of brine and seaweed were suddenly pushing back the bite of resin, the richness of loam. The sky was clear, a paler blue than it would become later in the year.
As she came to land on the sun-warmed rock, she felt a piercing sense of disappointment. There was nothing there, the children must have seen a bird. A fish, a windblown leaf. A fantasy.
When she saw the sail, her breath caught. Her eyesight wasn’t what it used to be and she squinted, not quite ready to believe. It never budged, though, unless it was to grow larger.
She braced her hands on her hips and stretched her back, finally allowing herself to appreciate in the glorious sight. While she watched, more and more silver sails appeared on the horizon, glittering in the sunlight. She was grinning and didn’t even realize it.
She only let herself enjoy the beautiful scene and the feeling of wonder that went with it momentarily: she had a job to do. Then she cast one last glance over her shoulder and turned away. Threw herself into the air and sped back to her village, raven-cloak fluttering.
Her people needed to be told. The fearless merchants of the open sea had come to the forest. The Salmon were home and the season of plenty was upon them.
Note from the author: Back in undergrad I purchased from an art fair a pottery tile. The artist had painted a selection of vegetables arranged in such a way as to resemble a female nude lying on her side, seen from the rear. Beneath this striking image, the words: Reclining Salad. As objets d’art went, I thought that was pretty nifty, and it turned out my parents were taken with it, too.
Ever since, they’ve been bringing back tiles from their travels to add to my collection. The tiles range from abstract images to human figures, all of them necessarily small. Evocative, for such modest works of art. In this series, I’ll be writing a short story for each, my very own miniature Pictures at an Exhibition.
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