Meadow

Though the Ridge’s jungle is her home and heart, the sea has always called to Tabaxi.

Standing braced against the root of a towering kapok tree, the white filly is a bright beacon amidst the shadows that reign beneath the canopy. A contrast echoed by the air of serenity that enfolds her; a stillness of body and mind so unlike the ceaseless cacophony of life that surrounds her. Birds might flit about— bouncing their shrill songs back and forth— but the spotted girl is unmoved by their chatter, her blue eyes staring unblinkingly forward. Her dark lips half-parted, and the sweat-dampened curls of her forelock fluttering with each breath. After a time, even that small motion stops, and pale pink eyelids begin to drop over that clouded gaze. For all the world can see, the child sleeps, sinking into the silent peace of her thoughts.

Then her black ears twist abruptly forward, quivering, until their curled points kiss.

Come with me into de water. When the waves call to her, they speak with a voice that resonates from her past, though the memories tied to that throaty murmur evade her. Tabaxi has been raised haphazardly amongst the other orphans of the Ridge, nursing from whichever woman is nearest and calling upon them for little else. But despite her precocious nature, she has still committed their unique voices to memory. Faolain, brisk and detached. Rivaini, deeper and more passionate; fire made flesh. Siobhan, soothing and gentle and sweet. And the more distant memory of a mare she could not name, but who had been the first to speak her own. Tabaxi. The syllables distant and soft and strange, but unforgettable. None of these match the creature who speaks to her now, who sings fervently and powerfully. Mwokoe, Mahu. Muepushe. Kufa ni wako sabili. Kufa ni wako sabili.

Heeding that call, the leopard-child steps forward, small hooves following a twisting trail that leads her to the water’s edge. And for a short time she stands here with her small head tipped gently to one side, contemplating the desperate reach of the waves. Watching laces of white foam dissolve and retreat, then reform as they rise again. Finally, she steps forward to meet the next splash, humming low in her throat at the unexpected chill of it. Tabaxi has never known anything but heat that rises and falls in tiny degrees, has no concept of seasons or time beyond the growth of her own body. But as the days since her birth have ticked past, she has grown in ways that cannot be witnessed or measured. Grown enough that she does not hesitate to press forward, embracing the cold sea as it embraces her.

Seeking something that even she cannot name.

Tabaxi is not even half as brave or certain when she finds the Crossing’s rocky and desolate shore, when she emerges from the relative warmth of the water and into the harsh bite of winter. But as the pale presses inland— shivering violently with each gust of wind— the presence of the pale girl’s own kind is a reassurance; a false promise of her own ability to survive. Because she is too young, yet, to recognize the inherent differences between them and her. Too young to see how out of place she is, a slender creature with spindly limbs and a short, glossy coat.

A creature made for sand and sun— a jungle blossom already wilting in the frigid, unforgiving air of this land.