†
How does one describe a tapir? As he searches for an adequate description of the strange, squat creatures, Shiloh steps forward and accepts his invitation home. More, she reaches out to touch him, drawing a warm line across his shoulder with her breath. Temblor has been alone for two full years, only recently come out of his meditation to engage and interact with the world at large again, and the soft press of her lips arrests his attention. He trembles with want.
Before she fully withdraws, Temblor dips his muzzle toward hers to reciprocate her touch, eager to trade breaths and formalize their introduction. Then he turns, swinging his hindquarters back so that his hip bumps companionably against hers, treading lightly on his right hind to ease the barely-tempered throb emphasizing what feels like a bone-deep bruise, and leads her toward the beach.
"They're vaguely pig-like," he replies, picking up the thread of their conversation until they reach the water. "But their snouts are longer, flexible. Their cries are short but quite high; they used to startle me, but they're fairly passive creatures and I've come to appreciate their calls. Better a tapir's whistle than the silence of a hunting cat. And, here we go—" he wades into the waiting tide and pushes off to swim freely, grateful for the relief being buoyant brings to his aching hip, treading water until Shiloh joins him. It is a fine day for a swim, and he focuses on the rhythm of his legs as he leads her to Paradise.
†
The days that follow bring healing, not only to his hip but to his heart. The silver-haired mare was right, he thinks at the end of a lazy afternoon as he rises, yawning, from a nap taken to avoid the worst of the day's heat. Paradise is better with company. He looks around for Shiloh, still stretching, and blows out a low breath of disappointment that she is not there. While they have not spent every moment together since her arrival to Paradise, her company has been more than he has had in years, and Temblor is like a man starved. He has begun to loathe solitude: what had been akin to a cleansing spiritual fast now leaves him feeling only empty, cavernous. Wanting.
He shakes off the last bit of sleep and locates a game trail through the trees. The jungle is lively around him, warm, with no hint of winter's chill. It is a good time of year to stay on Atlantis. Temblor, however, finds within himself a growing appetite. Shiloh is but the beginning: he should venture out again and see what the winds blow his way. For now, though, as he treks through the vine-bedraggled trees, he lifts his head and adds his voice to the chorus, whinnying loud and long to announce his location before he listens intently for an equine's response. He intends to walk the beach this evening and watch the sun set —a favorite end-of-day ritual for him— and, if he can find her, invite Shiloh to join him.
TEMBLOR
& swallows you whole
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