21

Wilbur

“YOU’RE BACK!” LEIGH SAID GIDDILY. Her beaming face woke the young flower-elf, who yawned from her side of the doorway.

Calla tiredly looked at her. Above them, pink and yellow clouds drifted lazily across the early morning sky.

“Just got back last evening,” Calla told her.

“Oh, you must have. I’ve been checking every day!” Leigh said. “I mean I’ve tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I’m glad you’re back!”

Calla marveled. How her friend had such energy at this time of the morning was beyond her.

“How was it?” Leigh asked. “Was your sister in danger? Did you fight a wilder? How’d it go?”

“No, yes, and badly,” Calla answered.

She felt a pang thinking about her sister. It’ll probably be months before she writes to me again. She thought remorsefully. Maybe even a year.

Leigh noticed her sullen expression. “Oh, sorry to hear that. Is everything all right?”

Calla awkwardly shuffled her house slippers. The last thing she wanted to do was revisit the messy memories of loud yelling, burning glares, and cold shoulders.

“It’s fine,” Calla said quickly. Before Leigh could pry further, she changed the subject. “How have things been in Red Heath?”

Leigh looked around, then leaned forward. “I have to show you something—like something huge happened while you were gone.”

As Calla perked up, Pye waddled beside her and peeked out the door.

“What?” Calla said.

Leigh waved at her. “You have to see it!”

Calla sheepishly glanced back at a stack of red-oat bread with blueberry jam sitting on a table near a steaming cup of tea. Her stomach rumbled.

“Can this wait till after breakfast?” Calla asked hopefully, but Leigh shook her head.

“Too important,” she tugged Calla’s arm. “Come on, I promise you can eat when you get back. This is big!”

Calla sighed. “All right, all right, just let me get my shoes.” As Calla shuffled back into her house, she spotted Mischief dozing underneath the table, his small snorts sending puffs of dust across the floor.

Calla glared at him. “I know you’re awake,” she snapped. “Stay away from my breakfast.”

Mischief raised his head, surprised. His small leafy tail swished across the ground.

“Hurry up Calla!” Leigh called from outside.

Calla kicked off her slippers and grabbed her green curled shoes. She shot one last glance at Mischief, who wagged his tail.

“I mean it—one bite and you’re through!” she threatened and turned to Pye. “You watch him, okay? I’ll be back.”

Pye wagged his leafy tail, clueless as to the meaning of her words, but eager to help.

AS THEY NEARED LEIGH’S COTTAGE, Leigh stopped to lean against the wooden post as she watched clouds drift across the sky.

For a moment Calla watched the clouds as well. The white tufts would journey silently over the thatched roofs of Red Heath, past the plant-ridden walls of Runnelloom, and through the distant Silver Pin Peaks, before never being seen again.

“So,” Leigh said, “after you left, I had trouble getting my mind off, well…” She sighed.

“Off of what?” Calla asked. But even then, she felt she knew that answer.

“That dead winged-moose we found in the ravine,” she admitted. “So, I told my pa about it, and he gathered the other villagers to give it a more proper burial.”

“Well that was rather kind,” Calla said.

“Yeah, it was,” Leigh said. “The next morning I went down there to lay flowers and I found out something.”

Calla felt a flicker of nervousness. Had she found out about the plant killing all those wilders? What if she was mad Calla hadn’t told her yet? Or worse, what if she found out about the trials Calla was going to take? Maybe she found out I hid that from her and doesn’t want to be friends anymore.

Calla sucked in her breath as Leigh continued to speak.

Leigh got up on the fence and faced her cottage, cupped her hands over her mouth, and yelled.

“Wilbur!” she called.

From around the corner of her cottage sprinted a long-legged calf. As he crossed the field he raised his small wings, the small slick-backed feathers wriggling and flapping in the breeze.

Calla watched in disbelief as he neared. He came to a trot. Leigh hopped off the fence and stroked his little purple muzzle.

“You found him in the ravine?” Calla asked.

Leigh nodded. “As soon as I laid down, he approached. I’m quite sure he hid when he saw that crowd of villagers, and was maybe even down there when we were.”

Calla carefully approached the small creature. It wriggled its ears and stretched its neck forward to sniff her.

“Hey there,” Calla said softly.

“You can pet him,” Leigh said.

As she reached up her hand to pet it, the calf licked it. Startled, she pulled away.

“He does that sometimes,” Leigh warned. “Just his way of saying hi.”

Calla stared at the calf.

She wondered if the calf understood how much its life had changed. Did he know that in staying with Leigh, the chances he’d be able to run free with other winged-moose were slim to none. Or that the only other creature who understood him, cared for him, and loved him endlessly wasn’t coming back. Would he grow to feel something was missing for the rest of its life?

Calla sniffed. I sure hope he doesn’t.

Leigh looked at her. “You’re not allergic, are you? You look flushed.”

Calla shook her head. She reached out and hugged the calf.

The calf snorted.