his question gives her pause. she had not considered the arrangement quite so plainly, although she supposes there is some merit to his reasoning. the caribou are prey, and she is a predator, however poorly suited to the occupation. still, she finds herself unwilling to entertain the suggestion that their trust is misplaced.
she does not think it necessary to explain herself further, particularly when yanggadi saghani has already found something else to occupy his thoughts. his enthusiasm is rather infectious, in its own peculiar way. fa’liya watches him turn the stone over with attentiveness, and a smile threatens the corners of her mouth.
but this rock does not resemble the shell of any turtle, and the comparison to a snail seems increasingly inadequate the longer she studies it. whatever lived within must have been rather different from the creatures she knows. perhaps it swam, or crawled along the bottom of some old river. she wonders how long it has lain beneath the earth, waiting to be discovered by a boy who would not have known what to make of it.
perhaps,she says,
if i knew they would not hurt me.it is a rather simple answer to a question she suspects he intended to be considerably more difficult. her gaze wanders toward the grazing cows, lingering upon one whose antlers have begun to grow broad and impressive beneath their summer velvet.
they come to me. i do not make them stay.
she does not think it necessary to explain herself further, particularly when yanggadi saghani has already found something else to occupy his thoughts. his enthusiasm is rather infectious, in its own peculiar way. fa’liya watches him turn the stone over with attentiveness, and a smile threatens the corners of her mouth.
yes. have you seen a snail?she asks, lifting her muzzle toward him.
little creatures, with shells on their backs. they come out when it rains. if you touch them, they hide inside.she remembers finding them beneath damp leaves as a pup, their little bodies soft and terribly vulnerable beyond the protection of their shells. she had never thought to eat one, although she knew others who did.
turtles have shells, too. very hard ones.
but this rock does not resemble the shell of any turtle, and the comparison to a snail seems increasingly inadequate the longer she studies it. whatever lived within must have been rather different from the creatures she knows. perhaps it swam, or crawled along the bottom of some old river. she wonders how long it has lain beneath the earth, waiting to be discovered by a boy who would not have known what to make of it.
perhaps it lived in water,she muses.
before it became stone.the possibility pleases her, though she cannot say why. she extends a forepaw to touch one of the little ridges, tracing its curve with a careful claw.
i think it is very old indeed. older than you or me. perhaps even older than your father.there is a faint humor in the suggestion, and she glances toward her brother to see whether he appreciates it. he is so much larger than she remembers, although she supposes that is simply what healthy children do. they grow. the thought leaves a familiar sting of bitterness upon her tongue, which she swallows before it can spoil their conversation.
you should keep it,she tells him.
i think it is a good thing to find.