2022-04-25 - Midnight in the Enchanted Valley

A day late, and there are still last minute tasks to do before Jules can properly set out on her hike. By the time she completes the one hour drive to the entrance to the national park, it's already mid-morning. First things first: she swings by the ranger station on Lake Quinault to register for a backcountry camping permit, picks up a bear canister there, updates her maps. The ranger gives the requisite warnings about black bears -- they don't want to harm you, they just want your food -- and the pack it in, pack it out ethic. Finally, she's ready to park her car, swing on her overnight pack, and set out into the wilderness.

The end of April is just starting to see activity pick up, and Jules' old Camry is not the only car in the parking lot, though it's far from full. The first stretch is an easy day-hike along the East Fork of the Quinault River on a well-kept trail. Graves Creek to Pony Bridge, the first of the campgrounds along the route, is an easy 2.6 miles. Jules won't stop there beyond a break for water, though there's a few day hikers picnicking there with their kids. It's up to an outlook over the river gorge, vista opening up for a stunning birds-eye view. The trail will drop back down again then, weaving and winding along the river until her first night's destination, the O'Neill Creek campground.

It's cloudy and cool under the canopy of the giant evergreens, Sitka spruce giving way to even older Western Hemlocks. The ferns thrive here, soaking up the moisture and growing hip-high. A gentle mist beads on her rain slicker, and soon enough she's relaxing into a steady rhythm as she walks along the blue-green river, deeper into the rainforest. Green, green, everywhere you look: the bright emerald of moss carpeting the ground and logs, the rich variation of the foliage, the darker, shaded regions beyond the path. For all the stresses of the previous day, Jules is visibly at peace, here in the forest of her ancestors. For a woman who's so very busy, a day without talking, of simply listening to the sounds of the forest, this break from routine makes a welcome change. She's remembering how to just be.

Once she reaches the campground and sets up her tiny tent, Jules spends the rest of the daylight hours in quiet tasks. She filters water from the nearby stream to refill her water bottles and sets up her tiny cooktop to boil water. Her stomach is growling audibly at this point; all she's had today is that one bagel, plus more coffee than was probably wise prior to setting out. She's not completely foolhardy in her approach to fasting (Una would be glad to know); for this first night, she slowly chews on some salmon jerky to ease into it before trying to convince her stomach that it's full via warm water. Then there's not much to do except sit there in the dark, string up her bear canister into a nearby tree, and retire early.

The next morning follows a similar routine. She's up with the light, breaking camp and chewing on another strip of jerky as she sets out down the trail. Today will bring her to her destination, via another set of small climbs and declines, crossing creeks over footbridges. Finally, a high bridge over the East Fork of the Quinault takes her right into the valley. Enchanted Valley. She stops there to take in the view when it first comes into sight: the rustic wood-log chalet from the 1930s on the banks of the river, the yellow-green valley grasses of spring, the sharp crags of the Olympic mountain range towering over the valley. The mountains are always topped with snow, but this early in the season, there's still plenty on the slopes too, drifting down the ravines that lead to the valley. They call it the valley of the thousand waterfalls, and indeed, there's an astounding amount of run-off as the snow starts to melt, cascading down the heights to join the river below.

There's no one else. It's a gift of the early season. Jules can pick her campsite at her leisure, divesting herself of the heavy pack. She's not alone in the valley, though -- far from it. She surprises elk in the early morning, and while no black bears immediately present themselves to her sight, there's scat near the trail.

She's lighter when she sets off to explore the valley. It's not just the missing weight of her pack. While Jules is used to skipping meals (sorry, Una), it's another thing altogether to hike 13 miles on a bagel and a few strips of salmon jerky. A headache is starting to pound behind her temples, which she tries to compensate for with plenty of water, with a little packet of flavored electrolyte powder dumped into one water bottle. It's not enough. It's not meant to be enough. She only carries with her a few bare essentials: her bear spray, a whistle, Ravn's white stick, and her sat-nav device, all tucked into her pockets. And a couple pre-rolled joints. Perhaps not essentials, but she's got them. With one hand carrying a water bottle and the other using a walking stick she's picked up along the way, Jules heads upriver.

The Quinault River glimmers with the light, and more. There's quartz here among the pebbles, and Jules hunts for it like a child in search of treasure. The water's freezing, but her hands dart in anyway, tumbling rocks through her fingers to see which ones shine. Eventually she finds one that meets with satisfaction, and she holds it up with a pleased grin before tucking it away in her pockets.

She keeps going until she's back among the trees. A side trail leads to the world's largest western hemlock overlooking the river, and that's where she's headed. Once there, she nestles down among its roots, humming to herself. And here she sits, watching the light, quiet enough not to disturb the wildlife. It's a rare clear day for spring, and when the dusk comes and the sun sets, the stars come out, high above that cold, clear valley. This is where she carefully lights up one of those joints to see if it will open her senses further, to see if she can find where the worlds join.

It doesn't work. Nothing.

And yet none of this is nothing. It is very much something. They call it the Enchanted Valley for a reason, and even in the dark, it's beautiful, clear enough for moonlight to reflect off the snow-lined mountains and in the rippling river. Jules doesn't stay out here all night, instead opting to slowly and carefully walk back along the trail, marveling at just how beautiful everything is along the way. Yes, she's a little high. But the beauty is real.

She makes it back to her campsite without incident, crawls in her tent, tries to ignore the hunger, and drifts off to sleep. Her lullabies are the sounds of water.

For the longest time, nothing stirs that one does not expect to be stirring. Insects do whatever insects do. Birds yell at each other, as birds will -- this tree is mine, this pinecone is mine, I'ma fuck you up, I swear, don't you try a fucking thing, I own this branch. A couple of squirrels flit about, trying to find last year's good hiding places for more of those pinecones from last year; this season's are definitely not worth bothering with yet.

Time passes. The day passes. The sun sets. It's a gorgeous sunset, though it bears a little too much resemblance to honey and ketchup for someone who's had too little to eat all day.

Night falls.

The sounds of the forest are many. The rootling of a badger in the undergrowth. The pitty-patter of little rodent feet. The snuffling of something with a lot of voice in a small body; a porcupine, probably, no reason to keep quiet because fuck you, I have quills.

I said, fuck you, I have quills. Go AWAY.

Sleep is fleeting. It likely has something to do with the pangs of discomfort that come with a very empty belly, but also, the forest is loud. People don't realize just how noisy the wilderness is until they're out in it.

Jules jolts awake. She sits upright, then shuffles herself around until she can unzipper her tent entrance and stick her head out. At first she's quiet, concentrating. Quietly then,

"Hello?"

It's not a cicada year. That was 2021. And yet... the stridulation of the cicadas are unmistakable; and for Jules, more like wave after wave, especially now that she's sticking her head out.

Call me suggest a male.

In your dreams answers the female.

Me, me! suggests another.

Impress me taunts the female.

Who's there?

Who's where?

Who? What?

There.

Cicadas call, and so too do frogs: from ponds, from puddles, from the river's backwaters and from muddy patches, from the dark places beyond paths. They wear dark sashes over their eyes. They like cicadas, too.

Hello.

Hello.

Hello. That one's from a tree.

Hello.

See.

You put your sleep-den in my dinner. This is the best place in this entire wood and you put your smelly human thing on it. Are you stupid?

Mutter, mutter, snorf, grble, snorf, grunt. Porcupine sounds. Really, only hedgehogs have more ridiculous noises, and they're only half the size, too.

Well? Are you going to get up and move your smelly thing?

"Hello," Jules breathes back, in an entirely different cadence from her first cautious query.

She crawls out of her tent altogether, now. This proves a slight challenge in that she has to extract her legs from her sleeping bag still, and very little room to maneuver in this tiny tent. She stands up with the warm sleep sack draped over her arm; the thermals she's wearing are a little thin when she's not inside the warmth of her own den.

The dark spins before her eyes. It's impossible to make out the living things that address her.

"Where would you like me to move it?" She's polite, and the sleep-haze is quickly lifting in the mountain air. It makes her sharper when she would be otherwise annoyed at being told to move all her stuff in the dark.

Not here.

Not here either!

No, no, the ladies are coming here.

No we're not.

No.

Here. Come here. Come into my parlour. It's warm and dry and safe.

There's a light, too: a faint one, bobbing through the trees somewhere distant. Not a firefly-- for the fireflies in this region of the world don't glow-- but something akin to one, perhaps. Such an inviting light.

Hello.

Krek-ek.

Hello.

The frogs fall in and out of focus. They don't snuffle and shuffle like the hedgehog; they aren't so cyclic as the cicadas. They are a chorus gridded, non-linearly, within the rest.

Take care.

Take it where?

Go sleep on the rocky ground. Or over there, in the tall grass. Just don't park your over-sized human ass on my fresh shoots of clover.

Somebody's got priorities. And a remarkable amount of quills -- the porcupine is not hard to spot in the dark, because while the animal is small, his quills are long, sharp, and pale. Moonlight catches in them, as if maybe he's not entirely of this world; his image wavers slightly, like a reflection in a near-quiet pond.

Mumble, grlf, snorf. What does a human want here anyway? It is too soon. Humans come out in numbers when it is warmer. They hibernate somewhere. Silly things.

Jules stands very still, watching as the porcupine emerges. She's listening too, as the choruses resolve from indiscriminate croaks and chirrs towards meaning that her human self can understand. "Those aren't very good places for me to sleep," she says apologetically. "But I can move to another campsite. I don't see in the dark as well as you do, though. Would you let me stay here until morning?"

Her tone is deferential, colored by good humor when she answers, "I came here to meet you."

And you.

And you.

Something amplifies her words on this strange night. Perhaps it's the mist rising off the river.

She wants to meet me smugs one of the (male, yes) cicadas.

Don't be a dope!

It's me, it's me!

I saw her first!

That glowing light, off in the distance through the trees, continues to bob and wave: it dances, exulting in the moonlight.

Be one with us, it suggests. Come home.

The frogs croak, and warble, and -- en masse -- croon. They are a keystone species. They amplify, too.

Move.

Dope.

Move.

Meet.

Hello.

Why.

For a while, chicadas and frogs create music, underscored by the soft snuffling and chewing sounds from the porcupine. It looks quite indifferent to the close proximity of the human -- and why not? Any human dumb enough to try to manhandle a porcupine tends to get a quick and easy to remember lesson on why we don't touch the walking balls of long, sharp quills.

A munching noise. A member less of the chicada orchestra. Should have been more careful.

Meet me. Us. Why? I'm bad eating.

Jules' attention flickers to the light off in the trees. She stuffs her sleeping bag back in her tent, for now, and finds a fleece to pull on over her base layers. With the entrance zipped again -- no surprise porcupine in the tent tonight -- she addresses the creatures around her once more.

"I'm here to learn from you," she says, stooping to tie the laces of her hiking boots. It doesn't look like she's going back to sleep anytime soon. "You know things that I don't. My people used to meet you more frequently. I'd like to know you, too."

She takes a few steps out into the greater darkness, towards the light that beckons her. "Be one with you," she murmurs. "How do I do this?"

Let go, suggests the voice that seems to be part of the light: not a cicada, not given how different this voice is from the others, but something far less easily defined or identified. Let go of the mortal world. Let go of your wrappings, your bindings, your controls.

Oooh, it's going to happen.

Is she going to join us?

Don't eat us either! We taste bad.

Yeah, eat someone else instead!

Taste, say the frogs, and one snaps up a smaller cicada too.

Good.

Here.

Here.

Hear.

Learn.

There's one right there, near her, higher than the porcupine: in the tree.

Learn what. Not a question; if anything, a scoff. Snorf, grble. Want to know what I know? I know to keep my head down and eat myself fat in summer so I can sleep through the worst of winter. I know to use my quills to convince lynxes and bears to leave me alone. That's my lesson. You don't need to be big to be a boss. Just be more trouble to kill than you're worth eating.

The porcupine is right there, snuffling around in the grass, a few paces away. He -- she? who's going to check? -- seems quite unperturbed by Jules' close proximity. And indeed, why not? More trouble to try to chase the animal off and risk a face full of quills, than just wait for it to lose interest and putter off.

Learn from me instead. A rustling of branches in the low bushes, and there's a pair of feline eyes looking back at Jules; moonlight reflected in pools of yellow-green.

Be silent. Be deadly. Be the hunter, not the prey. The bobcat cants his head. Soft as my fur. Sharp as my claw.

Let go. Jules stands still with this instruction, eyes drifting closed for a few moments that seem longer than they probably are. "I'm trying," she murmurs. Her voice isn't pitched to carry, but chances are it doesn't need to. This isn't a human conversation.

She stands there, letting her other senses do the listening and the learning. Her eyes open again when a new voice introduces itself, and then they go wide. Her breath, steady thus far, catches. It isn't fear she feels, what emanates off her for the predator's senses. It's a respect born of caution. Alertness. Excitement.

"I'm not very good at being silent," Jules admits, voice still low. "I crash around. I think I take on more damage than I actually do."

The voice in the distance, the light bobbing upon the horizon and sending shadows dancing through the trees, scoffs at the advice of the bobcat. He-- she? it?-- isn't visible as any creature in particular, but its voice carries, hanging words like ornaments upon the crisp air, so very clear. Let go, it repeats, more insistent this time.

Learn to show yourself. Uncover your belly; trust yourself, your pack. You can be the hunter without being hard.

Yeah! says one of the smaller voices; the cicadas, still lifting their not-actually-voices in not-actually-song.

How would you know, numbnuts?

Hush.

Hush.

Never be silent. Silent means no one sees you. How will you find what you seek if you don't lift your voice? Be seen. Sparkle. Sing.

Whoever said advice needed to be consistent?

The tree frog in the tree -- not a treed tree frog, and just one, not three -- calls; its vocal sac expands like a soap bubble, shimmering, near-iridescent before the air's all used up and it draws more in again. In all the words, all the commentary, its words fade; yet, it sings onward.

All the words, all the commentary -- there's a disturbance, a complaint. Why so loud? You scared the fish. You people. A broad, pointed nose pokes out from its burrow, its burrow that has many entrances, many escape holes. They don't all have to be by the river. Especially not tonight.

The creature, the otter, squints. Its whiskers quiver. Silent is good for ambushes. Loud is good for play. Possibly these are one and the same.

Work harder, say the ants. Work, work, work. There is no you, there is no me. There is only all. There is only the colony. One mind, a million bodies. Work harder. Nothing else matters. You don't matter, only the whole.

Find them, fuck them, and leave them, says the bobcat; he's a male with a wide range consisting of several female bobcat territories. In his family, being a good father means sodding off rather than eat the kittens.

Fly with the flock. Pair up to breed but remember that you are part of the flock, says a crow from somewhere high above; disturbed, perhaps, by the activity below. Birds of a feather, safety in numbers.

"There are a lot of different ways to be," is what Jules takes away from this; with some of the advice, she can't help but crack a grin. "How do I know which one is right for me?"

And then, because she's here, because the animals are talking to her, she puts forth her request.

"I want to be stronger. Whenever I try to do things, I usually fail. I tried to protect my friend, and I couldn't. I tried to move fire by thinking it, and I couldn't. I tried to fight with my mind and my body, and I was so ineffective it makes me want to just sit down and cry. Even now, just a little bit ago, I tried to see beyond what people can usually see, to find you, and nothing happened. How do I learn any of it?" Her voice, at the end of these confessions, has become plaintive. Softly, she says, "I'm tired of being a failure."

She wants to be stronger, says one of the cicadas.

But she can't be. She can only be what she is.

Does she know that?

How can she? She's only human.

You're a tiny bug.

You're a tinier one!

There's a rustling in the undergrowth, now, and from out of the darkness, a pair of glowing eyes: serpentine, slithering. It's big, whatever it is, but there's no tell-tale rattle to indicate that this is a slightly-out-of-its-normal-habitat rattlesnake. The cicadas go abruptly silent in response, their susurration stilled.

How, she wonders, with the slightly disgruntled tone that suggests she's been otherwise occupied, but now can't help herself: the disruption is annoying. How can you be anything other than what you are? It's either within you, or it's not. It's up to you to hatch it.

My kits are blind when they are born, says the mother-marten from her den. There are five of them now, a richness of martens in all their rarity. Listen to yourself. You are a failure and we are not here.

Was I born like this? Was I born like this? A rustle of feathers above, and then a bird alighting on a branch nearby. She spreads her wings into fans; shades of brown and black, interspersed with spatters of bright gold and orange. The varied thrush trills. We come into this world naked, clawing and pecking our way from the egg. Before you can fly you must grow.

They all say the same thing, in their different ways. And still Jules finds herself frustrated, lacking the clarity she so desperately desires. Maybe it's the hunger knotting her belly that tips her into the beginning of tears. "But how? I don't know how."

Tall, murmur the bees. Very, very tall. Make your hair into flowers so we can find you.

Fight.

It's a new voice, out of the darkness. Female; strong. Her eyes visible first, and then the rest of her, dressed in moonlight: a cougar, young and strong and fierce.

She bares her teeth. And then she launches herself at Jules.

Fight.

Fight, says the porcupine.

Fight, say the soldier ants.

Fight, cries the crow.

Fight, warbles the trush.

Shit shit shit shit

Enough self-pity.

There's no time for thinking. All Jules can do is throw herself out of the way, rolling into a tumble to try to dodge those claws, those fangs.

shit shit shit shit

Her body is screaming at her, adrenaline-filled. Her brain hasn't even kicked into gear. No one wants to mess with a cougar, the most dangerous predator in these mountains.

You don't have to fight, says the marten, licking her paw. We all have to eat.

Don't run. Fight.

Jules is quick, but the cougar is quicker: the Quinault woman may dodge, but the cougar pounces, one paw aiming to pin, while the other lifts to strike.

There's something off about this cougar. She looks like a cougar, but there's a glow to those eyes that's otherworldly. She's waiting for something, even as those talons aim themselves, ready for the attack.

Fight.

That's too much pussy for me. I got a hot date on the next mountain over. Good luck! Goodbye, bobcat.

Use what you got, says porcupine. Don't use your paws, what are you, stupid? You don't have quills. Use your mind!

All mind is one mind, say the ants -- every ten million at once. All is one. One is all. One defender, all defenders.

Look at me, warbles trush. Look at me! I am earth and fire! Use the fire within!

"Jackass!" Jules screams it at the marten, or maybe at the bobcat who's turning tail and sauntering off.

Jules doesn't have claws. Jules doesn't have sharp fangs to bite back. Pinned on her back on the uneven ground, she lashes out with what she does have.

What she didn't know she had.

She has claws of another kind, in her mind only, as if she were a cougar able to swat back with a big, heavy, taloned paw.

Oooh is Cougar going to eat well tonight?

Mind your own business.

Yeah, wait and see. Look-- she fought back. Maybe she's not prey after all.

Hush!

The cicadas may wish to keep up a running commentary, but they're not close enough to see all the action. The cougar roars in answer to Jules' attack: she may have pushed for it, she may have prompted it, but there's still an element of surprise that sends her reeling-- but not without equally setting her to lash out, claws aimed for the softness of skin, to slice and slash if she can reach... if Jules can't protect herself with more than just fight.

Use your quills! The porcupine even swings about to demonstrate; a sharp lash of that tail, and those quills would go flying. Maybe the small animal is speaking metaphorically; maybe it does in fact think Jules has quills. They're not known for their great eyesight.

Spit fire! cry the soldier ants. Their bite, if small, stings. Many mouths mean much stinging.

Be the fire, the trush calls, and flies from one branch to another, displaying her fiery plumage.

Don't think. React.

This seems to be when Jules has the most success: when the reaction flows out as part of her, not as if she's manipulating a tool. In this instance, fear and anger combine as she tries to shove the cougar away, to keep those claws from her face and body.

She screams back at her feline opponent. There's no words, just raw sound.

The cougar is undaunted. Oh, sure, she's thrown back a bit, and those claws? This time, they do not damage. But she's a predator, and Jules has not yet proven herself not to be prey. She bares her teeth at Jules, and: Yes, good. But you have much to learn. You are not as strong as you could be. Fight.

And she throws herself back into the fray.

In truth, a more dispassionate look might suggest that the cougar is pulling her blows. She is, after all, an apex predator; even with Jules' mental abilities, it's not an easy fight. It can never be an easy fight.

Oooooh fuck, look at her go murmurs one of the cicadas.

HUSH.

Yes! Use your quills! The porcupine at least approves; what Jules did is not how the porcupine would have reacted, but at the same it is -- throw up what you got as a barrier of pain, whether it is a shield of mental force or a face full of sharp quills.

Bite, bite, bite! chant the ants.

Burn the sucker, declares the thrush. Easy for her to say, she's all the way up there. Maybe there's a chicada in her ancestry somewhere.

Jules bares her teeth right back in lieu of a statement in response, a growl rolling out of her throat. She's picked herself off the ground by now and started to circle to the left in an attempt to get the tent between her and the cougar. She isn't taking her eyes off her adversary, but from the corner of her gaze is looking for things to wield. Too bad she keeps such a tidy camp.

All her wilderness training tells her to fight back, even without the incitement of the animals. She hears them, but there's no acknowledgement now, not when it's crucial to keep her wits about her and not shit her pants.

Metaphorically speaking. Her thin base layer leggings.

When the cougar comes at her again, Jules lashes out the same as before, mind slashing at the cougar's face in lieu of her own short fingernails. The cougar might be pulling her punches, but still takes every last once of her strength to fend off the cat.

Behind Jules, the rope that keeps the bear canister hung up in the tree suddenly frays, and the canister comes crashing down. A rip appears in the side panel of the tent, too, like a feline claw has casually swiped through it.

Jules' attack lands, and slashes marr the young cougar's face, bleeding freely. There's a mark over her eye, threatening lifelong injury. She screams: it's the sound of pain, but also somehow approval and dominance and the thrill of the hunt. Yes, Jules. Like that. Like that.

She's not done, though, and maybe pain pushes her further: she launches herself at the Quinault woman, both paws up, her jaws open.

This fight won't-- can't-- go on forever, especially not if the cougar's intention is not to kill, but to teach. But for now... Slash. Bite. Teach.

Fire! cries the thrush. Blood thirsty little thing.

Sting! call the ants. And look at them -- hundreds, thousands of ants, forming a circle almost as if this is some kind of ritualised fight that they are guarding.

Gonna sting in the morning all right, says the bobcat. Apparently, he didn't fuck off far enough to miss that display.

A weapon. Jules needs a weapon. She has nothing at hand, nothing except her own ill-understood powers. She's still searching for one, casting about frantically with her mind as the cougar attacks.

The bear canister is lying there now, out of Jules' reach. She grabs for it anyway while her own hands go up to shield her head, and the heavy metal can moves as if of its own accord. It hurtles at the cougar, perhaps operating as more of a distraction than as a well-aimed blow.

The claws and teeth catch, this time. With Jules' arms up to protect herself, the claws sink into the soft skin of her under arm, teeth around her wrist.

There was never any way that Jules would walk away from this encounter unscarred.

The cougar's teeth hold on, but don't bite and tear the way they might do. Indeed, the moment they connect, the creature stills, as if all the fight has gone from her. Good, she says, and her voice is softer, now, with a hint of pride; teacher has taught. Lessons have been learned. No one is invulnerable.

She lets go. Oh, those teeth have left their mark, but it's the point that's been made, more than the wound. She drops her head, and, unless Jules fights her back, licks at the injury.

It's not a lick of healing-- she's not that way skilled. Rather, it's a gesture, a gesture made as her own wounds bleed freely, dripping down her face and onto Jules, onto the ground.

Roll in the clover, suggests the porcupine. The leaves will stick to your quills and stop the bleeding.

Die, suggests an ant. Another will take your place.

Shaddup, says the thrush -- and eats him.

You both shut up, the porcupine tells them. This is learning. Watch the cougar teach her cub. This is the way.

The pain registers, but so too the knowledge that Jules is coming out of this relatively whole. There's blood running down her arm, yes, as well as a black eye forming even though nothing connected with her head.

She's learning in more than one way. With the use of these innate skills come consequences.

"Good," she repeats, breathing hard as exhaustion hits her all at once. "Good?" And then she starts to laugh. It's slightly unhinged. "Good?!"

What's she doing? I can't see!

They're mating.

They are not. They're bonding.

Is there a difference?

Hush.

Hush.

The cougar gives Jules' arm another lick, then settles down, watching her. Maybe her satisfaction is palpable; maybe it's easy to miss in this moment, in this so very distracting moment.

Good, agrees the cougar. And; You'll do. You could heal me. I could help you again, if you healed me.

The cougar is, after all, still bleeding. Drip. Drip, drip, dip.

Oh, there's a difference all right. Trust the bobcat. He knows.

You wouldn't understand, says the porcupine. Bugs. All you're good for is food.

Oh, we know a thing or two, say an infinite number of ant drones who are charged with caring for the larvae, feeding and cleaning them, caring for them, until they themselves die from exhaustion. Is it bonding? Who knows, but the ants?

Teach the chick to fly, the varied thrush calls. She is so close. Now is the time to push her off the branch and make her fly.

There's something even more unreal about a cougar licking one's own wounds, almost as if she's a domesticated cat. Which she most certainly is not. Jules doesn't pull away, marveling at the creature before her as her laughter fades.

"Can I?" Jules has never tried healing before. She thinks of herself more as a fighter than a healer. Other people do the doctoring. She flings herself into combat, whether it's with the merciless industrial complex ruining her waters and forests, with casual habits of misogyny and racism, or against trees in a Dream.

She can. Wonderingly, she reaches out to touch the cougar's flat head, near the deep cut over her eye. The bleeding slows, then stops as flesh begins to knit itself back together. Oh, it'll leave a scar. Jules isn't that talented. But she can close the wound sufficiently until nature takes over and mends the cut until there's only a thin white line in the golden coat.

With that, her legs abruptly buckle. "Jesus, I'm exhausted."

The cougar's eyes close as Jules touches her head, and though she's clearly a wild animal of some description-- Veil, non-Veil, it's all the same-- this is a moment of still; of calm. Her sigh, as those wounds heal, is difficult to miss.

Those eyes open again, studying Jules through the dim light. You'll do, she decides. Rest now. I will guard you until morning. You will be safe, for now.

But: But never for always. The bad ones will always return. You should be ready. You will fight, and you will burn. You will cry. And you will get back up again. That is the price.

There's always a price.

Rest.

"Thank you." Deep gratitude imbues these simple words. Jules lets her hand linger a minute more on the short, supple fur before she withdraws, first taking a step away from the cougar and then retreating to her ripped tent. This is all she says. It says it all.