Past The Haze

SAELYNA

I finally find a spot to spend the morning alone and in silence. Around a curve in the creek, further down the plateau. The birds tweet rather sweetly here, and the air is soft and gentle. I wonder why it took me this long to find it.

I drift off for a while before a strong smell penetrates my nostrils, that of smoke. I thought I’d had my fill of fires.

When I trace the source, it comes from above me, on the tableland. Another funeral pyre.

But it’s just Jenna. And an altar.

She stands quietly, solemnly, her grey coat and dark hair billowing in the morning breeze, the smoke and smell of incense wafting around her in gentle curls. She looks serene, almost godlike in that posture, in the moment, until I remember the way her eyes had flashed and the fangs that protrude from her mouth. Wolves are not to be trusted, father would say, They give off an air of peace and certainty, like a foxan, but they cannot hide forever. Sooner or later, they’ll bite down and most times, it’s too l