In her mind's senses, Shush could conjure the presence of the kind doe she sought. The soft-hard-soft, the velvet murmur, the slip-swish-slip. She could conjure the scent of soft petals that followed her, always, that wafted on a whisper with the slip-swish swish-slip. Be that the doe were as easy to conjure, outside of her mind, where the world was wet and pressing, and beating, and hard.
But she must find her.
When the wet world was cool, only. When the moon's rays fell, like comfort, over her. At first, she drifted. Wandered, only. She drifted through the Swamp, seeking, as if she could conjure the doe, outside of her mind, where the world was less wet, or more. She followed the cries of lost children, because she must. She shushed the lost cries, till they caught her whisper, and followed her out, back, back, to their seeking mothers, and she must fly, before they might see…
Be that the doe were as easy to conjure, as she had the lost child for its mother.
It took some time, the many turns of cool and heat, till it turned to turns of chill and crisp, before she understood (or, perhaps, confessed) that she would not find the doe this way.
Perhaps if she were not a ghost, she might have asked: a grateful mother, a gracious passer-by; she might have asked for the kind doe, who was soft-hard-soft, and swish-slip-swished. Someone with eyes might have seen her, some gracious passer-by, and told her where to seek. But she was a ghost, and no one could see. She could only listen for the slip-swish, feel for the hard-soft. She could only seek the scent of soft petals that followed her always, that wafted on the whisper of the slip-swish-slip.
Perhaps she could not find her.
Perhaps it did not matter. It did not matter what she felt, what she dreamt, what she thought. That she screamed, and wet her fur with tears, and everything was ripped from her again – again, three times; three lifetimes of pain. It did not matter, because she was a ghost, and ghosts did not matter in the hard, wet world.
Perhaps she would not find her.
So Shush only wandered. Drifted through the Swamp, no longer seeking. Following only the cries of lost children, because she must – shh, shhh, shh– back to their crying mothers. And she was lost, and wandered, only, because it did not matter.
And then, one day, as chill was falling, wherever she was, because it did not matter, and she was lost, she caught it: the scent of soft petals. Faint – so faint, she'd thought for a moment she'd conjured it, until she realised it was there, in the wet world. It came with the flutter of wings – a flutter of wings that dipped, and soared, and flapped, back, back, to wherever it was they'd come, for chill was falling, and birds, too, must rest. Chill was falling, but it was not yet full night. Someone might see – but the birds winged soft petals, and she ran.
She ran after the flutter of wings, the scent of soft petals, till it caught and turned stronger, and stronger yet. Till the flutter of wings had stilled to roost, and she could smell more: wet bark; rough beneath her press.
She could smell it: the scent of soft petals. She heard it, the slip-swish, and the other, patter of small paws from the first time they'd met. If she had conjured her into the wet world – ah, had she conjured her? – she had never yet conjured anything so perfect.
END