Kaia Stormweaver's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

The reeds ahead thinned into open water. Kaia stood at the edge and squinted. She could not see the far side. No cove, no reef, just gray water stretching wide. The vine hung heavy in her bag. The hummingbird hovered near, flashing green and blue, waiting on the flowers. Stan sat beside her, the raccoon who had shared her cold night in the marsh and stayed when he did not have to. "Can't swim that," Kaia said. "Too far." "Nope," Stan said. He scratched his ear. "Follow the edge. Water always leads somewhere." It made sense. The cove had opened onto water. If she walked the shore, it should loop back. She turned and followed the muddy line where reeds met the wet. Stan padded ahead, quick and sure. The bird trailed the bag. Walking gave her time to think. She thought of the life she left behind the water. She had bent herself into every shape people wanted. None of the shapes fit. Here she had planted flowers, and the flowers had died. So she planted what the island grew, and those roots held. Strange, she thought, how the island taught her that. You could not force a thing to live where it did not belong. But you could find what belonged and let it grow. The reeds fell away. The mud turned to pale sand. Kaia stopped and stared. Open ocean spread before her, wide and calm, framed by thick green palms. She knew this beach. This was the shore near her home. "Stan," she said. "I know this place." She walked faster. Her feet found the sand she crossed most mornings. Past the palms lay her garden, the plants she had coaxed from island soil. She had made it out. The shoreline had connected, just as she hoped. The hummingbird still followed. It dipped toward the bag, then lifted, then dipped again. Kaia knelt and pulled the vine free. Roots, moss, and blooms in red, purple, and yellow. She pressed it into the warm sand near her garden's edge and packed the soil tight around the roots. The bird dropped at once. It hung over the flowers and drank. It did not fly off. It stayed. Kaia sat back on her heels and breathed. She had the flowers. She had the bird. She had made it home. The island she wanted was starting to take the shape she loved. Then she looked at the vine in the sand and frowned. The blooms already drooped. The leaves had gone soft on the walk. Marsh plants wanted marsh water and marsh mud, not this dry beach soil. If the flowers died here, the bird would leave. Stan sniffed the wilting leaves. "Doesn't look happy," he said. "No," Kaia said. "It doesn't." She had brought the flowers home. Now she had to keep them alive.