pulpit

It's all gone.

I feel my paws on the same stone steps they walked on two thousand years ago now. They're more worn down now, more moss, more feet have walked these stairs that I can imagine.

It looks the same. But it's gone, too. The comforting warmth is gone. The weight of the singing spirits of my people all around is gone, vapour and river-water. The dead leaves no longer herald the coming of Kelpie, only death, rot, decay.

The rocks are slippery. Claws scrabble at algae and moss. It smells like rain and earth.

I slip once, twice, but keep my footing. The girl touches my back once, but she moves away once I am steady. I step through the shallow water, and onto the island. I lay at the foot of the pulpit, head in my paws. My fur is full of moss and dirt, but it's comforting. She doesn't come across the water, but I know she wants to.

In the years since, people have left stones with their names written on them all around what used to be the beating heart of my home. I cannot read them, but the girl with me reads them to me, voice gentle, reverent. It's like she can feel what this place once was. When she looks at me, I can see that her eyes are wet. Mine are too. When she's read every rock she can find, it's quiet.

It is quiet for a long time. I watch her pick up a round rock and write two names on it with a marker, then place it neatly near the steps.

"...It's kind of like all these rocks are spirits now, isn't it?"

I raise my head.

"...All these people loved this place enough to leave their names here as a sign. Maybe not as much as you guys did, but they loved it. We can make that love into a new caern, one day. What do you think?"

I pause. Then I nod.

"We can start with this one. It says, 'Zora and Whisper.'"