Only one moon had passed since the herd had been tumbled into the underground refuge. All sense of time had been lost; the sun’s warmth never stroked the cool stone floor there, nor did the full autumn moon shed its ethereal glow. Still apprehension gripped the minds of those who mulled through the vast underground network of rooms and tunnels, and few found peace enough to sleep- those who were blessed with such, collapsed because they could stand no longer. Africa had fled into the depths; the panic and strain too much for her already troubled, fatigued mind to cope with, and quietly she stood hunched beneath the mists expelled by the churning wall of water.

For many night’s she had carried around the bag gifted to her by the Sun God, not strapped to her body like perhaps it could have been, but clasped between the security of her blunt, pearly teeth. The Glowing Room will filled with welcome quietude, and though she could hardly quell the storm of thoughts and memories as they raged inside her skull, the young dappled mare found much respite in her solitude. “Silas?” she called through the privacy of their snug bond, and the Roc skipped towards her obligingly, razor talons grazing the unusual carpet of moss and fine grass which spread across the floor. “This satchel, do you think if I held it here... (the mare lifted the bag up to sit just beneath the bulge of her left shoulder, quite level with her elbow) ...you might be able to secure the strap? I think there’s a stri…” But she needn’t have tried to explain how the buckle would fasten, her companion held a keen mind; and already was clinging to her silken robe, adjusting the belt around her foreleg.

“You’re so quiet lately…” she hummed gently for him, his dimly lit lilac eye meeting the softness of her pale gaze briefly before returning to his task. ‘Feeling… useless…’ His mind stammered in response, and Africa’s heart nearly broke. ‘Help…help army… fight.’ he told her glancing again to meet her devoted gaze. “Silas, I can’t f…” She began unhappily, regretfully but was interrupted. ‘Won’t put you… through pain. Know your… gentle heart.’ Not often did they work so hard to communicate, their minds were so in tune these days that rarely was such focus and strain required.

The avian pulled tightly the strap and at last the satchel was wrapped tightly around her upper limb. Africa released her grip, and watched with intrigue as it held firm. “Thank you.” She gestured affectionately with billowy breath to ruffle the sleek purple-sheened feather’s cloaking his breast and in return the Zephyr preened the residual droplets of spring water beaded upon her supple nose. Still unfinished, he dipped his sharp beak beneath the flap of the bag and drew from its midst the first feather- red and blunt at its base instead of long and tapering like his own beautiful array. Delicately the quill was woven into the top of her mane, right beneath the curious swing of her long storm-grey ear; and beside it he laced two glossy black, star-speckled ones which he drew from his own glorious wings.

He returned to the bag and drew another, much longer and vivid blue (there were three to follow; yellow, red and green, each drawn from the elaborate tail of various macaws), and fluttered to the mare’s rear to tie it amidst the crimson and black hues of her long, thick tail. Silas repeated this until all four feathers decorated her hair, and once again he turned upon himself, and pulled from his tail a long lavish quill which too was laced with star-shine. That too was mingled with the rest. When he had finished; the bag emptied, the Zephyr returned to her withers and nestled against the warmth generated beneath the silk cloak between them. “We will meet Gaucho.” She whispered, both into his young, dutiful mind, and aloud. “We will do everything we can to help the resistance....”

Africa