The endless blue ocean beyond Manangatang’s coral reef is ominously dark, mysterious, though its tossing grey body glitters merrily in the radiant, red, afternoon. Occasionally, the enormous profile a whale beneath the waves materialises from black depths, or the shining line of a sleek, leaping fur seal breaks the shifting, glassy surface. Sea-birds, some with unbelievably broad wingspans, swoop in fearlessly from parallel heights to view the visitor to their realm – Noah is a peculiar giant amongst them, who soars effortlessly beneath heaven’s pastel breast. Glances are exchanged only briefly as they pass; resolve drives the larger forward upon vigorous bursts and feathers flutter blissfully as the wind funnels swiftly beneath each glorious arm.

The mission he has been tasked echoes unceasingly, noisily in the traveller’s ears, clouding his thoughts; rolling, twisting, thrashing through his frazzled mind like a cut snake. The young stallion is overwhelmed and horribly worried. His blind journey began at the crack of dawn that very same day, and dozens of gaping eyes had witnessed his performance, the bold departure which had in fact caused nervous sweat to break behind his ears – he doesn’t deserve their trust. Even as he cruises east, he aches for the comfort of warm white sand and the sooth of tepid sea. Squinting aqua eyes train to the flat length of horizon ahead - searching for any indication of land, sign that his uneducated choice of direction has been smart.

Before there is any glimpse of rugged, rocky strand, the loud entrance of protesting birds and a great solitary sea eagle above them, reignites his withering hope. The smaller, more raucous of the aerial creatures, he notes, has not the lean figure of those met throughout the day (of even the gliding eagle); their bodies are stocky, wings short, and they flap ferociously as the offshore wind hassles their pursuit. They are birds who belong in trees, it is clear, and he strains forward eagerly as the blurred outline of continent begins to grow. Wrought, focused shoulders seem to slip suddenly free of fear’s binding.

Evening bruises the soft blue daylight, drawing a thick veil of purple-blue across the sky behind him. The light is starting quickly to dim, but the heartened young stallion has already tipped downwards his wings; excitement bullies his balance. He has been soaring at such elevation that it takes a good length of time to lower and darkness has well and truly smothered the tall, pungent forest which he at last descends. The wiry, whipping, foreign canopy takes him by surprise and he stalls with eyes agape and enormous wings pumping against branch and leaf. He crashes crudely to earth and behind him tumbles all manner of woody debris.

Litter falls like a splitting veil around him when he stirs soon after, dragging splayed limbs into line beneath and forcing his fatigued frame to stand. The world around him is black and silent – he wonders if any have woken to the ungainly sound of his arrival and glances warily beneath the swivel of hunting ears. A night bird cries desolately in distant branches, but nothing more curious is snared. The stiff readiness in his posture dissolves and moments after are spent correcting each feather skewed from its bed, pulling one snapped, and chewing prickled twigs from the delicate skin beneath. Blood speckles here and there across gold and white, but he is uninjured, and shakes vigorously the second he is done.

'This is it!' one thought declares audaciously, and feathered legs endeavour forward.

The night is spent walking without rest – there is no question about it, the winged beast is lost.

As the first breath of dawn-light dilutes the choking dark, he discovers a labyrinth of barky trees, a forest, whose nature seems identical, no matter which course he takes. He cannot go home, so he continues – on and on. By mid-morning, the redwoods have thinned thankfully, and he can stretch the aching muscles in his wings; they rise into the stale, warm air as though they know no shackle, but he calls them back gently to rest and each feathery limb folds once more to rest against the warmth of his waist.

When the sun hits her pinnacle, he can tolerate the weight of summer no more. Noah slips from the baking openness of a long glade into dappled shade. It offers only small respite, yet he is grateful and grazing past twin trunks, seeks deeper shadow still. Cicadae sing on deafeningly, while locusts chant in shrill, sporadic bursts. It is difficult to hear anything else in between and that is likely the reason that he failed to notice her – nestled like a shy doe beneath a den of ragged scrub. His face turns left, then right as sea-green eyes swim between curious, bi-coloured pools; the darkest plane of her face and the sapphire socketed within drive his gaze right (the paler perhaps is softer, quieter). “Are you hiding?” he asks faintly, lifting his face momentarily to survey the grove - it certainly looked that way. Heavy wings shook in place, feathers ruffled as he drank in the impression of her own, so much smaller.