“Kaw-Liga”KAW-LIGA, was a wooden Indian standing by the doorHe fell in love with an Indian maid over in the antique storeKAW-LIGA – A, just stood there and never let it showSo she could never answer “YES” or “NO”. He always wore his Sunday feathers and held a tomahawkThe maiden wore her beads and braids and hoped someday he’d talkKAW-LIGA – A, too stubborn to ever show a signBecause his heart was…

[Inky Depths Masterlist]

(Takes place directly after The Spirits We Gave Names Back To)

The rich, melodic howl she had been listening to in utter reverence was suddenly cut off by the crunching of gravel underfoot, and the world she was in shattered like glass. She watched the shards, formed from pertinent memories and experiences, clatter to the ground around her, and felt the loss immediately like a weight in her heart

Opening her eyes slowly to give them time to adjust to the light- she had one too many times opened her eyes too quickly after retreating inside herself like that, and she knew patience was worth the lack of temporary blindness -she let out a heavy sigh. The sun was lower in the sky now, sitting a few inches from the horizon, and she guessed she had been out here for a few hours now.

The water had turned the dark amber color it tended to turn in the late evenings, when the sun angled to filter through the trees that crowded the banks opposite her. Small streams did puncture the canopy, and created golden caps on the waves that ducks were now swimming in. It was a beautiful scene, but one she knew was going to be interrupted and spoiled for her by the rubber soled sandals currently approaching her retreat.

The closer she got, the more Rosalind could tell that she was humming something. A few steps out, and she could make out exactly what it was. And though she rolled her eyes, she couldn’t really be blamed for wanting to sing along.

“Running Bear loved little White Dove with a love big as the sky,” she sang softly as her mother’s tune reached that point in the lyrics, still not turning around. Suddenly, warm arms wrapped around her in a sort of hug as a head rested on top of hers. It was comfortable. It was safe.

“Running Bear loved little White Dove with a love that couldn’t die,” came her mother’s melodic response. She felt her tilt to place a kiss on the top of her head before unwinding her arms and moving to take a seat next to her daughter on the clay.

The thought of warning her mother that she was wearing pants the clay would stain did cross her mind, but she found herself too tired to spark the necessary impulse. She felt drained. Not uncommon after days like these. Besides, she had probably been to this shoreline many more times than her daughter. She knew clay stained. She obviously wasn’t concerned much by the state of her clothes. She never had been.

As she shifted sideways slightly so she was angled both towards her mother and the water, she saw the gentle scolding piling up behind the dam of her mother’s periwinkle eyes. And she huffed because she knew exactly what was coming.

“Rose,” she started, her voice a perfect mix of council and comfort. Her mother was a scientist in that reguard. She always knew the perfect blend, no matter the situation. It gave her a feeling of balance, stability, when she herself was so often on wobbling legs. Still, an eye roll was all she could muster. She thought that was decently acceptable, honestly, given the circumstances. She couldn’t escape this talk.

Her mother took that like the signal it was meant to be, and plowed forward with her speech. “”Rosalind, you can’t keep sneaking out your window when we send you to your room. Especially without your phone! Your father has been worried sick!”

“That’s not exactly my fault, now is it?” She retorted, her calm interrupted by the tiniest buzzing of annoyance. She saw the look in her mother’s expression, and knew exactly what was coming next. You and you alone are responsible for your grades.

“You and you alone are responsible for your grades, Rose, and you know that.”

Frustrated and swiftly losing the grip on the peace she had been luxuriating in only minutes ago, she stood quickly and turned her back to her mother. “I’ve told you before I’m trying. No matter how many times I write the...the stupid quadratic equation or read the unit circle theory, it doesn’t matter. The numbers don’t stick.” Her voice had gotten thicker as she talked, and as she ended the sentence, she found her vision blurred slightly by tears.

Silence now hung in the air between them, thickly. They were ships in a fog, with no North Star. No lighthouse. Adrift on an uncharted sea.

As Rosalind struggled to regain a grip on her emotions, her mother walked around to face her. She took her daughter’s hands in her own and held them snugly. “Things will be alright, Rose. You’ll see. We can do this together.” She lifted her eyes from the ground, and met the soft blue she so often looked to when she fell. As she released her hands, she smiled, a teasing and conspiratory thing.

“Though, to be fair, can you really blame your father for thinking you never study if you run off every time you’re supposed to be doing it at home?” Rosalind snorted at that, the levity providing her the foothold she needed to scrabble back up to a level head instead of dangling from the cliffs.

“It’s not every time, and you know it.”

“That’s true, you never miss it when I’m home baking or trying a new recipe”

“That is incredibly presumptions of you, I hope you realize. What makes you think I even like your cooking?”

“Gee, I don’t know, but never getting to eat the things I make seems to be a pretty good indicator”

“No, see, I just don’t want you to get your feelings hurt cause “no one ever eats my food.”

The gravel crunched softly in time with their footsteps, and their playful banter, as they trekked the path back home.