The Pod That Waited
The warm rain stopped all at once. Otis shook the drops from his hair and laughed. Steam rose off the ferns like breath. Mo walked beside him, slow as always, his olive-tan shell shining wet. Otis stepped into a big round footprint full of rain. The water was warm as bathwater. He wriggled his toes in it and watched the mud swirl. Far away, a long-necked dinosaur shook her back dry. The whole valley smelled green and new. Otis wanted to see everything at once.
Then he saw the pod. It hung from a low branch, striped green and gold. It was shut tight, like two hands pressed together. Otis put one finger on it. The pod was cool. Everything else in the valley was warm now, but not this. Mo stretched his neck out and looked too. "What's inside?" Otis asked. The pod said nothing at all. It only swung a little in the wind. Otis leaned close and listened. Something small shifted, deep inside.
Otis held the pod in both hands and pulled, gently. Nothing happened. He pressed his thumbs along the seam. Nothing happened. He found a smooth twig and slid the tip into the edge. The pod stayed shut. Otis put the twig down in the ferns. He did not want to break it open. Mo blinked his slow turtle blink. Otis sat back on his heels in the warm mud. "Still shut, Mo. Let's warm our hands."
They sat together in a patch of sun. The mud under Otis was warm as a blanket off the line. Mo tucked in his flippers and closed his eyes halfway. The sun climbed higher over the ferns. Steam came up out of every footprint along the path. Otis watched one puddle shrink, slow, slow, slow. A beetle crossed his knee and kept going. He liked the tickle of its feet. He did not hurry it along.
A fat grey dinosaur came down to drink. She was wide and gentle and made almost no noise. Her tail brushed the ferns as she passed. Otis kept very still and watched her mouth touch the water. Bright drops fell from her lips. When she wandered off, the ripples went on without her. Otis touched the pod again. Warmer now. Not much. But warmer. The branch above it had gone warm too. He smiled and let it hang.
The sun moved across the valley floor. Otis moved with it, dragging his warm patch of mud along with his heels. Mo followed, one slow step at a time. The pod hung in the light all afternoon. Otis cupped his palm underneath it, close but not touching. "Still shut, Mo. Let's warm our hands." Mo laid one old flipper in the sun beside him. Together they waited while the whole valley steamed. Nothing else needed doing.
Late light came, gold and low. The tips of the ferns turned orange. Otis was warm all the way through, from his ears to his toes. Then he heard it. A small dry creak, like a door with a happy hinge. The pod was not cool anymore. It was hot as a stone left in the sun. Otis put both hands underneath and held them still. He hardly breathed. Mo watched with his old, patient eyes.
The pod split with a tiny pop. It opened slowly, the way a hand opens. Inside sat the seeds, each one wearing a feather of silk. The wind took them, one by one. They floated up over the ferns, over Mo, over the whole warm valley. One landed on Otis's nose. He laughed and let it stay. "Still shut, Mo," he whispered. "Not anymore."
The valley went blue and quiet. Otis lay back in the warm mud with the empty pod in his pocket. Mo settled beside him, close and heavy and kind. Somewhere a big animal sighed and lay down too. The last seeds drifted off into the dark, going wherever seeds go. The stars came out slowly, one and then another. Otis reached over and held Mo's flipper in his hand. It was warm. He closed his eyes.
