The Hum Across the Stream
Ash shook the seed pod in their hand and listened to it rattle. The warm rain had stopped, and the ferns were still dripping. Then, from somewhere past the stream, a sound came. Hoo-oom. Hoo-oom. It was low and slow, like a big animal breathing out a song. Ash stood still until it came again. Hoo-oom. The puddles in the footprints shivered with it. Whatever was humming out there, Ash wanted to see it. They slid the pod into their pocket and set off, stepping from one dry patch of moss to the next.
The stream was wide and shallow and full of sky. Across it lay a fallen tree, thick as a door, green with moss. On the far bank the ferns went up a slope, and the hum came from somewhere above them. Hoo-oom. Ash put one hand on the log. It was slippery and round and taller than their shoulders. There was no other way over that did not mean cold water up to their middle. Ash looked at the log for a long moment. "One more try, then one more after," they said.
Ash jumped. Their hands caught the top of the log, and their feet scrabbled at the wet moss, and the moss slid away in soft green sheets. Ash landed back on the bank in a sitting-down sort of way. It did not hurt. A small dragonfly hovered near their knee, then went on about its business. Ash looked at their green hands and laughed a little. The hum came again from up the slope, patient as a heartbeat. Hoo-oom. Ash wiped their palms on their shirt and stood up. The log was still there. So was Ash.
The second try, Ash cleared the moss first. They scraped a wide bare stripe with the edge of a flat stone until the bark showed brown. Then they jumped again. This time their elbow got up, and one knee nearly, and then the whole of Ash slid gently down to the ground like water off a leaf. They lay in the wet ferns and breathed. Above them the clouds moved slowly. Hoo-oom, said the far-off voice, and Ash felt it in the ground under their back. They sat up. "One more try, then one more after."
That was when Ash noticed the marks. All along the side of the log were little scoops in the bark, the size of their own hand. Some old animal had climbed here, many rains ago, and left its steps behind. Ash fitted one foot into the lowest scoop. It held. They fitted a hand into the next one up, and that held too. Slowly, one scoop at a time, Ash went up the side of the fallen tree. Halfway, they stopped to rest, cheek against the warm bark, listening to the water chuckle underneath them.
On top, the log was flat enough to walk if Ash went carefully, arms out like a wading bird. The stream slid along below, carrying leaves. At the far end, roots stood up in a tangle, and Ash climbed down through them into the ferns on the other bank. The hum was close now. It came up through the soles of their feet. Hoo-oom. Hoo-oom. Ash pushed one damp frond aside, and then another, and went up the slope on soft knees, quiet as the rain had been.
In a hollow lined with warm mud sat the biggest animal Ash had ever seen. She had a crest on her head like a curved horn, and her eyes were half shut. Under her chin, in the mud, three hatchlings lay in a heap, blinking slowly. Every few breaths she lifted her head and let the sound out. Hoo-oom. It was a song for them, to keep them from waking all the way. Ash sat down in the ferns and took out the seed pod and shook it, very softly, in time. "One more try, then one more after," they whispered, and shook it again.
The big animal opened one eye and looked at Ash for a while. Then she lowered her neck to the ground beside them, slow as a branch settling. Ash climbed on. She lifted them over the ferns and set them down in the warm mud among the hatchlings, who shuffled to make room without really waking. The mud held the day's heat. The pod was still in Ash's hand, quiet now. Above them the crest rose, and the hum came again, and again, soft as water moving. Hoo-oom. Ash's eyes closed somewhere in the middle of it.
