Flowering. Approach. Part 13: Nature Provided
Listen, my son, to your father's instruction and do not forsake your mother's teaching.
Reader discretion is advised: This series contains death, violence, and sexual content. Flowering is not a lighthearted series. Flowering is meant for a mature audience. It is not my intention to mislead those who read it, thus misleading the perception of the series itself, leading your hearts astray.
Please, "take this lesson to heart." - LaRha and Wetah
It wasn’t much of a walk before LaRha stopped behind him. As said before, she promised to not follow him all the way. He’d gone back and forth time and time again, with and without her. She also wanted to make sure that if she had to, she could wake Wetah and the girls. She wanted to place herself within a certain radius to make sure that she could easily reach both Zephyr and them if someone had been spotted.
After setting his traps, Zephyr followed the river upstream. Still having two apples in his pockets from the four he brought along with him, he was looking for new trapping spots. Having walked up and down this trail before, he remembered what a few landmarks looked like when he went hunting in this area with his father. The seasons may change, and cause a drastic shift in scenery, but the more things change the more they also stay the same.
Though he couldn’t see his mother, since he was on his walk, she would whistle every now and then. He knew it was her based on the tone, and the patterns. It was a combination of a few songbirds in the area, and some rhythms that only they knew. Yet, it never seemed out of place, especially in this forest. She would whistle a tune, and he would whistle back. Sometimes he would mirror her, sometimes it would be a different response.
His stomach growled. He could feel it gnawing away at him. It was like a depressing carving beneath the flesh wall of his tummy. Instead of eating an apple right away, which frankly he grew bored of at times, he kept on walking to find several low hanging berry trees. So many branches stuck out from it, and it was so short, most people would’ve thought that it was a bush.
Licking his lips, he plucked off several dark purple, plump black, and even a few tart cherry red ones. The bumps of the seeds, the juice that would burst on his tongue and even in his hands, the occasional small green stems that would still be there when plucked from the tree, and even the occasional bug or two that would go unnoticed but still washed down. It was all delicious, satisfying, and tasty.
“I like apples, but I love these.” He thought to himself. After being content with his fill he continued on his walk. “I should wash up somewhere.” The sticky sweet scent of berries stuck to his hands and smeared across his lips. The more he walked, the more flies wanted to buzz around him. The only bugs he didn’t swat at were the wasps that would hover close. Upon traipsing so far, he found the spot he was looking for.
The river had led him to a place where it was surrounded by two sloping hills on both sides. They had come to form a small valley. He thought it was a great place for trapping fish, but even better for netting deer. He’s seen his Dad do it a few times, but they never trapped deer here before. Zephyr thought this area had its hills perfectly spaced to do so.
Something was off. Something was different. Walking closer, he noticed something, yet he didn’t exactly know what it was, but he’s seen them built before. Then, out of shock, he stopped. The sudden realization hit him like a slap to the back of his head. It was a tipi tent. Somebody was living there. He’s built them before, but he’s never built that one. He doesn’t remember his Dad building one either.