Fall Soups and Fireplaces

I can feel fall in the air. It’s different here. Back home, fall came with a crisp shift in the wind. It wound down the cliffs, bringing with it thoughts of the arctic. I still remember the cold needles that pricked my skin when it came. On many levels, it felt like jumping into ice water. Breaks in the breeze brought the warmth of Helios’ rays, reminding me that winter had not yet arrived. Then the wind returned, bringing a thinner air. With it, came the sound of rustling leaves. We mainly had pines, but somehow the trees spoke more in the winter. Fireplaces were lit, burning wood perfuming the valley. It was death before the brightness of snow.

It’s different here. I can hear the waves crashing more, promising to bring winter storms shortly. I can still hear the rustling of leaves. I hear that more on this island. The wind brings with it a spritzing of water. It settles on my pores, chilling me in a new way. I still smell the burning of wood in fireplaces, but it’s not sweet like pines. It’s deeper, darker, reminding me that this is not where I belong.

My winter coat has begun to grow. With my clothes as ratty as they are, I find myself welcoming the opportunity to transform. It protects me from the wind, blocking any gust from reaching my skin. Layers upon layers sheltering me. I love the feel, like a fuzzy blanket covering my body, but allowing me still to move freely. I love my coat. Pure white. It’s harder at camp to keep it clean. Many nights, I return with a greyish coat instead. But it is still mine. Do I stand out? Probably. But it doesn’t matter. They see me for only a second before I attack. It’s a challenge, but I would not give it up. White is pure. I have a coat that reflects purity. I like that.

One thing I enjoy about the change of seasons here…Cook has begun making more soups. The boys complain it’s not as filling, that the only reason they make soups is to save costs. I find the soups and stews comforting. They warm me from the core outside, providing a furnace inside against the chill. It is the one comfort that doesn’t remind me of home. Not to mention I’ve made friends with the kitchen hand. He’s a boy about my age; charcoal black hair with striking blue eyes. Xenophanes is his name, but I call him Xeno. He thinks my wolf form is neat. So, if I’m careful, I can sneak to the kitchen just before curfew and he’ll give me an extra ration. He’ll tell me about the drama in the kitchen and I find myself laughing. Hopefully the change in the weather has brought a new change to my existence here. If so, I can see myself liking camp…well, maybe I shouldn’t go that far. But I can tolerate it, at least.