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He dreamed of a wood beneath a crescent blood red moon. Wolves. A pack? An army! Thousands, tall as ponies, preparing to rest now as the suggestion of dawn fanned across the horizon. Two-legged creatures walked between them, moving supplies, setting up tents.
A figure appeared—taller than the rest. In the pre-dawn darkness he presented little more than a silhouette with the suggestion of a cape and boots. “Where are you, Corellian?”
Corry moaned as he woke. He felt an aching in his sweaty hand. Bringing it close to his face in the dark bedroom, he saw that he was still clutching the cowry. His foster mother had given it to him. He’d seen the shell in a display when he walked into her house, and he couldn’t help but stare. It was glossy orange-gold, and she’d laughed when he told her he couldn’t accept it. Too valuable. She said it was worth only ten dollars. Corry felt foolish, but he’d taken it greedily and clutched it during the strangeness of supper in a new house with two other foster kids. The shell calmed him.
Corry opened his hand wide and saw the red indention of the shell’s little teeth in his palm. He sat up on his elbows, dropped his head in the pillow and clutched the shell in both hands as though in prayer. He could almost taste the acid of frustration.
Dreams often troubled him, but it had been months since the images had been so vivid. Corry looked at the cowry again. Each time his eyes rested on it, something jumped inside him, and he could almost remember. When he first came to the children’s home, his dreams had been clearer. He had had a strong sense that some wrong had been done to him, that he’d suffered some terrible loss. They said I spoke a different language when I came, but I can’t remember it now. I know that I’m losing something important. No matter what I do, it just keeps slipping away.
Corry rolled over and sat up. The glowing clock on the table read 6:30. Faint sunlight filtered through the blinds. The lump under the covers in the other bed was still rising and falling rhythmically. Corry could hear pleasant sizzling and clinking coming from the kitchen, along with warm smells of biscuits and coffee and eggs.
He rose and dressed, then tiptoed into the hall, through a door into the garage, and then outside. A five-foot chain-link fence ran along the back of the property, bordering an orange grove. Corry inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of orange blossoms and the blue of the Florida sky.
He stepped onto the cool concrete sidewalk. Corry could not remember seeing orange groves until the drive yesterday from Orlando. The trees crowded close together in staggered rows, their deep green leaves contrasting with the pale gray sugar sand between. Corry found the grove appealing. It reminded him of the cowry in a way he could not explain. He made his way along the sidewalk until he reached a gate.
At that moment one of the Tembril’s cats came strolling through the back garden to have a dust bath on the sidewalk at Corry’s feet. He smiled and crouched to pet her. Bent close to the ground, Corry could look beneath the first row of trees. To his surprise, he saw a pair of dainty hooves and slender legs. They looked quite small, and Corry wondered if it might be a baby deer.
Slowly he stood up. Although he could not see the hooves from this angle, he fancied he saw a trace of brown fur between the leaves. Corry maneuvered the gate open and stepped onto the sugar sand.
“Corry!”
He turned toward the voice. At the same instant, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape bolt from behind the tree and away through the grove.
The voice was Patrick’s, one of the other foster kids. “What are you doing?”
Corry said nothing.
Patrick eyed him with a frown. “Mrs. Tembril says to come in and help with breakfast.”
Corry gave the grove another long stare before moving away. He was almost certain the shape had fled on two legs.