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To Save the Last: A Parable of Echo and Lore (continued)


By Way of the Riptide Ripple

Ripples reared as the riptide roared and with it, a Gannet soared.
Traveller the Last Great Ripple Gannet, skimmed the ebon shore.
Fennec, amber eyes alight, saw the white Traveller’s huge wings—
Tock, tick—Echo felt the shift, the tidal clock’s pendulum swing.

Traveller wheeled from the hemlock shore and gathered height.
Waves matched wing strokes as the Gannet chased the starlight.
In the lee of the Pelicans’ flight, Traveller closed hard and fast—
And with the Gannet came the storm, the faint hope of the Last.

Last to last, lore to lore—Wings delved through the thinning air.
Traveller rose above sea and star after the echo of a child’s care.
Faster and farther than even those White Pelicans dared to soar—
The Last Great Ripple Gannet sought to find the wounded lore.

Winkken leaned o’er his Pelican’s neck as Traveller soared by—
Finally, he released his grip upon Echo, now prepared to try.
Beyond the glimmer of the Pelican Light, Traveller wheeled,
and took the dare to help the Last before her fate was sealed.

Obsidian gazes met and held as the beat of two hearts melded,
as Traveller folded those behemoth wings and like Lollop fell.
One pass gone, another coming—Echo, with Fleefoot, waited—
Pulse, a cadence of flawed hope, he leaned back, breath abated.

Fennec, wily and amber eyed, slipped into the selkie pelt sling.
Tucked between Echo and the unicorn, he felt the Mistral sing,
as Echo let go of fear, of rage, every doubt and let hope swell.
He pressed that precious sling tight, as into the ripple they fell.

Ride the ripple to save the Last—Echo, gone with the Gannet!

The Bone Garden at the Grace Tide

Waves, amorphous arms reached out and embraced the Gannet.
Time, place on a ripple tipped, ripped—Just as Echo planned it.
And Fennec, as the water bloomed above, unlocked his pocket—
Bending dark, Fennec bore Echo from Lore, the fallen sprocket.

As Fennec’s pocket coalesced, Echo felt ice shatter in his chest.
Gone was his good dog, yet there was no time to ponder, to rest.
Bloodied unicorn clutched tight, Echo needed with all his might.
Needed…A hound ceded…Needed…Hope, the Grace Tide Light.

But would the finicky quantum fox pocket work as it truly ought,
or would the sacrifices of the lost lore be gone and all for naught?
Into the tenebrous stretch of Fennec’s fold they fell, breath bated.
As soft as down upon pebbled ground, Flo, Death’s heart waited.

Ebony eyes upon the sly Pocket Fox, who was quick to relock it,
Flo, bowed to Echo, whose gaze was as dark as Fennec’s pocket.
For the first time since that moment of defiance, something right,
Echo and Fleetfoot basked in Flo’s glow—the Grace Tide Light.

Ride the ripple to save the Last—The last hope to save the Last.

The Lost Voice of the Echo

Silver burned bright, the unicorn’s blood refracted Turtle’s light,
but that ethereal glow failed to reach the depths of Echo’s fright.
This boy, who had defied Death, itself, to save her, the very Last—
Echo, stood in the Grace Tide Light, hot tears pressed. Too fast!

Salt and water drawn by gravity’s thrall dampened patient stones,
and Echo dropped, bones kissed against stones—A boy all alone.
Lost, too much, too fast. His voice, his family, and his best friend
all taken because he gambled to do what was right, refused to bend.

Blood upon his hands, the stones; blood payment for debt accrued.
And the interest, his soul the salted wound, fragile hopes renewed.
Echo, his screams silent, but for the ricochet of it through his soul—
His tears polluted by diluted ash—proof of a banked, red hot coal.

An ember, rage, hope, and pain burning at the back of his throat,
a voice lost so to save one life, freedom traded for a child’s coat.
Duty bound, he and his Lore had run the world over and round—
yet never had Echo been able to voice even the smallest sound.

Now here in the Grace Tide Light, Echo knelt, a boy broken,
as cinders gathered, tears blown away—life’s spark awoken.
Out of those ashes swirling, a fox kit crept, a kit whose pelt,
was the flame hope kept burning, while Dame Fortune slept.

That fiery kit, gathered a voice far too big for its small size,
and there on the Grace Tide’s shore, let Echo’s lament rise.
It was a cry, rusted and creaking, in a language Babel lost—
but it was the anger, the anguish, the sum a promise cost.

It was a strangled dirge, brought froth from an innocent kit,
a song of truth, the bitter notes, a refrain of disillusionment.
And Echo, his hands blackened with soot, his soul by rage,
unleashed his voice, an ungodly keening freed of its cage.

The stones of the Grace Tide shore, quaked and quivered,
that promise of Echo’s wrath, a powerful truth delivered.
A howl spent, a boy, prostate upon a dark, shingle shore,
that brave boy, weeping for a dog who would run no more.

And yet, through his tears, he saw the glow—Ember, hope alight.


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