What're you called?Kneeling at the water's edge, legs folded nearly against the growing bulge of her belly, eyes matched with the glowing eyes of a caiman, she paused her drinking.
"Gift," she said, after she swallowed.
What about them?
"Only the Motherfather knows," she said, watching the caiman, continuing to perch as she was. It would be troublesome to spring up and run. She would have to get up awful fast, and both her body and herself weren't quite in the mood to. Pregnancy was so tedious.
So it is.
Are you not frightened?
This time the jaw moved, lifting to show the teeth. So she was talking to the caiman.
"So it is, if it was meant to be." She raised herself, slowly, and shook out her legs. "I don't think most pregnant does can outrun a caiman very well." She gamely stomped, as if testing their use.
You could try. The caiman too rose from the water, its little stubby legs shaking out just as well.
She smiled back, wanly, and sprung off gamely - her rotund form almost gamboling away through the winding roots of the mangrove.
The mare watched the amenable doe leave, and wished them well. What she bestowed in blessing, only the Motherfather knows.
