Destination Unknown
Epilogue
Admiral Biscuit
By the time she woke, the gentle night breeze had changed to a steady gust, accompanied by a louder crash of waves booming up through the rocks. She could feel that the air pressure had dropped since the previous night.
Sweetsong scrambled to her hooves and the wind caught her army blanket. She snapped her head around and caught it before the sea could claim it, and then climbed to the top of the rock like a sailor at the prow of her ship.
Her blanket trailed behind her like a cape.
She should have still seen the last stars in the sky, but they were covered by clouds as far as she could see, undulating ranks of grumpy grey clouds steadily marching towards the land.
Out in the water, the buoys bobbed and flashed, and the lighthouse’s beam swept across the ocean and the harbor beyond.
Soon enough, she’d want shelter. For now, she was content to stand on her rock, to let the wind ruffle her feathers and play with her blanket, to let the sea spray drift down around her, to stand on the shore she’d dreamed of reaching.
How long would the storm last? Hours? Days? She didn’t know. Human weather was fickle and changeable, unpredictable, uncontrolled and feral, and she shouldn’t have loved it for that, but she did.
•••
As the sky lightened, she looked back over the calmer waters of Greys Harbor. If she wanted to fly back to Aberdeen, now was the time; there was enough of a tailwind that she’d hardly have to work.
It was too soon. There was still more to see and do before she even considered leaving the coast.
She tucked her army blanket back in her saddlebags, made sure the straps were fastened tight, and held her wings out.
The slightest jump was enough to clear the rock, and then the wind caught her. Sweetsong let it carry her up and back, until she was once again over the beach. Then she rolled to her side and angled her wings, bringing the wind to her tail.
This time she cut across the inlet, heading for the so-far unexplored southern shore. The land bent around in a L-shape, making a protected harbor for small boats.
One leg of the L was lined with identical cabins, while on the other was a row of businesses, some of them with signs on their roofs.
She skimmed the observation tower at the point, and flew the wrong way above Westhaven Drive, landing right in front of Bennett’s Fish Shack. It wasn’t open, but two buildings down, Little Richard’s House of Donuts was, and there was already a line of customers waiting for their morning treat. Sweetsong got a raspberry fritter and a maple bar, then flew out towards the Pacific to eat them.
Instead of sitting on the beach and getting windblown sand in her donuts, she alighted on the balcony of a spindly beach-tower where she could watch over the water undisturbed.
Mostly undisturbed—despite the wind, a few seagulls found her and her donuts and swooped around the tower in the hopes of snatching a bite or two. After she’d eaten all she wanted, she tossed the rest into the air to let them fight over, and took flight again, heading inland long enough to circle the lighthouse before angling back towards the shoreline.
A few miles down the coast, the land curved in again, marking the mouth of another river. The beach was wide and sandy there; inland the terrain was flat and then it got rugged.
Out to sea, the clouds were breaking up, promising a more pleasant afternoon. The wind had dropped, leaving everything misty and wet.
Sweetsong circled inland, wondering if there might be train tracks nearby. There weren’t, but she found cranberry bogs and a horse hotel.
She flew back west, landing in the between-land that wasn’t woods and wasn’t beach and finished her tube of Pringles. Now that the weather was clearing, people had started to gather on the beach with buckets, shovels, and pipes with handles. They were massing at the water’s edge and digging into the sand for something.
Curious, she put the empty Pringles tube back in her saddlebags and flew in for a closer look.
They were hunting for clams, and she did, too, eventually managing to find and catch one. The clams were burrowed further down in the sand than she’d expected, and several of them had managed to elude her.
Sweetsong carried it back up the beach, smashed it open on a rock and ate it. It was salty and chewy, a flavor she could get used to. Some coastal pegasi swore by clams as an easy snack when fish couldn’t be caught. She wasn’t sure about easy; it had taken a lot of digging to just get one.
•••
She settled on the beach in the afternoon, settling on a skinny stretch of beach that wasn’t popular with the clam diggers. The waves had calmed down, and pleasure boats were taking advantage of the calmer weather and sunshiny skies.
It didn’t feel like time to head inland just yet, although she wasn’t sure where to go next. Nor was she sure if it really mattered.
A few miles to the south there was a small sandbar she’d seen from the air, and beyond that more land. Possibly another island—she couldn’t tell. It looked like it had trees.
She still had food in her saddlebags, knew how to catch clams now, and could probably catch some fish if she wanted to. She could head south along the coast until she found another port or a rail line. She could also go back north where she knew there were trains. Or she could stay here for the rest of the day and nest in the pine trees overlooking the Pacific.
Instead of doing any of those things, she got up and shook the sand out of her fur, then walked down to the surfline and dug up another clam, ate it, then waded back into the surf, letting the waves wash over her hooves.
•••
As the sun started to settle into the ocean, Sweetsong galloped along the beach towards a flock of seabirds, then took flight with them, watching as they wheeled away in surprise. The birds seemed to have gotten used to dogs chasing after them, but hadn’t anticipated being pursued in flight.
Not that she had any intention of trying to catch a bird. She was headed north, back towards Westport.
As the sky darkened, the sea below dimmed almost to blackness, although she could still see the lights on land. The boats below her had twinkling navigation lights, and she could also see the sweep of the Westport lighthouse. Above her, airplanes had similar navigation lights, some of them close and others far, far above.
What did they see, looking down at the ocean below? What did they see when the coastline was gone behind them? Whenever she turned her head west, the unknown was both frightening and enticing. Very few boats were out there, nothing compared to the spread of lights along the coastline. What would it look like to be in the middle of that?
Some parts of the Great Plains were nearly as deserted; sometimes she’d looked through the support beams on a grainer or over the gunnels of a gondola and seen nothing but waving grass and stars overhead. It had looked kind of the same, but it hadn’t been the same.
Sweetsong turned her head away from the lure of the ocean and focused back north, trying to spot the lighthouse. For a moment she thought she’d lost it, then its beam came around again. She cast one regretful look at the ocean and turned inland.
•••
Sunrise found her on the tip of the north jetty again, watching thoughtfully as a ship navigated its way out of the harbor. For its size, it moved fast, but not faster than she could fly.