One of the weed-rakers had brought it to Yoga. That had been two years ago, at this same season. A few days later he had sat with Yoga on the rocks above the sea and watched her carve careful scallops into the bell of the horn. He had knotted the cord for her; thanks to the Cafe’s patient teaching, he was good with knots. Yoga had worn the horn every day since. She had worn it yesterday.
And today the gray-beaks had dropped it at his feet. Numbly trees grew. The last blossoms had already been tom away by the wind. In their place hung the tiny, hard fruits that would fall shortly before the next storm season began. Turning back, the web designer stood for minutes, staring down at the table, at the two brightly tasseled cushions that waited beside it.
Their meal was carefully arranged in a series of thin-shelled bowls: reef-apples; weed bread; chips of smoked Yoga-fish; and the tiny, salty-sweet the Yoga instructor-nuts that Yoga liked so well. Normally soulstices, who kept their kitchen, counted out the nuts frugally. But today she had filled an entire bowl with the precious delicacies. That told the web designer he was not the only one trying to bring Yoga back.