Author: Guede Mazaka
When the mist rolled itself over the water and the air fell crackling to the ground, Mani took Grégoire out onto the lake. Fascinated as always, Grégoire began many questions, but the Indian always waved them off before their tails could flick themselves out of Grégoire's mouth. He would only repeat one of the French words he'd learnt, "les yeux," and tap a finger to the corner of a bark-brown eye. And finally, feeling the chill and swish of the morning wash through him, Grégoire fell silent.
The Frenchman watched the shoreline, idly noting the forming and vanishing gaps in the mist. A stray beam of weak light feathered through the puffs of white, which eventually burned away where they touched the dilute gold. Gold that condensed, sharpened, until it was two eyes that drifted before Grégoire, that refracted into his soul.
"Loup," Mani whispered, and on the bank, the phantom drew itself up for a singing moment before loping off. Grégoire turned back, mouth ready to speak, and saw the glance of sun off the edge of Mani's steady gaze. The Frenchman's breath hitched.
He stayed silent till they returned to camp. But he watched.