The clouds thickened, eclipsing the stars. Night fell solid, impenetrable. Only the soft golden ring of his fire kept the void at bay, casting light across a few feet of cold sand and brittle leaves. The flames snapped and whispered beneath the wind, but their voice was smothered by the louder, constant roar of the tide. From the forest, the trees groaned—long, low complaints stirred by the wind's haunted lullaby.
Nic leaned closer to the flames, letting the heat kiss his face. His fingers wrapped around the mug of tea, grateful for its lingering warmth. He took a sip. Then another. Cooling fast. He drained the rest in swift gulps, sighing as the heat slid down his throat and pooled in his belly, coaxing warmth into the hollow core of him.
It wouldn’t last.
But for now, it was enough.
It wasn’t difficult to find the freshwater pool. Nic had only to follow the music of the waterfall, its steady voice calling from somewhere deep within the forest. Hidden behind sheer granitecliffs and wrapped in dense trees, the pool remained invisible from the beach—cloaked as if by design. Perhaps, once long ago, the cascade had been much greater, carving through stone over eons to shape this secret hollow.
He stepped onto the smooth stones at the water’s edge, peering upward. The cliffs rose so steeply that he felt as though he were gazing from the bottom of a vast, forgotten well. The waterfall echoed between the walls, but its sound was not oppressive—it was soothing. It silenced the chaos in his head, softened the clutter of thought, until all that remained was stillness.
And the beauty—there was no denying it. It was a sacred sort of quiet.
Nic dipped his bucket into the crystalline pool. As he watched the water swirl around the pail, he considered moving his camp here. The cliffs would shield him from the searing wind, offer calm. But it meant losing sight of the ocean—the mauve horizon that greeted him each morning.
Not yet. Perhaps later in the season. For now, he wanted the first thing he saw each day to be the sea touched by firelight.
He spent hours wandering the hollow, drawn by the slow language of stone. The boulders bore stories—shallow runnels worn by centuries of water, patterns where once the pool had been higher, fuller. The cliff walls wore smooth grooves where the cascade had shifted over time, retreating into shadow.
He reached up, fingers grazing the worn hollows above his head. He traced ancient channels with reverence, imagining the pool as it had been—vast and still and full. He wondered about the caverns it might still conceal, the tunnels etched beneath the surface. If not for the biting cold, he might have dared to swim, to see what secrets the water held close.
But for now, he remained content to dream.
Who had found this place before him? Who had stood beneath the same falls, listening to its secrets and wondering what else lay hidden?
Had anyone ever made it far enough into the heart of the pool to be welcomed by its mysteries?
He liked the idea that someone had—and that, someday, perhaps he might too.
Nic tore through the forest, laughter catching in his throat as he ducked beneath low branches and leapt over roots slick with rot. Leaves burst beneath his boots. Twigs snapped in his wake. Behind him came the sound—scuttling, loud and relentless—the clatter of thousands of armored legs tearing across the forest floor.
He wasn’t afraid. He was exhilarated.
The past few days, he’d seen more crabs creeping along the beach than usual. At first, it had felt like a coastal oddity—quirky, harmless. He’d even snatched a few for supper. But when their numbers swelled, day after day, curiosity sparked like flint. And that morning, he followed them into the woods, just to see.
He hadn’t expectedthis.
What he’d found wasn’t a colony. It was aninvasion. Thousands—no, tens of thousands—scarlet crabs pouring through the undergrowth like living lava, marching with mindless, mesmerizing purpose. He’d heard stories. Legends told by old fishermen about red tides of legs and shells. He had laughed at them once.
Not now.
“Damn! They canmove!” he shouted to the trees, half in awe, half in disbelief, as the tide of crabs swept toward him. They clambered over his boots, hooked onto his trouser legs. He hadto scramble to avoid being trampled—not from danger, but from sheer force of numbers.
Near the beach, he spotted salvation, a tree tilted against another, forming a natural perch. He climbed fast, breathless with giddy amazement. From above, he watched them surge from the trees and flood the sand. A scarlet river cascading from the forest to the sea.
The beach was alive—writhing, shifting, clicking claws flashing in the sunlight. Some dug furiously at the wet sand, while others wandered in apparent chaos, yet clearly driven. Nic’s eyes sparkled. He recognized the madness of instinct when he saw it.
An ancient force had summoned them. Some pulse of moonlight, or tidal whisper, or scent on the breeze only they could read. Mating. Or migration. It didn’t matter.
It was magnificent!
He sat on the tilted tree like a king on a crooked throne, grinning wildly as the forest emptied itself at his feet. Nature had called a parade, and he’d gotten a front-row seat.
A light drizzle had begun at midday and had lingered for hours, steady as heartbeat. The faint crescent moon offered no guidance through the thick curtain of clouds, but Nic’s small oil lamp cast a narrow halo on the damp world around him. He pushed rain-heavy strands from his eyes and stepped carefully between the crowd of crabs. The determined little creatures were undeterred by weather or watcher. If anything, they seemed more resolute, their march unbroken.
The beach was a map of holes now—each one clawed open with intent. After hours crouched in the rain, Nic had begun to see the pattern. The males, smaller and restless, were the architects. They busied themselves with construction, carvinghomes into wet sand, battling over prime terrain. Claws clashed and locked like swords. The larger females meandered nearby, foraging with perfect disinterest in the ongoing skirmishes.
He knelt by one of the burrows and peered into the darkness. He saw only one crab—but he knew there were two. A silent pairing was taking place beneath the sand, a quiet ceremony repeated by the thousands. Nearby, a male waved his claws in theatrical invitation as a crimson-hued lady passed, possibly weighing the neatness of the den or the symmetry of his shell. Did she care for appearance? For strength? Or was it some soundless signal, some private measure, only crabs could comprehend?
