Teddy

by Lina Osmundson (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find United Kingdom

I stand for two seconds before I hear a moan. It stops as soon as it starts, and I strain forward, trying to hear the odd noise over the rustle of the wind. It’s soft. A small little sound. I continue to stand, alert. I don’t have to wait long until I hear it again. This time, it’s louder. It’s more like a low-pitched sigh, and it flutters across the island and against my right ear and disappears back into the sky. I open my eyes and turn to my right, toward the yellow and green rocks spread out before me. I walk forward; there’s no way I can reach the edge before the boat leaves, but I try and get closer, right to the edge of solid land, where the rocks meld with the North Sea. I look further out. There are so many colors. Everything looks like one intricate stroke of a paintbrush upon canvas. A wail. Something flickers at the edge of my vision. I narrow my eyes, and gasp. There they are. Way out in the distance, at the water's edge. I turn around wildly, trying to see if there’s anybody around to witness their existence, to solidify that I am not, in fact, insane. There’s no one. I face the rocks once more. There they are. Black and white and brown and grey and all meshed together far out on the rocks, a thriving family. I can see them distinctly now; their heads crane forward and backwards in a way that makes me bite my lip to stop a bubble of hysterical laughter, and occasionally, I can see one large blob of color slink into the water before another soon follows. Their wails wander over the rocks towards me every once in a while, playful and... eerie. I shiver. “Wow,” I murmur. I gaze at them for a while longer. How nice it must be. To sit on a rock, eat occasional fish, mate. To live in a herd––is that what it's called? A litter of seals? A gaggle? A gang? I don’t know. All I know is that it must a different world to live among friends, among family. To belong. A giggle beside me. I jump and look to my right. A young girl stands there. She can’t be more than four or five years old. She wears a jacket that’s twice as large as it should be, with fur lining the hood that sticks out from the sides of her face like a lion’s mane. Her mismatched rain boots––one of which is red, the other black––squelch in the mud path. There’s a green teddy bear tied haphazardly to her backpack. For a moment, I flashback to a hike. A decade ago. I was young and small. My father had smiled at me. His eyes twinkled. He'd wrapped me in a warm embrace. Before he fastened a green teddy bear haphazardly to my backpack. She stares up at me with big brown eyes and smiles. Her wavy brown hair sticks out from her hood in two pigtails. I return the smile and place a finger on my lips, using my other hand to point to the rocks. “Listen,” I say quietly. She laughs softly again before growing quiet and facing the rocks along with me. I kneel beside her so that we’re the same height. We wait, motionless. And there it is again. The low, beautiful moan of beings beyond our reach. She makes a sound between a gasp and a hiccup––or perhaps it’s both––and she jumps to her feet, clapping her hands together before pointing eagerly at the rocks. “Yup,” I whisper. “It’s them.” She looks at me with a smile on her face, her round cheeks rosy from the cold. She reaches around and tugs the teddy bear out of its straps, squeezing it against her chest. She turns back to the rocks. And we listen to the sounds of the seals at the edge of Scotland.