leaned my hands on the old cold sand

Levent Kartal · 04-17-2012, 08:17 AM

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Levent seemed to constantly forget which language he was using, switching easily back and forth between Turkish and English. He would drop in some foreign phrases as if missing the native equivalent, or just out-and-out quote some proverb from his homeland. All was illusion, however. He could speak English very fluently, and there was no need to refer to others by foreign endearments or use a different word. It made him seem exotic, he knew, intriguing; and in the worse cases, when someone was annoyed at his behavior, he could play dumb. In fact, it took effort to switch between the languages at the rate he did.

“That’s a beautiful name,” the wolf said, meaning it. He allowed himself to take a couple of steps back, scratching under his feline friend’s chin. Perhaps he should tone it down, just so he didn’t spook her. Definitely, he must have given her a heart attacking chasing Wilson like that. “And what is the little one’s?” he asked, his blue eyes finding the grey kitten. “May I see?” His ears lowered in a brief, subtle show of submission.

He remembered why else he had been scouting around this area, and ventured the next question just as hesitantly. “You smell like a pack, sort of. I know pack wolves don’t like to give their secrets to a yabancı”—he gestured vaguely at himself—“but I’m hopelessly clueless about what kind of wolves live in Nova Scotia at all.” He paused there, wondering if she’d give him any relevant information. His intentions were out in the open, at least; he really did need to find out as much as he could about this strange land. Finding a pack that could help him in his goal would be even better.

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