Elevated Tastes

When Deerlegs was old enough and sure-footed enough, large enough to not be blown off the edge of the cliffs by the slightest of sea breezes, that was when the real challenges of living on the cliff face made themselves known.

She had been taught the basics of herd life by her parents - descriptions of the rough division of labour amongst members put her among the “taskless” for now, and she and her siblings were put under the care and direction of “guides” to help her learn more about navigating Highcliff. It was difficult to keep the young pachy’s attentions at first, particularly as they developed their own special, nonverbal method of communication using odd flicks and flares of their growing feather crests.

“Hopping” managed to hold their interest for a little bit. Deerlegs needed to get stronger to be able to begin to successfully navigate the uneven terrain, but jumping back and forth on small rocks in a safe environment was only entertaining for so long.

When they started exploring beyond the painfully familiar, larger ledges that were most used by the herd as gathering and resting spaces and travelling into entirely new territory (well, new to her), it then became imperative to pay attention - and was ultimately easier to do so because of the danger. The paths along the cliff face were more narrow in these less trafficked areas of herd territory, and more perilous. The guide warned to be on the lookout for “tumblestone,” a section of stone in the path that was more likely to crumble if it was stepped on.

Deerlegs peered over the edge of the path, down to the perpetually crashing, ominous, deep blue and frothing white waves. She had heard stories from other taskless. The waves whispered, some days, or sang. It was the voices of pachys that had fallen off the edge of the cliffs and into the water, never to be seen again. They call for their herdmates to join them in the water, but it’s a trick. The waves were hungry, and the dead just wanted company.

The young pachy shook out her scruffy, mismatched juvenile feathers, trying to smooth them from their puffed, alarmed state. It was just a story.

And she did not plan on joining them down in the water. Not today, or any time soon.

Deerlegs hurried along after her guide, doing her best to pay attention to where she put her feet and to avoid anywhere that her herdmate avoided. Their adventure beyond the familiar cliffs was multipurpose: to measure if she had enough stamina to venture out on longer patrols (and potentially even if she was ready to go up onto the plateau), to further her understanding of navigating the cliffs, and with this particular guide, she was to learn how to find appropriate food to graze on and bring back to the herd for others who struggled to gather for themselves.

The Highcliff pachys followed an herbivorous diet and did not hunt down any sort of prey, even the widely available birds and eggs that could be found scattered across the territory. The birds worked with the herd, alerting them to potential trouble in the area and picking parasites off their hides and from their feathers that were too difficult to reach by themselves. So they turned to the only other food source in the area: hardy plants that grew off the face of the cliffs, and sometimes even venturing up onto the plateau to graze off grasses and prickly shrubbery.

Her guide deemed her too small and inexperienced to try to pick seagrass or algae off the shore when she was more likely to be snatched by the waves and swept out to sea by the tide, and she was not yet strong or agile enough to face the dangers of the plateau. They would be grazing safely from the cliff for now, in a crevasse that seasonally had more available foodstuffs due to the rain-fed creek that poured over the edge of the plateau and into the sea.

Coming around the corner (carefully and slowly, just in case there was another pachy already here), it was plain to see that the creek was not running right now. The red-orange walls of the crevasse were as dry as the rest of the cliffs, but at least it was cooler in the shade that it offered.

The foraging opportunities that her guide had assured her were here were also not as plentiful as she had expected. Yes, there were a few scattered shrubs, and some grasses grew up along the crevices and ledges before the cliff again fell away into nothingness towards the roaring waves, but the gnarly trees that grew here were stunted and twisted. The grass looked dry and sharp, and yet still, the twigs that she could see inside the shrubs were prickled and angry-looking.

Deerlegs’ feather crests dropped in disappointment. It was better than nothing, at least, and she was hungry after the long trip beyond the main body of the herd. The shrubbery proved to be… a little too prickly for her mouth. Older members of the herd had grown used to the roughness of the scrublands-hardened foliage and many did not even seem to notice the thorny twigs, but she was still used to the softness of fresh leaves and grasses gathered from the plateau for hatchling herd members.

Nor was she particularly fond of the intense, bitter flavour of one of the trees that she tried to pull leaves from (she apparently picked the wrong kind, according to her guide - the needle-like leaves were far less palatable compared to the berries that grew on them before the cooler months, but were good for a quick drink in the morning if they still held dew). The grass was just as sharp and bland as she expected.

Compared to the softer, sweeter, and more succulent leaves she had eaten as a hatchling, this was abysmal.

And she was still hungry, and a small, stubborn part of her was determined to prove that she was more than capable of looking out for herself and travelling over the plateau that she had heard so much about and seen absolutely nothing of.

So, when her guide was busy grazing and collecting browse to bring back to the less physically capable members of Highcliff, Deerlegs took it upon herself to climb the cliff and reach the plateau.

She went back along the path little ways the direction that they had come until she was certain that her daring escapade would not be noticed. It seemed like it would be easy enough to climb up from the ledge that she was perched on. There were plenty of smaller ledges along the way that she could either climb up to or jump up to.

Having scaled up a short distance, though, her opinion of the ease of her route rapidly deteriorated. The ledges were higher than she expected, or just too far to jump, and with this steep of a look at the cliff face, she was already uncertain which direction she had meant to go next. She was too high up to quickly jump down at this point, and determined to not come back empty-handed. 

With some somewhat careful planning, semi-confident guesses, and bold leaps (literally) of logic, Deerlegs managed to climb further, and could now hear a change in the tone of the wind as it whistled over the landscape. More like a rustle than the sharper, cutting sound of wind slashing over rock. She was almost to the top of the cliff, and then she would be greeted by the fabled and famously dangerous open expanse of the “plateau,” and then she could finally find something nicer to eat.

The only problem was that the jump to the next part of the cliff face that she would be able to climb was the furthest leap yet, the most narrow ledge to land on, and she was tired from climbing as far as she had already. Sheer bull-headedness pushed her to keep going. That, and the fact that if she gave up now, she would have to somehow find her way back down… on an empty stomach, which she did not particularly enjoy the thought of doing.

Deerlegs inhaled, then exhaled, steadying herself. She just had to do a very small run-up to the edge and put everything into the jump. Her legs were a little longer and stronger than her siblings, she could do this. If she didn’t… she did not want to think about the consequences of missing the ledge or failing the landing, actually.

She could faintly hear her guide’s voice calling from below, searching for her. She was going to be in so much trouble when she managed to make it back.

Deerlegs threw herself into a run, as fast as she could, and leapt with all her strength when she was right at the edge. A few loose pieces of red rock crumbled at the edge of the ledge, plummeting down towards the crashing waves. For a brief moment, time slowed down. She felt like she was flying, finally joining the sea birds soaring through the air.

All too soon did the feeling fade and time resume when she realised she was going to come just short of the ledge, and the joy of weightlessness was replaced by a lead weight in her stomach. She crashed into the side of the ledge, the air being forced from her lungs. Her hind legs flailed in mindless panic as she scratched at the side of the cliff to try to push herself up, her hands thrown forwards and grabbing for anything that she could get a grip on. She managed to get just enough of a kick up from below to haul herself onto the ledge where she stood on shaky legs, gasping for air and staring down at the deadly fate that waited for her if she had slipped or landed just a bit shorter of her goal.

She was ready to be back in the safety of the sett with her parents and siblings.

Or to be on solid ground. She was so close now, she could smell the sun-warmed grass drifting sweetly by on the salt-tinged air. Her guide’s voice was far away, and her prize was very near.

When she regained her breath and her legs felt a little more steady, she climbed up the short distance remaining to the top of the cliff. The open expanse of the plateau stretched out before her - it was vast and endless, much like the ocean behind her, but on the horizon, there was something more that rose above the earth and blocked out part of the sky. A cliff that was not so steep, that jutted up from the ground with no ocean around it that she could see. A mountain.

One day, she might like to explore it as well, but for now she thought she deserved a hard-earned meal.

It took a bit of scrounging to find something that was not just sun-dried grass or the same gnarly trees and shrubs that she had found in the crevasse, but following along the dried creek bed (she did not want to go too far into unfamiliar territory just yet without a clear plan on how to get back to the cliffs, at least not without a guide or sentry) she eventually came upon a muddy patch in the creek that had some greener, more alive-looking plants. They were much more pleasant to eat. No sharp edges, no stabbing thorns, no bitter taste. Just the sweet taste of success.