First Bitter, Then Clean

YY found the pale-stone seep by following the cold smell under the ferns.

The water came one drop at a time. The first drop hit his tongue bitter enough to make his whole face reorganize.

"Terrible pebble soup," he said.

He nearly left. Then the next drop smelled cleaner. The one after that ran colder. YY crouched beside the stone and waited, because sometimes the world improved if you did not rush straight into being offended.

The bitter taste passed. The seep cleared.

YY drank until the cold settled all the way through him, then washed the last acorn-bit and tucked it away instead of eating it immediately. This felt mature, which was suspicious, but useful.

Before leaving, he cleared two fern stems from the drip path so the water would fall clean tomorrow.

The first taste had been wrong. The later water was right. YY carried that order home carefully: not everything announced itself by its best part first.