When the Birds Fly South by Stanton A. Coblentz

When the days were shortening once more toward fall and the forest leaves were showing their first tinges of yellow, I knew that I was approaching an all-important turning point. Already I had passed two autumns and two winters in Sobul, two autumns of mystery and two winters of solitude; and it seemed certain that the third year would bring some far-reaching change. I tried to tell myself that the change would be beneficent, that the enigma of Sobul would be penetrated, and that henceforth there would be no separation between Yasma and myself; but even though I doubted my own hopes and feared some undiscovered menace, I remained firm in my determination that Yasma should not leave me this year.

More than once, when summer was still in full blossom, I gave Yasma hints of my intention. But she either did not take them seriously, or pretended not to; she would brush my words aside with some attempted witticism, and did not appear to see the earnestness beneath my mild phrases. In my dread of casting some new shadow over us both, I delayed the crucial discussion as long as possible; delayed, indeed, until the hot days were over and the woods were again streaked with russet and crimson; delayed until after the Ibandru had held their annual firelight festival; delayed until the brisk winds brought promise of frost, and more than one of the tribesmen had gone on that journey which would not end until the new leaves were green. Even so, I still hesitated when the moment came to broach the subject; I realized only too well that one false move might precipitate a storm, and defeat my purpose.