Part One - Aite nan Con (The Place of the Dogs)

                                    

                                              
                   
                          
Jennifer MacGregor found herself ascending the gentle slope of High Rock Avenue as she made her way to the western entrance of Cairn Park – a small rocky hilltop that surveyed the sleepy township of Esquimalt, British Columbia. The steep rolling slopes of the hill, with the deep scars of its ancient glacial past – ragged, violent cuts now covered in a thick carpet of soft verdant mosses, stone crop, lichens, and all beneath a weathered crown thick with Douglas fir, arbutus, and Garry oak – was one of the rare green spaces in the township located on the western border of Victoria.
                          
Jennifer found it a secret pleasure to cut through the peaceful sylvan green on her way home from school. 

                          
Today it was an unusually quiet solitude, with only a few passing children and dog owners who let their animals off leash to roam the thick undergrowth of daphne, Oregon grape, Indian plum, and invasive English holly and Himalayan blackberry. Jennifer ascended the forty-three steps up to the narrow walking trail and then stepped to the left onto a narrow, winding dirt path that meandered over rocks and roots worn smooth by decades of foot traffic. The path that ambled with an air of blissful dreaminess over tall rounded rock, skirting loose stones left behind by a long forgotten glacier, and beside Douglas fir and oak long ago fallen in death, was alive with sounds and smells as chestnut-backed chickadees, juncos, robins, and nuthatches flitted amongst the towering trees and dense brush. Even the vague scent of Earle Grey tea from the local daphne plants filled the air, Jennifer noted with a smile. 
                          
Jennifer paused as she heard a familiar high pitched chirp, and a moment of examining the brilliant blue sky that leaked through the thick canopy above allowed her a rare glimpse of a diving hummingbird – an Anna's hummingbird, if she was correct. The chirp and the aggressive movements were territorial; there was a nest somewhere close by. A smile formed when she spied a Bewick's wren flitting amongst the shiny pointed leaves of an Oregon grape. It moved from branch to branch in sharp nervous leaps. Crouching onto the warm earth, Jennifer got a better look, and the small smile on her face grew. The wren plucked at the air with its beak and with a "spzzz pit" squeak, disappeared into the shadows.  
                          
"Where are you going?" Jennifer whispered as the wren reappeared. The tiny bird darted into a pile of dried oak leaves, rustled for a few noisy moments and then re-emerged. "Back again are you?"
                          
A dog barked; it appeared on the path before her, and Jennifer stood up with the haste of someone being caught in an embarrassing situation. The wren disappeared, and the dog, a panting Lhasa Apso wrapped in a pink jewelled coat, ran up and sniffed her feet before barking again. 
                          
"Clio, stop it!" snapped the owner, a woman in her sixties wearing leggings and a sweatshirt. "Come along."
                          
Jennifer stepped aside and lowered her eyes. The woman and her dog passed by and disappeared around a rock. A peep and buzz sounded and Jennifer crouched down to spy the wren again, rustling in the brush. "Are you back again?" she asked as she squatted to peer into the shadows. The wren pecked at the leaves and grass and then darted to another bush a few meters away. "Have a good day," she said as she stood. Moving north, she climbed over rounded upturned bowls of etched stone thick with moist rock moss. She paused for a few moments, running her hand over the moss to touch the luxurious green shroud. It had the softness of a kitten's fur, a silky carpet alive beneath her fingertips. 
                          
Back on the path, the uneven footing over rock and tree root slowed Jennifer – a blessing that gave her time to enjoy the smells of warm earth and stone, and the sounds of the birds that flitted amongst the darkened canopy. Not all was beauty, however, she noted with a slight scowl. There was garbage – candy wrappers and water bottles, and graffiti – taggers had painted the heavily cragged bark of the Douglas firs with incomprehensible markings in blue spray paint. She hated it, but she understood that this was no pristine landscape. Located in the middle of a small township within the city of Victoria, this was a well-used park and she had to find solace in the fact that at least it didn't look too well used.