CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As Little Brother and I left our friend, the great white whale,

we felt fouled from all the cruelty and horror that we had seen. Try

though we might, it did not seem possible to quickly cleanse our-

selves of our terrible adventure. The seas were soiled, perhaps

forever, and all our senses were clouded and gray.

We swam hard and fast down from the up of the earth to-

wards the warmer waters of Winsome Bright. With every wave, we

seemed to swim faster and faster, as if speed alone could eradicate

the memories etched so deeply.

With muscles working in concert, I darted from side to side

and quick-breached to gain even more speed. The grip and ripple of

the water as it smoothly crossed over my body made me feel eel-

slick and sinewy.

My heart boldly pounded, reminding me of my mortality, and I

pushed even harder, twisting my body in torturous, powerful undula-

tions. I felt fast and the faster I felt, the faster I swam.

I had always been quicker than Little Brother and loved to

challenge him to race after race, knowing the sure outcome of every

challenge. He gamely tried to beat me, but rarely did. Even now,

as we raced away from both good memory and bad, he was hard

pressed to keep up as I slip-breached through the waters, chasing

tuna-tails and bits of froth.

I was tired from all the adventures with our new friend, Har-

mony, yet I was still excited about our travels throughout the seas.

We had not been back to the corals of Winsome Bright since birth.

The memory of the beginning of that particular delight burned hotly

in both our souls and urged us on faster and faster.

But there was change coming — great change. Little Brother

and I could feel it but really didn’t know what it was. The sun still

set in purples turned to black, and morning still peeked from wave

to wave in a silver wash of golden hush. The fish were sweet to eat,

Little Brother was still a delightful fool, but yet there was something

different — odd, not about the water but rather about us.

It was a time as if I could feel my body grow. I felt longer and

sleeker. I felt both vain and embarrassed by my vanity. For the first

time, I felt that I was different from Little Brother and he was different

from me. It was frightening. It made me mad at him and him at me.

Now this feeling made me swim faster still, and in time I had

distanced myself from my mate.

My mate? To say, even think that word both angered and

confused me. Was he my mate? Always, we had been the best of

friends and, as such, we had called each other “mate,” but what

did it really mean? Were we mates as friends, or friends as mates?

Why was I faster than he? Yet why did I feel as though I should be

slower and allow him to protect me? Was I destined to be dominat-

ed? Was this what was meant by being female: one who subordi-

nates her own feelings to the feelings of her mate, her best friend.

My mind spun round like a waterspout.

Little Brother finally caught up with me after I arrived at a

small atoll where the waters were warm and blue. His breath came

in ragged gasps of vented air mixed with laughter. “Why,” he ques-

tioned, “are you swimming so fast? Do you fear Harmony’s Nar-

whal, or do you race your tail, a race that can never be won?”

I turned and nipped in anger. “If you can’t keep up,” said I,

“then follow my wake and catch up at a leisure pace like the turtles

that wallow in the sea.”

He backed away, his eyes turning icy.

I continued angrily but not really knowing why, “If you

weren’t such a coddish clown, and had learned to swim as a child,

you wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up!” I railed.

We swam on in icy silence, only stopping at times to slap

verbal insults at one another, then we would swim on again, sulk-

ing all the while, only to stop and rest — and spit more indignities.

Finally, with eyes squeezed tight, we swam on in total silence, no

longer speaking.

Yes, something was different, and though we never spoke

of it, both Little Brother and I felt it. Was all this in response to a

chance meeting with a whale and all that we had seen? Is every-

thing changed because of that or is this what it means to get old-

er? Is up really up or down really down? Or is this simply another

mystery, to be solved with the old parental dictum, “When you are

older, you’ll know.”

No answers, but many questions clouded my horizon. I

soon found myself loathing the friend whom I had known and

shared all with since birth, since tides too numerous to count.

Finally, at the end of our stormy trip, we arrived under bright,

blue skies at our destination — the corals of Winsome Bright. Our

anger — no, truly it was my anger alone that brought on his anger —

seemed diffused and softened in this place of magical delight.

We began to zip about in the waters, racing only a breath

away from the sharp coral walls as we chased bright butterfly fishes

that dashed away in explosions of light. This exuberance at reach-

ing our destination put distance on the memories of the horrors and

difficulties of the journey, but I still felt charged like the clouds of a

loud-noised storm.

I filled myself with the joy of the lagoons and bays, pretend-

ing Little Brother was but a pest best forgotten. I swam about this

coral sea, amazed as always how fishes changed with the waters,

from the deep silvers, blues and purples of colder fish, to pinks,

blues, and yellows of the apparently slower, but happier, fishes that

swam in these waters.

There was a constant celebration of all of life here, a feeling

of a festive tide-to-tide party that had continued since the very be-

ginning of time. This was the feeling; the emotion sensed by those

who entered these magical, coral pools of Winsome Bright.

Oh, and how the memories of a youth long past flooded

one’s senses with bubbles of joy and ecstasy, as I swam in the

warm waters of this enchanted place.

Ridges of coral were rounded about the atolls and tiny is-

lands of the bright side, the dryside. Fishes darted about, playing

the silly games that ring true with the survival of all in no matter the

water, but here it was funny, here it was wonderful.

I swam with the fishes, and chased them in sport and chased

them for food. I feasted, and then washed myself clean of my an-

ger-filled journey to this idyllic place and Little Brother did the same.

But still and all, he and I maintained our distance because we

were different, we were changed, and it seemed that these changes

were to be forever. When I felt the need to be in his company and

went to him, once there I felt nothing but agitation towards him and

soon after would swim away. Once away, I wished only to seek him

out again.

What was going on?

There were other times that I would rush to his side and

breach over him as I had done in the earlier tides of our childhood.

He would begin to play, and I would begin to play, and then for some

insignificant reason I would turn and order him to go away. I was

very confused about my feelings and could only imagine what Little

Brother must be feeling — although how he felt was certainly no con-

cern of mine. My own feelings were turned first on, then off, like a

waterspout.

Finally he could take no more of my cruelty and angrily

rebuffed me with, “Leave me be, little girl. Swim alone in these

waters, and if you should find me by accident in some sheltered

bay, warn me that you are coming and I will swim away!” With that

he surged into the surf and with a flip of his tail disappeared in the

foam of an arcing wave.

“Ah, good riddance,” said I as he left me alone. “What I need

is some peace and quiet.”

I swam without aim, idling my time by eating constantly of

the sweet little fishes when I wasn’t even hungry — the ultimate sin

of the sea. In this black mood of desperate straits, I came suddenly

upon the oddest whale I had ever seen. She was white to the point

of almost being pink and plump as could be. Her eyes twinkled

as she watched me streak through the waters of Winsome Bright.

Delighted at last to have someone to talk with besides that dull but

clownish Little Brother, I swam near. “My name is Laughter Ring,

and I have come here to Winsome Bright after a long journey in

order to rinse myself clean of all that I have seen,” I gushed.

She laughed in a low rolling song and then began, “Ah,

my little one, I know. I have listened to you and your mate playing

throughout the waters of Winsome Bright.”

“He is not my mate!” I snapped. “We have unfortunately

known each other since birth, and as such have called each other

mate, but it is only by a twist of fate that we have been together on

this journey at all.” I paused, embarrassed at my outburst.

The tension broken, I laughed, “Who and what are you?”

She laughed again, and her sides rolled with the merriment

she carried within. “I am a Beluga and the others that have come

here before you called me Momma Love.”

“Well,” I continued, “Momma Love, it is wonderful to have a

creature of intellect to talk with. I have found you just in the nick of

time, for Little Brother has been swimming me crazy. He is such a

baby. All he wants to do is play and make childish jokes. It is good

that I am away from him. Even now I can hear him as he swims

away from me.”

“And does that make you happy?” asked Momma Love.

“Certainly,” I said resolutely, “It makes me very happy that

the tuna-brain has gone away. It makes me very content indeed

that that bubble-butted, jelly-fished, flat-eyed, kelp-finned, wannabe

swimming sandwalker has gone from my life forever. Now I will have

a chance for some peace.”

Momma Love looked at me with her great soft eyes, and gen-

tly asked, “But then, why do you cry?”

It was only then I realized I was uncontrollably sobbing

adding to the salt in the sea. “I don’t know,” I blubbered. “Every-

thing seems to be changing so fast, and I don’t understand what

is happening.”

Then, like a crested wave washing to the dryside, I told Mom-

ma Love all that had happened. I rambled and railed about how I

felt about this and that blaming all on Little Brother.

“He’s a pain,” I cried. “I hate him!”

“Hardly that,” she said, as her eyes twinkled. “You are in love.”

“With him?” I asked incredulously. “How could anyone be

in love with a silly dolphin who wears kelp-weed on his head like a

crown? Me? In love with a shell-brained fool like Little Brother?” I

backed quickly away from this Beluga in revulsion.

“Oh, it is true, little one,” she blithely continued. “You are

in love and you should not fear that which will come. Listen, child,

once I felt just as you do. Sometimes, I fought that change from

childhood to adulthood, and then at other times I tried to urge it to

come faster. But all things in time, and in time all things. It is well to

wait for complete commitment, for true love, but don’t be so blind

that you cannot see that which should be.”

With that, Momma Love laughed and swam away, leaving

me swirling in the wake of all that she had said. “In love with Little

Brother? Me? Just wait until I tell him. If ever there has been a

joke to be told in the sea, it is this.” I quickly, even eagerly, sought

out my old friend, Little Brother, in the corals of Winsome Bright.

I found him in a shallow, warm-water pool nose-to-nose

with a clacker claw. It was only with a bit of gentle teasing that I

convinced him that I had more to say than his hard-shelled friend.

Eventually, I coaxed him into the deeper waters that surrounded this

atoll. I laughingly told him all that had happened. He joined in my

laughter as I told him of Momma Love and her hilarious observation

that he and I were in love.

It felt so good to laugh again with my friend — my lover.

My lover?

How did that word slip into my thoughts? What was this

feeling that had come over me? Had Momma Love cast a spell over

me to allow such language to seep into my vocabulary?

I watched Little Brother frolic in the foam of the oncoming

waves and I had to admit there was a sleekness about him, a mus-

cular grace that belied his silly nature. I shook my head and spit

the thought from my mind. That’s it! I was losing my sanity. Little

Brother? Muscular grace?

Coral crap!

I found my mind switching from thoughts of loathing to lov-

ing like the swishing of a sharp-fin’s tail.

As the golden light dropped into the sea mixing all in purpled

splendor, Little Brother inadvertently smoothed against my side. A

charge, like the touch of a twisty fire eel, burst from my dorsal to the

tip of my tail, and I was changed forever. The waters turned a ghost-

ly blue and light flashed on the waves. It wasn’t just me, for in Little

Brother’s eyes I saw a change, a gentling. A fever set over us and

cast our blood afire.

The winds of the dryside, filled with the essence of whisper-

ing, golden sands — heady perfume. We paused gazing into one

another’s eyes and for the first time, but forever and a day, we saw

and touched each other’s souls. Then, for no apparent reason we

raced off leaping from crest to crest, seeming not to touch the water.

We swam as one; we were one, our bodies coiled and spinning.

There was only the beating of one heart, the passion of one mind.

We were wed on that night of the silverside moon. With the commit-

ment of our souls, we dedicated ourselves to each other and to the

will of ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD.

Far out to sea, I sensed the gentle rolling laughter of

Momma Love.

We rested enraptured there in those still waters for hundreds

of tides, I truly know not how long. Life took on new meaning. We

became bonded and, like the others that had come before, noth-

ing would part us save death. We pledged to live and die together.

Nothing would separate us.

Under the watchful eye of delightful Momma Love, we learned

of the joys and responsibilities of adulthood. We were filled with

a longing to know more of one another — to join both in spirit and

life’s direction. What Little Brother would do for the rest of his life,

so would I. Where I would go, he would follow. These were more

than simple pledges cast upon an empty shore. These vows would

bind us for all of eternity.

CHAPTER TWELVE

We swam slower now as the sea filled with massive chunks

of ice. And it was early the next tide that we came upon a group of

our distant cousins, the flipper-fins. We happily called to them and

were delighted to notice that Harmony, too, seemed to recognize the

flipper-fin as an extension of the intelligence in the sea. He became

excited and before we could tell him the tales of our cousins, he

swam quickly away from us to meet with them.

It was with horror that we watched Harmony surge into this

herd of simple-minded relatives–not to play, but to feast. The herd

scattered, dashing up onto the shore, as this great white whale

chased a fat cousin into the deep and quickly devoured him in two

or three bites at best. We waited–no laughter, no smile–until he

swam back to rejoin us.

“What is the matter?” Harmony sang innocently enough, “Is

there some evil in the water, some sandwalker drawing near?”

I couldn’t even talk so revolted was I, but Little Brother

spoke angrily, “You speak of seeking the sandwalker and wish to

see their evil ways. Yet you prey on and eat the flesh of our near-to-

cousins, the flipper-fins.”

Harmony looked at us, his eyes going blank. “That’s impos-

sible,” he said. “I’ve never heard them sing.”

“You and your songs,” I snapped. “Not all are related by a

musical song alone. Listen as they speak in the water. Listen to

their words so true as they dash and tell of the brutal you!”

The whale paused and listened carefully to the fearful cries

of the flipper-fin as they made their escape to the dryside. “I hear

not but their bark,” he retorted.

“That,” said Little Brother, “is the song of the flipper-fin.

Whether you know it or not, they are of our family and yours.”

The flipper-fin kept singing their song of fear. They sang

of that great white hunter who had killed their leader. They sang a

warning in the sea for all to leap to the frozen islands in order to

escape the monstrous fiend. It took Harmony a bit of time to realize

that he was the great white hunter . . . he was the fiend. This dis-

tant cousin of ours, though over-sized and munch-mouthed, stared

at us in total shock-horror as the truth seeped into his dryside brain.

His eyes widened and his skin seemed to pale. He backed away and

disappeared for a time into the gloom of the deep.

“He makes me a bit nervous,” said I. “He talks of lofty ideals

and sweet sung songs and then turns and eats his relatives. I don’t

know whether I trust him or not. I mean, first a flipper-fin and then

one of us?”

“I don’t know about you,” said Little Brother chuckling, “but

if I hear his stomach grumbling one more time in hunger, you’ll find

yourself swimming alone.”

Later the great white hunter returned looking shamefaced,

but still I could not trust him. We moved closer to the dryside shore

and after a time, I quietly whispered to him, “Keep low in the water

and watch the shore of the dryside. There you will see part of that

which you seek.”

We watched the flipper-fin that cavorted on the dryside, safe

from the “menace in the sea.” Soon, as we had watched so many

times before, sandwalkers wobbled swiftly along on spindly fins

trapping the baby flipper-fins they called seals against an ice wall,

cutting off any escape to the sea. Then with clubs they summarily

beat the babies to death.

Harmony, after a long time of watching this horror turned

and solemnly said, “The sandwalker gathers meat, as does the pod.

They are no better or worse than the whale.”

“Look again, dear friend,” cried Little Brother, as tears traced

their way down his silver skin. “The sandwalkers are much worse

than you who only seek a meal.”

We gazed again at the shore and watched as the sandwalkers

ripped the furry skins off the dead children and tossed their car-

casses away. Then, as quickly as they had arrived, the sandwalkers

retreated from the bloodied beach.

Our minds filled with this horrible carnage and waste, we

pulled the whale away from the shore to the deeper waters. “I

should have,” Harmony rumbled angrily, “snapped the arm from the

sandwalker on the creaker that touched me before it could do this

harm,” not even able to sing his message in song.

“It wasn’t them,” said I very subdued. “For there are many

sandwalkers, some are good but most are bad.”

We rolled in the silence of the sea, soothed by its very si-

lence. Little Brother and I watched the great whale as he wrestled

with all that he had seen. Finally, he roused himself from his intro-

spection and said, “Now it is time for me to return to the pod. For

I have seen the good and the evil of the sandwalker and there are

many lessons that must be sung into the Song.”

As much as we would have been glad to be rid of this float-

ing appetite and as much as we wanted to continue our search for

delight in the world, I spoke again, “Not yet, my great whale. There

is more that you should see.”

“More!” he cried in disbelief. “More of the sandwalkers killing

the flipper-fin young, and then defying the basest law of the sea by

not consuming their kill?”

“No,” answered Little Brother, “it is worse than that. Much,

much worse.”

We silently swam down the seas and left the cold, stained

waters of the flipper-fin. We didn’t talk, let alone sing for a time, out

of fear that we might become the next meal for our glutton friend.

We ate sparingly of the bottom fish, bug-eye, and flat-tail, and sped

quickly down from the cold following the swift currents.

Within a tide or two as the dark turned to light, turned to

dark and back to light, Little Brother and I both tried to bring laugh-

ter back to the sea. We frolicked and played, breaching over this

behemoth, but little could we do to make him laugh. It may have

been his introspection of all he had seen, or it may have been that

the water changed as the air warmed.

Whenever Little Brother and I swam in this part of the sea,

we felt and tasted the wrongness, the bitterness that seemed to

seep from the dryside. Often we would have to swim around, or

under, a floating island of rot and filth. Objects, the likes of which

Harmony had never seen, floated crazily on the water, and because

they smelled strongly of evil; a closer inspection was not advised.

Little Brother explained that all these objects and all this filth

had come from the sandwalkers that lived on the dryside nearby. The

water had become so fouled that Harmony’s bright-white skin began

to turn an oily black. I jokingly said that Harmony had begun to

look like a real whale, but I don’t think he was much amused by the

transformation. Time and tide again, he would dive to the deep in an

effort to rid himself of his stains, only to breach in yet another slick

of the brackish, putrid water, and he would be blackened once again.

Soon after, in the distance, we finally could hear the plaintive

cries of other dolphin. Tired though we were, we swam faster and

soon closed in on their pleas for help.

What we found, though so hideous as to be beyond the pos-

sibility of belief, were dolphin that were wrapped in kelp-like stream-

ers holding them fast. The sea was filled with their screams of

torture as the dolphin tried desperately to rip free from their death-

bound prison.

Harmony, without thinking of the possible consequences to

himself, tore at these webs with his teeth. He thrashed about, his

great bulk wracking great havoc with the sandwalkers’ woven kelp

but, even with all of this tremendous effort, only one was freed.

Harmony never stopped trying, reason deafened by the screams of

dolphin pain and anguish.

He was finally pushed firmly away by Little Brother and

myself. “Try not, our friend,” we cried, “for these dolphin have been

trapped too long. If they lived, they would be stranger still, for they

have been long without the air to fill their lungs.”

We backed away, watching in horror as hundreds, of dolphin

died in that cove. Above, we could see the sandwalkers still milling

about inside their shells. Soon they began to pull the kelp-like ma-

terial to the surface, and the dolphin found still clinging to life were

beaten until the waters ran red with their deaths — a horrible death.

When all was done and silence returned to the sea, a som-

ber Harmony asked, “Why? The fishes are food for all to share as

was commanded by ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD but the

dolphin have song. Why does the sandwalker murder them?”

“We don’t know,” Little Brother said, answering in kind and

then continued, “We think the sandwalkers believe all the fishes to

be theirs. We think they don’t wish to share, and kill anything that

gets in the way. But we really don’t know why. We, the dolphin,

love all things created, even the sandwalkers, only to be rewarded at

times like this with death.”

“I have seen enough!” the great white said in anguish. “Now

surely you will let me return to my pod to add all these horrors to

the Song — to tell of the right and to tell of the wrong.”

“No!” I cried. “There is one more truth that you should see.

You must know everything.”

Knowing the depth of Harmony’s pain at seeing all this for

the first time, Little Brother consoled, “It isn’t far and it truly is on

the way back to your pod.” Harmony, so numbed, meekly followed

as we led him back to sea and the sweetness of open water. We

swam slowly, in silence. The great whale sank many times to the

deep in attempts to cleanse himself of the filth that had tainted his

body. But his memory would never be the same, and the worst was

yet to come. As we swam true to the rising golden light, the water

seemed to reverberate with keening, a soft high-pitched sound. We

swam hard, and the volume of the noise increased until we were

bathed in its unearthly sound.

Little Brother and I knew that sound. We understood from

all that we had seen before that the carnage to be seen would be

beyond that which we could bear. We gently warned our friend, “Go

no closer. You must see what you can see from where we are now.”

On the horizon, many giant shell-sharks were filled with

hundreds of sandwalkers. Harmony leaned high into the dryside,

gazing at the horizon, trying to discern what could be causing such

a commotion. “I must go closer. I can barely see,” he protested.

“You don’t understand,” I said, as I leaned into his bulk to

restrain him from going closer. “You are in mortal danger here. For

these sandwalkers kill not flipper-fin or dolphin. Here they kill the

whale, the very Song itself.”

Harmony shook his great head, still without complete un-

derstanding. Little Brother came close to his side and whispered,

“Here they kill your song. Here they murder whales. All within this

pod will die.”

Against our warning, Harmony blindly surged forward, brush-

ing us both out of the way like we were a bit of storm foam. We fol-

lowed to help if we were needed, and it wasn’t long before the water

turned brown with the blood-sludge of the dead. Around us, strange

screaming shell-sharks chased whale after whale and stabbed them

deep with pointed sticks.

In less than a tide the white whale, numbed by all that he

had seen, had to be forcibly guided into the cleaner seas. His eyes

were glazed with the pain and misery. Harmony quietly sank from

our sight, and we politely held our distance, knowing that he need-

ed to be alone to cleanse himself. From the deep, we could feel

the vibration of his song, and it welled all about us, filling us with

its sadness. We did not talk, we did not laugh, and it was only by

conscious effort that we even remembered to breathe, so beautifully

plaintive was the song as sung by Harmony.

Finally, the seas were silent again. Soon after, the great white

breached from the sea with a roar. There he floated for a bit and,

when the silence echoed on the trailing waves, he sang. “I don’t

know whether to love you for showing me all of this or to hate you

forever. My song is filled with confusion.”

“Go now to your pod,” we said in gentle voice. “Though you

be confused, remember that there is good and bad in all things in the

sea. You must learn to value each for its balance. Someday we will

meet again and share a memory, and we will learn to laugh again.”

Filled with sorrow because we understood his great pain, we

slowly swam farther down the world to a gentler place. Here we,

too, would be able to cleanse ourselves of all the great wrongs we

had seen these past many tides.

Although the great white needed to learn these lessons that

we taught, it is hard for a dolphin to be without its natural purpose

— laughter in the sea. We hadn’t laughed freely in gleeful abandon-

ment for such a long time and had need for the clear blue waters of

the downside — the corals of Winsome Bright.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There were also many non-living creatures that swam in our

seas — the shell-sharks that carry the sandwalkers over the top of

the waters of life. Throughout our many young journeys around our

sea, we came into contact with them over and over again. Some

were good, but, for the most part, they brought a sense of wrong-

ness with them–something that didn’t belong and was best left on

the dryside.

We saw the shell-sharks filled with sandwalkers we called

fisher-catchers drag behind them great weavings of twisted kelp

that trapped all within its confines. To be caught in these weavings

meant instant death, for a strong-lunged dolphin needs the sweet air

to breathe and these weavings forced us too long below the surface.

At other times, we saw dolphin dragged from the waters still full with

life, and only moments later, their useless dead bodies were thrown

back to us in the taunt and tease of uselessness, proof of our inabil-

ity to fight the great sandwalkers. Our group as a whole survived

without fatality. We viewed much and during these times with the

fisher-catchers churning the waters we experienced little laughter

and much fear.

But in life there is always a balance. For every tear shed,

there is a giggle given; and for the dark, there is light. So was

it with the shell-sharks and the sandwalkers that rode upon the

sea. Little Brother and I had found great sport in chasing the little

sun-colored shell-sharks that we called hummers. Unlike the hard-

shelled variety, their thin skin was somewhat akin to the whales’

hide, but they smelled tangy and not right with the world.

They would wildly race to where Little Brother and I would

be swimming or chasing tuna-tails, and the humming would stop

and so would they. The sandwalkers sat upon the hummer’s back

and gazed for long periods of time as we played. When we ventured

close, they dangled their puny fins in the water as if inviting us to

savor the texture and the flavor of their meat. I personally have

never tasted them, but there are many tales of sharp-fins who have

had one or two sandwalkers for a meal. Thankfully, they were not

something that I savored.

However, the sandwalkers were fun to play with, and their

antics delighted Little Brother and me almost to the point of tears.

Little Brother, in particular, recounted to them long, bizarre stories.

They would stare intently at him with those intense, tiny eyes that

appeared so very intelligent, simulating understanding but I swear

they never understood a word he said. Fun to play with, yes but

intelligent, no!

Little Brother persisted in chattering away telling them tales

of flipper-fin and tuna-tails. They, in turn, would nod their puny

heads, moaning their moronic moans, which would send my mate

and me into paroxysms of laughter. Little Brother would even at

times swipe his head from side to side, splashing them in a very

irritating way. Their little puny fins would wave furiously, and their

moans would turn to squeals and squeaks, and then they would

rush back for more. Not intelligent, these creatures, definitely

not intelligent.

The seemingly innocuous sandwalkers would, on some oc-

casions, even share their food with us. I tried it only once. It was

a bit of white, fluffy stuff with a blob of brown glop spread on it. It

was horrible! It stuck to the roof of my mouth and surely never had

its beginning as flesh. Little Brother seemed to like some of the

stuff they tried to feed us, and he once encouraged me to try some-

thing he said tasted something like tuna-tails. I politely refused.

“Poor little things, the sandwalkers,” I used to think. “They

give offerings, so in awe are they of us.” How wrong I was, not

about their intelligence, for I still feel they have little if any, but of

their gentle intent.

The shell-sharks came in a variety of shapes and sizes.

There were hummers both big and little, some made of whale-like

skin, and others of some kind of odd-smelling smooth stone. There

were giant hummers that sometimes screamed as they skimmed

over the water, and monstrous moaners greater still that groaned

their way slowly across the seas.

But of the shell-sharks, my favorites were the silent ones

that creaked about in the seas, rocking as the waves rolled. They

were aptly called creakers. Held above their great shells were flat-

tened sheets of cloud that filled with the wind, or sometimes the

clouds seemed to just slap at themselves, beating out their distort-

ed rhythms. Often Little Brother and I sought out the creakers, for

the sandwalkers that flopped about in them seemed to be a kind and

gentle lot.

It was great fun to dance in front of these behemoths of the

sea, leaping in the froth and foam as they cut laboriously through

the water. On one such adventure, Little Brother and I came upon

an isolated white whale. Of course, we had met whales before in

our travels, but this whale was to change our lives forever — we

would never be the same.

We were leading a large creaker on a twisted, convoluted trail

through the sea, when just ahead breached a large white whale. He

was nearly rammed in the side by the creaker which was never known

for its ability to turn quickly in the water. My immediate fear was for

the safety of the creaker and the puny creatures it carried within.

Who could know who would survive a collision of that magnitude?

Once again, Little Brother came to the rescue and chanted

merrily, “Out of the way. Out of the way. Sandwalkers come looking

for fun and they can’t seem to find their way.”

The whale turned his mighty head, his eyes opened wide in

shock, and then he sank like a rock into the deep. Knowing the

creaker was safe, at least for a time, we swam quickly back to the

whale. He was wallowing in the trough of a wave and muttering to

himself, “Where was the warning–the hum, the song that is not a

song–that flows with every shell-shark I have seen?”

Little Brother, never at a loss for words, leaped into the

whale’s soliloquy and answered the question he had not been

asked, “This shell-shark is silent. It is called a creaker and it fol-

lows the wind.”

“What are you?” sang the whale in a richly accented voice,

“You nearly sing the whale song, but you are not whale. What

are you?”

“Hmm,” laughed Little Brother, “What are I? Well, I are not

sandwalker, I are not whale. If I are not these things, then I must

be dolphin.” With that, Little Brother swam right up to this whale

and stopped only when he was nearly eye to eye. “My name is Little

Brother and that is my mate, Laughter Ring.”

“I am called Harmony,” sang the whale in a deep pleasing

tone, “I have come seeking wisdom about the sandwalker. What is

your purpose, dolphin?”

“Our purpose, whale, is to lead the way before yonder creaker.”

“But why?” sang the whale.

“Why? You of all creatures need to ask why?” Quickly, before

the white whale could answer, Little Brother continued his tease.

“The sandwalkers that ride the creakers make us laugh, and we dol-

phin live to laugh. Besides, if we didn’t lead the way, yonder creaker

would run over dumb whales like you.”

It was my feeling that maybe, just maybe, my mate had gone

too far. This whale was ten times our size, and just one little swipe

of his mighty tail would send both of us reeling into the seas with

aches of the head that could last a lifetime. Many times, we had

heard tales that some angry or very hungry whales of this sort had

been known to munch upon sharp-tongued dolphin. I rushed be-

tween the two of them as they bristled angrily in the water.

“He means no harm,” I laughed merrily to break the tension.

“He means only to make you smile and laugh at all the fun that

spreads beneath the sun.”

The whale paused and considered all that had been said.

His eyes relaxed and his tone turned from tense to curious. “You

say,” said he, “that the sandwalkers make you laugh. How can that

be? I have seen sandwalkers in their shell-sharks before, and in

their wake I have only found death and destruction.”

“Oh, ‘tis true,” continued Little Brother as if there were no

threat at all and as if this huge whale were nothing more than some

young dolphin to be taught a lesson of life. “Most of the sandwalk-

ers are evil to the very core, but some are fun, and many, in their

simple way, bring joy to me on a sunny day. Look, even as we sing,

they turn the lumbering shell to follow us.”

The whale turned his mighty body in the water. Noticing

Little Brother was right in his observation, he took a breath to

prepare for diving deep. “Never fear, my friend,” said I. “They will not

hurt you. They are but curious and love to touch all that they see.”

The whale looked completely terrified. “Do you mean you

would actually allow the sandwalkers to touch you?” he asked

nervously.

“Yup,” teased Little Brother, “It doesn’t hurt, and besides,

it tickles.”

The whale floated shaking in the water, scared nearly out of

his wits, as the creaker drew near. Both Little Brother and I, in an

attempt to set the whale at ease, began our usual entertainment of

these simple creatures that sailed.

As was our style we danced on our tails on the surface of

the sea rather than within it followed by breaches high into the air.

But the odd, white whale never joined us. He just floated anxiously

three or four sea troughs away ready to escape at any moment.

Swimming to where he waited quivering with fear, I laughed,

“The sandwalkers care not about watching us dolphin in our play

this day. They are more entertained by you, great white whale. Go

to them. Feel their strange dry skin upon your flesh. It will make

you laugh, or at the very least, it will enlighten you. Go. These

sandwalkers have no evil intent.”

Harmony stared at me for a long moment, as if for reassur-

ance. Challenged by our fearlessness he made his way slowly over

to the creaker that was standing still in the water, its white clouds

that reached up to the far above flapping in the breeze.

The sandwalkers, following the custom they had established

with us, the dolphin, leaned over the edge of the shell to reach

down and pet this great white whale. I once again noted their abso-

lute ignorance, for this huge whale could have inhaled one of them

with plenty of room left over for a burp.

After a time, Harmony relaxed and seemed to enjoy the

stroking and petting. He finally sang to us in his deep, rich tones,

“Maybe they, too, have a song but it appears to be an odd song,

without depth or soul. Possibly, if I took them into the deep, they

would be able to sing their song with more strength.”

This innocent statement sent Little Brother and me into

gales of laughter. We rolled, unable to talk, unable to catch our

breath. Our composure finally regained, we patiently explained that

the sandwalkers knew not how to hold their breath and if they were

taken to the deep they would surely die.

Harmony finally swam away from the creaker and called to us.

“I must leave, for this is quite perplexing to me. I have been told the

sandwalkers bring only death to the sea. Now I see they are not so

bad. I must go back to my pod and add this information to our song.”

“Ah,” I laughed, “so that is what you are about: a great seek-

er of information.” I quickly explained that all the sandwalkers were

not as gentle as these and that some, yea even many, bring much

death and evil to the sea.

Harmony batted his great eyes and looked wonderingly at my

mate and me. “Then,” he sang, “I must seek out these other sand-

walkers that bring evil to the sea. I have many answers that have

need of questions to be asked.”

Little Brother and I looked at each other and, without even

talking it over, chorused together, “We shall guide you if you will

have us. For we have traveled far in our journeys and have seen

what you seek.”

With a flash of our tails, Little Brother and I swam off up

the sea towards the coldest of waters in the farthest reaches of our

domain. For if Harmony sought to see all the evil of the sandwalk-

ers, then we would show him the greatest of their evils. The journey

would be far and it would take many tides to accomplish.

We looked back, and it wasn’t long before this lumbering

great white whale joined us on our swim to the cold waters and the

answers to the questions he carried.

Though reluctant to laugh at first, Harmony truly was more

in tune with the world than either Little Brother or I. Little Brother

loved to make others laugh, and Harmony was his greatest chal-

lenge. My laughter would ring about the sea as Little Brother came

floating by with a crown of seaweed or mush-fish on his head. But

Harmony would only chuckle a little, at best, and continue on his

way. Little Brother told the tale of Bubble Butt and his imaginary

brother and sister, and although I had heard the story at least a

hundred times before, I laughed, but Harmony simply smiled. It was

only when Little Brother, by accident, got a clacker-claw stuck to

his nose that Harmony finally broke down and laughed so hard that

he nearly cried.

The ice now broken, Harmony easily and often laughed and

sang with us as we continued our journey together. He was at the

same time both patient and impatient as we swam along. Impatient

when we needed an occasional rest, and patient in the understand-

ing that without that rest we all would have to travel slower.

Finally, Harmony asked, “When and where will we see this

evil side of the sandwalker, whale, or dolphin. Other than the puny

fish we feed upon, the sea seems to be barren of life.”

Little Brother sipped a tiny sip of the sea and shuddered in

revulsion, “There is a taste in the water of the sandwalker and the

evil he brings to the sea. Come the next tide, two at the most, you

will see that which you won’t want to see.”

Section Two

as sung by Laughter Ring

 

CHAPTER TEN

The others may sing, and we may listen, but best of all and

always, we laugh.

It is we.

The two of us, for always — forever and a day.

We are dolphin. He is Little Brother and I am Laughter Ring.

But I am before the story, and the Song of the Sea must be

sung clearly to all those who will listen and understand.

This song cannot be sung as some of the other songs have

been sung. Those other songs are long in melody and rich in

voice. I can barely carry a tune — my voice squeaks and twitters.

The other was whale and he is great in philosophy and purpose. I

am dolphin, and we have little philosophy. Our purpose as dolphin

was and is to laugh, to giggle — to bring mirth and merriment to the

cloudiest of days.

This then is my singing of the Song of the Sea.

 

I was born long, long ago in a happy time, a time of joy in

the waters of life. I grew, like all birthed creatures, for some con-

scious time in the darkness of my mother’s womb, listening to her

silly stories about the mysteries of life. “You will be different,” she

whispered, “You will be special. Your laughter will ring the world

over and cause rainbows to kiss the waters that flow.”

“Who, me?”

Then, in a blink of an octopus eye and the pop of a sea foam

bubble, I was suddenly one with the world. Oh, and how the sights

and the sounds assailed my senses, but I wasn’t shocked or fright-

ened. Like all dolphin, I was amused. The world made me laugh,

and laugh I did. I laughed and laughed, rolled and giggled in delight

at all I saw and felt. My mother, as tradition dictated named me what

first came to her mind –Laughter Ring.

The mother and daughter intimacy was lost in the riot of

colors that danced upon the waters of life. In the silliness of all that

is, I immediately joined with others my own age. How the seas

rolled with our laughter as we danced on the waves and leaped over

the wind. We chased our tails which made us laugh all the merrier,

for there were many of the young in those days, and even the older

dolphin loved the sound of our laughter.

Time, like the tides, rolled on. We traveled all about the

great circle of our sea, from crystal ice to balmy blue. From our sea

we watched the golden light as it rose in the dawn over the Dryside

of Burning Rain. We followed the golden light across our sea to

the dryside where it finally set smoldering into the steamy fields of

dryside kelp that waved so oddly there.

Fate always calls to those who listen, and fate sang to me

in rapture. Hundreds of tides after my birthing, my joining with

the laughter of life, I met my life’s mate. I was sneaking up on the

tuna-tails and tickling their bellies from beneath, causing them to

scatter in fear, when I found myself the victim of another’s teasing.

Somewhere, somehow, someone had slipped beneath me and tick-

led me in the most ticklish of spots between fluke and fin. I giggled

and rolled trying to escape as laughter in bubbles fair burst in rain-

bows in the surface air. Try though I might, I could not escape this

demon of the untimely tickle.

“Stop!” I cried as my tears squeezed into the already salty

water. “I can laugh no more, or surely I will die.”

His voice called to me with a final tickle on my tail. “Be not

I the one to cause your death, Laughter Ring who sings so sweet.”

And there he was — sleek and silver with streaks of black racing

back from head to tail.

“Who are you?” I cried, stifling the laughter that yearned to

giggle more, “who tickles those who were made for tickling?”

“Just me,” he sang in his sing-song fashion.

“And just who under the seas is ‘just me’?” I asked in

mock disdain.

“My name is Little Brother,” he exclaimed in all seriousness.

Whether by reason of his serious tone or perhaps the silli-

ness of his name (I know not which), I again began to laugh. “Why

are you called Little Brother?”

He became more somber still and said, “I must warn you that

I am very good at riddles. Why would I not be called Little Brother?

Can the answer be a question: Did not my mother and father already

birth an older child?”

“And I suppose,” I laughed, that his name is Older Brother.

Tides forbid that your parents should birth another son for he should

be called Littlest Brother. Then there would be room for no other

brothers and your mother would have had to begin on the daughters.”

I think at this point the joke had turned a bit sour and my

companion of tickle had become indignant at the laughter pointed

at his name. “For your information,” he retorted tartly, “my other

brother is not called Older Brother, but rather something else.”

“Like what?” I asked. “Olderest Brother?”

I truly expected Little Brother to answer that his brother was

named a regal name like Prince of the Sea or Radiant Splendor,

but he retorted in a very somber tone, “My older brother is named

Bubble Butt.”

Like the pest I was then, I persisted and swam after the bait,

“Bubble Butt? Your older brother is called Bubble Butt?”

Indignantly, he turned tail to me and I surely felt I had hurt

him to the quick. “I am sorry,” I sang. “I meant no harm.” I followed

but stayed behind in consolation.

“Yes,” he sighed, “you meant no harm but great harm you

did cause.”

I was hooked, saddened by the laughter turned sour, by the

hurt to another. “I truly meant no harm. It was just that the name

Bubble Butt seems a bit odd.”

He still had his back to me and, I felt deep remorse from my

dark humor. Never is a dolphin’s laughter to cause pain. “His name

really is Bubble Butt. He got his name because he was born butt

first in a bubble and his butt is monstrous round and smooth and

does look like a bubble.”

It was then that Little Brother turned toward me, and I could

see the mischief in his eyes. He was not hurt at all; he was teasing.

He was the master jabber of jabs in the ribs of some unsuspecting

squiggly-finned creature.

I was shocked and surprised, and a bit dizzy as one who has

been turned round and round. “Why, you . . . .”

“Besides,” he laughed, “I really don’t have a brother, but I do

have a sister called Older Sister. I was to be Little Sister, but nature

always causes the rain to fall on those who seek fair weather.”

With a flip of his tail under my chin, Little Brother was gone

in a flash, and feeling angry at being duped I quickly chased after

him. He breached from the waters as he raced along slicing smooth-

ly into the dryside, gaining speed and distance. I followed, and our

spray traced lazy patterns back to the sea.

We chased and chased until my anger turned again to ex-

hausted blowing of misted laughter from the tonal vent on my

head. We finally stopped in a cove of coral, living rock and there

we looked long into one another’s eyes. It was a deep soulful look

that merged and melted all our reserves and, like others before, we

became one — in our own way we were mated for life — bonded by

that which must be. Shyly we turned away and joined the others, but

we were one, soul mates — forever and a day.

In the sea, the tides change, and with changing comes the

growth to adulthood. It was strange as I grew how I never felt the

change, but rather observed.

Little Brother and I bonded closer and closer in friend-

ship until we nearly thought alike. In many ways that was a scary

thought indeed, Little Brother being silly as he was.

Together we played, laughed, and teased the world unmer-

cifully. The feathered-furies were a delightful prey and the subject

of a great many jokes and games. At times, we would slip slowly

beneath them as they floated in the waters of life. Then gently, like

a rising tide, Little Brother would slowly rise until one of them would

be standing, quite confused, on his back. Not very intelligent were

they. They would stand there, these dryside, feathered tunas, while I

would rise under another one until the two were standing eye to eye.

With wide eyes, they would screech warnings to each other and

then lumber up into the wind-swept sky. My friend and I would roll

in the seas, bathed in our own laughter.

One of our favorite ploys was to slip into a great gathering

of these feathered-furies and skim the surface with our fins jutting

from the water like some great sharp-fin, which are known to have

devoured a dryside meal or two. This cruel joke was played many,

many times, but like all jokes, it finally ran its course and became

less amusing when the pretend became reality.

One day as we were playing our little child’s game, knifing

through the waters pretending to be other than we were, scaring

the very feathers off them, I noticed Little Brother, who was silkily

slicing through the water on my strong-fin side. “How smooth he

glides,” I thought. “Almost like a real sharp-fin.”

I swam for a time in this manner with Little Brother at my

side, when I dove to change sides and make a new run at the feath-

ered furies. To my amazement, Little Brother had shifted sides, too,

and we were still swimming side by side. I blinked and realized that

there was no way possible that he could have gotten from one side

to the other.

“Oh sweet coral crap!” shouted Little Brother, “A sharp-fin is

swimming at your side! It would not please me to watch you be-

come a meaty meal.”

I breached and as quickly dove, glancing behind to see if

I had eluded that which I had moments before striven so hard to

imitate. To my great discomfort, I discovered the sharp-fin had tired

of snacks of feathered-fury and decided to follow me. Not only to

follow but also to intercept and perhaps devour a small meal — a

meal that was composed of a plump young female dolphin who was

far too young for such a fate!

I twisted and swam deeper, and yet it followed on behind in

that icy way that sharp-fins do. He slid by, as if I weren’t there at

all, and then turned to face me, jaws open wide, glistening teeth in a

sickening smile. His eyes rolled and the lids locked in the evil eye of

death. This was it! I was soon to be a lump in his stomach. I twist-

ed and lurched to one side as he attacked, knowing too well that my

defenses were hardly any defense at all.

My prayers of finality, the beginning of the end, were rudely

broken as my eye caught a flash of diffused light on yet another

sharp-fin. But this was not simply another mortal fin; this was none

other than Little Brother, and he was throwing himself at my attack-

er. His body rammed the sharp-fin full in the side, and there was a

burst of bubbles as the creature lost a rib or two from the collision.

Quickly, Little Brother raced off and attacked, again and again. The

sharp-fin soon lost all desire to taste my sweet meat, and beat a

hasty retreat into the deep.

I surfaced, my tail quivering in the aftershock of fear that

touches all of us at the closeness of a meeting with the beginning

of the end. Little Brother soon leaped above and then fell back into

the water. His showing off, which normally irritated me, this time did

nothing more than ingratiate, as I watched my hero bound about in

the waters of life.

Finally he tired of his game and swam to my side and gently

asked, “Are you okay, Laughter Ring?”

Surprised by his gentleness, I responded in kind, “I am all

right. Thank you. For what you did was very brave and very sweet.”

“Not so brave nor for the reason as you would think,” he

laughed with his eyes twinkling merrily. “For if the sharp-fin had

tasted you, he would have spat you out such a bitter taste are thee.

And then he would have come looking for me. It is the talk of the

sea that I am the sweetest dolphin around.” With that, he splashed

me full in the face, and the chase was on.

CHAPTER NINE

I remembered nothing for a tide or tides, I know not which. I

stirred as one waking from a frightful sleep. I stretched and my body

ached. I looked around and found that I was close to the breakers

but a short way from the shore. I listened, but there was no song.

I knew that what I had hoped I had dreamed, was real. I was alone

with the memory of the Song of the Sea.

The memory.

Of all that is holy, the memory!

The pod was dead!

My mind was flooded with memory. The delights, the laugh-

ter, the fears. To remember was to ache with such gut-wrenching

pain that to think was effort, not worth the price. I twisted in my

own sea of guilt as I wondered the impact of my singing of the

Narwhal song. I agonized my journey and the singing of that song.

How much of all of this was my own responsibility? How much guilt

was mine truly earned? How deep was my conceit at the wonder

of the song. How hollow is a song when there is no one to sing it

to? Now, being Scribe was not an honor. Now, being Scribe was

charged with the horrible prospect of passing this hideous ritual on

to another pod, as it had been passed on to us. Others–and still

others–would die, and like those interwoven nets of kelp, it would

keep building until all the seas would be silent forever.

“No!” I screamed, “This will end with me. This will end for-

ever here. I will join the others in their futility, rather than take the

chance that this song might be sung again.”

Slowly, I turned my back to the sea and rushed to the dry-

side. I began to sing of recrimination. I was the one who returned

from the journey and passed on the hatred of the sandwalker. I was

the one who had listened to the dreams of the Narwhal and passed

on their vengeance to the pod.

“The pod. The pod.” I cried again and again. Then, with the

speaking of the word, came fresh memory anew, and like a sharp-fin,

it ripped at my heart and devoured my soul.

“Melody and Progeny, my own sweet mother, Rhapsody, all

are dead,” I wailed, and the tears blurred my vision of purpose so

that I could not see. A wave lifted me higher and threw me closer to

the shore and to the end I so desperately sought. The coral sand

began to scrape along my belly; still I fought higher and higher, up

the land shelf into the dryside. Finally, I could swim no more and

was beached like a monstrous log in the land of the sandwalkers.

With a calmness that belied my spirit, I sang of other days.

I sang loudly so the Song of the Sea would be carried on the winds

of the dryside, and all the sandwalkers could hear what I had done,

what they had done, what we all had done to the world. I sang of

destruction. I sang of the lives lost and the friends departed. I

waited for the end . . . the beginning.

As I lay there, prepared for death and embroiled in my own

self-pity, I felt a biting, a pulling at my tail. “Odd,” thought I, “al-

ready the feathered-furies are pulling at my flesh.” But what mon-

strous feathered-furies! These strange furies not only pulled at me,

they yanked. I felt myself being scraped backward. The oddity of

this event momentarily snapped me from my private wake, for no

feathered fury could pull a whale back to the sea. What was hap-

pening? “Ah, no matter,” I mused out loud. “It matters not at all

whether it is a feathered fury, or a great sharp-fin pulling me into the

sea as a meal. It matters not, for the song is dead.”

Suddenly, my self-pitying reverie was broken by excited

chitterings and a voice that sang from out of the past, “You blub-

ber-brain. Help us for pity’s sake!”

“Help us? Help who?” I asked deliriously.

I heard my own words being mimicked like an echo gone bad,

“Help us? Help who? Help me? Help you? Come on, flounder

butt, help yourself.” My brain was fogged with grief, but still and all,

echoes don’t add to words spoken. Echoes don’t speak in squeaky

voices. Then the voices were remembered — Little Brother and

Laughter Ring.

“Let me die!” I cried. “The song is silent, and the pod is

dead!” I pulled from their grasp and once again began inching my

way back up the shore, but once again I was held short of my goal.

“By all things that are holy, let me die! For all is lost!”

“Not quite all,” shouted Little Brother, yanking me rudely again

toward the sea. “For out there wait the children that you saved. Did

you save them only to let them die of neglect and confusion?”

I paused in my struggle, and far out to sea I could hear the

gentle, tiny squeaks of the babies. All in the pod were not dead.

I remembered in a rush that in my madness to break the spell of

death I had pushed several young calves back to the deep. Now,

with no one to guide them, they floated and called to the parents

that could not hear.

But obstinacy is born of pride, and I shook their simple

songs from my ears and would not listen. “No!” I bellowed. “I am

whale, and my destiny is to die as the others before.”

Suddenly, my friends from long ago let go. “Fine,” taunted

Laughter Ring, “and the Narwhal are right as they sing. But what

happens when there are no more whales? What happens when all

the whales have cast themselves upon the shore? Do you think the

sandwalker will feel your protest after you are gone? No! They will

push your fat, rotting carcass back to the sea or better still, leave it

where it lies. Then they will quickly forget and continue their ruin-

ation of the world.”

“But,” I protested weakly, “I have carried out my responsibili-

ty. I have sung the song.”

“That’s a floating pool of carp crap, and you know it,”

snapped Little Brother. “Who do you sing to as you die? Do you

sing to the children, so they can continue this madness? Or do you

sing to the sandwalker? There is good reason why the sandwalk-

er does not sing the Song of the Sea. For how can you sing that

which you cannot hear?”

I froze in my undulations to reach the dryside. I paused.

Perhaps they were right. The sandwalker does not sing our song,

and we, the whale, can’t sing his. With a sigh breathed deep, I ex-

haled all that was wrong with my soul and began slowly to turn back

to the sea.

I flipped and flopped, helping my friends to extricate me from

the shore, and slowly inched my painful way from the sands of the

dryside. The salty waters of life burned my wounds but, all in all,

soothed my dry skin. As my wounds tingled with the sharp bite

of healing, I dropped into the deep to soothe that tortured melody

echoing in my mind. My little friends let me be while I mused my

situation. The children must learn the Song of the Sea, and from

its singing change would come. All must learn the song, not only

whale but flipper-fin and dolphin. All of the waters of life must sing

the same, not bits of melody here and there.

While there, on the bottom of the world as I knew it, I found

answers that had never been questioned. For there was a way to

protest the sandwalker. There was a way to remove the sandwalker

for all time from the sea. Exalted with rebirth and buoyant with the

spirit that has made the whale strong for all of time, I breached. For

the first time, for the last time, I breached for the life of all living

creatures in the sea.

Sustained by the new life within me and aided by my dear

friends, we searched for the children of tomorrow. We found them

not far from shore, confused and so alone. There were seven in

all. They sang to us for guidance. They asked for the song, and

they asked for food. Fortunately, all but one of them had tried the

first taste of fish and needed not their mothers’ milk. Little Brother,

Laughter Ring, and I swam ourselves ragged, hunting fish and re-

turning to feed the hungry mouths that waited, still in shock from all

they had seen but settled by normalcy of eating.

Though we tried to feed the littlest one, she was so dis-

traught she would not eat the fish we offered and cried fitfully for the

warmth of her mother’s milk. “What are we to do?” I asked of the

others, “I can soothe the young ones with the song and feed them

with the fish, but this little one I can do nothing for.”

“It has been done before,” Laughter Ring said quietly. “We

are both of the family of the sea. I will nurse the young one until

she can be taught to eat the fish. It may not be much, but it will

have to do.”

“That’s ridiculous,” snorted Little Brother. “You can’t nurse

another unless you are with child.” He paused and looked foolishly

at his mate. “Are you? Are we with child?”

Laughter Ring laughed true to her name, “I don’t know about

you, but I am. If you haven’t noticed these last many tides, I have

been growing large with child.”

Sure enough, I now noticed that Laughter Ring was filled with

child, and it was easy to see that she would have little trouble nurs-

ing a young one, even a whale.

“But, but,” stuttered Little Brother, “I thought you were just

getting a little fat. I mean, I thought you were eating a bit more

than I …”

“Hmm,” muttered laughter Ring, as she sought out the child.

“You and I shall talk of this another time. Fatter indeed.”

Later, when the silverside replaced the golden light with its

silvered reflections, we fed ourselves. Sated, we dozed, rocking

on the now gentle seas. I would sleep for a time, and then wake

abruptly, thinking I had heard Melody’s song calling to me from the

dryside. After listening for a time and hearing only the gentle rush

of the waves falling on the sea, I would fall back into my fitful sleep.

For many tides we moved the small pod around in no partic-

ular direction, as all seemed to wait for some decision from me as

to a call to action. What they didn’t know then and know now, is

that I didn’t know what to do. The dream of the Narwhal had filled

my mind with such narcissism as to my importance, that I couldn’t

make a decision, thinking somehow that the fate of the Song of the

Sea rested solely in my wake. I had begun spending more and more

time alone, forcing the two dolphins to care for the calves alone, no

mean task, indeed. It was on one of these reflective sojourns that I

had yet another mysterious chat with the mystical ghosts of the sea,

the Narwhal.

I had been in a deep dive and was actually due to breach, to

fill my straining lungs with air when I heard Godwin’s voice. “Why

do you wait, white whale? Why do you wait?”

I spun around in the water, looking for the source of the sing-

er. In the distance I thought I saw the faded image of Godwin the

Avenger, tail down in the water. I tried to focus on the visage but the

more I concentrated the more faint the image became. Sure that I

was still hallucinating, I called out “You! Why do you haunt me so?”

“You are the salvation. We cannot wait, Godwin called out.

The sandwalker has taken all from you. It has taken your moth-

er, your lover, your life. The prophesy has been fulfilled. You are

alone. There is no one for you to sing to. Call for the gathering.

Call for the Conclave. Let all the brethren sit in judgment of the

sandwalker. It is you and you alone who can bring us together.”

And then, as suddenly as he appeared, Godwin disappeared.

Lungs straining, I breached. I floated there, rocking softly on the

gentle waves that moved tirelessly to the dryside, to the sandwalker.

I was decided.

I rushed back to Laughter Ring and Little Brother and as the

young calves slept I sang, “The Narwhal are right in the sharing of

their wisdom, but they are so wrong in how they teach it. They hide

within their frozen crystal walls and give gifts of hate to any whale

that happens by, and, one by one, the whale is disappearing. The

Narwhal could do no better if they all gave their twisted horns to the

sandwalker, so that they could kill even more of us in the seas. A

new song must be sung. Not a song sung by just a single pod of

whale, here or there, but all in one massive chorus. I call for a Con-

clave, the greatest meeting of all the brethren of the sea.”

There followed a faint echo from afar, “And that is good!”

At first I thought it was again my imagination, the on-going

hallucination, but I was wrong. The two dolphins turned to the

sound also, and although it was faint, they, too, heard it. The Nar-

whal or at least one was somewhere in the nearby seas. “So, the

ghosts do move beyond their enchanted chambers,” I muttered.

“What did you sing?” asked Little Brother.

“Nothing,” I murmured. “Nothing. Draw yourself near. It is

time that I pass to you the entire Song of the Sea.”

“No!” said Laughter Ring, as she backed away, her eyes

opened in horror. “I will not listen. There is no way that I will let

you sing the song and die!”

“There is no fear of my throwing my life to the dryside and

the sandwalker. No, I propose to share the song as it was meant to

be shared. No one, whale or brethren, should hold the song alone.

The song is to be shared and with that I began to sing: This, then,

is my singing of the Song of the Sea.. I was born some seventy-five

hundred tides ago, in a time when the waters and life were mirror

smooth. Before my birth, in…”

I sang it all, leaving out nothing. When I was done, the dol-

phins’ eyes were wide with wonder. “By all that is holy,” whispered

Little Brother, as he twisted and turned, “I never would have thought

any song could be so long.”

“Or beautiful,” sighed Laughter Ring.

“It is the history of the world that you now share.” I sang,

“Go, go my friends. Call your pod of dolphins together, and tell

them of the Conclave. Send them out to the waters of the world and

each one of that group shall go to another and yet another group,

tell them all of the Conclave. Call to the flipper-fin and the great-

backed whale. Call to the blue and the bowhead. We shall all meet

in five-hundred tides near the crystal walls of the Narwhal of the

Horn.”

And with that, I gathered the young calves around and began

moving up the world to meet my destiny, the Conclave.