CHAPTER Five

Unnerved by what had transpired I dove beneath the crystal

islands of frost and rime. Once again, I surfaced some time later

thinking my lungs must burst. I was delighted to hear Cacopho-

ny’s groans and burps as he taunted, “Hey, kelp-breath, where

you been?”

Ignoring him, I sought out Tympani, the Scribe. I found him

listening at the far side of the pod. In a rush I sang to him my ad-

venture with the mystical Narwhal of the Horn, and only when I was

finished did I realize that others of the pod had gathered to listen to

my song.

“Tsk, tsk,” they sang, “poor Harmony must have bumped his

head on the ice, for everyone knows there are no Narwhal of the

Horn, they are but ghosts.” Chuckling a gentle song of sympathy,

they swam away, leaving me alone with the Scribe.

“The pod thinks I made that up? They think the Narwhal

only a delusion of my injured mind?” I mumbled.

Tympani was silent for a moment, obviously considering all

that I sang. “Somewhere in my memory of the song I remember a

vague verse that sings about a Conclave and a white whale who

would call for it. Not to worry, Harmony,” he consoled, “Though

you be white I greatly doubt that any of this has anything to do

with you. But to allay your fears somewhat, when I was your age

I chose to travel alone for a time. During that journey I was ac-

tually touched by a sandwalker and though it was not a pleasant

experience as you can see I am still alive. But as to your specific

dilemma, whether or not the Narwhal of the Horn are real or ghost

or whether you saw them at all is unimportant. As to the quest they

asked you to take, that is a journey that many young whales have

taken. Others before you like me have swum alone for a time to see

what they must see, and if you elect to seek your wisdom beyond

the pod, when finished with the journey you must return to me, so I

can add your travels to our song.” With that, Tympani left me alone

with my disquieted thoughts, as the colored lights from the top of

the world danced upon the sky.

After my meeting with the Narwhal, the pod began the long

swim back to the winter grounds and warmer waters. As we traveled

the other whales my age teased me from afar, calling me “the ghost

whale,” and would burst into bubbles of laughter if I joined them in a

collective hunt. I didn’t discuss the Narwhal with anyone, preferring

to wrestle alone with the reality or the lack of reality in what I had

seen. That did not stop me from allowing the delightful Melody to

closely examine my head for any sign of concussion or contusion.

Other than driving me to near distraction by her closeness, she

found nothing.

Were the Narwal real or had I dreamed them? V ery little cap-

tured my attention then, so occupied was I by what had or had not

happened. I had deliberated for some time and then, once again,

sought the wisdom of Tympani.

It took most of a tide to find him, for I was avoiding Cacoph-

ony who was in very foul spirits and nothing would cheer him more

than to pick up our fight where we had left off after the death of

Adagio. I finally found Tympani in the late golden light recording a

new passage to the song. As was the tradition, I waited patiently

and silently at his tail. When he finished, he turned and said, “I had

a feeling that you would soon seek me out.”

“I don’t mean to bother or extend a verse beyond its calling

but I continue to beleaguer this question of the Narwhal: Were they

real? Are there verses in our song that sings of the horned ones?”

Tympani paused as his mind raced through verse after verse

searching for all reference to the Narwhal. Finally, after some

time, he spoke, “Yes, my Harmony, there are many references to

the horned whale. It is sung that they were there at the beginning

when ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD created the sea and the

song. Their song became part of our song from the ghosting songs

of another pod. Therefore, it is not strong and may have been twisted

by the currents that flow. There is reference also, though very vague,

regarding the THOUSAND DEATHS OF THE SANDWALKER.”

“But,” I repeated, “is it true? Are they real? Did I have this

experience or was it indeed some kind of delusion?”

This wise, gentle whale mused a bit and then sang again.

“Whether it was delusion, dream, or reality matters not. Sometimes

dreams appear as reality. But one can learn from both, and both are

equally important.”

That statement spun my mind in a dizzying eddy. Dreams

that were reality? Reality that was dream? I persisted. “Are the

Narwhal real?”

“Harmony,” he patiently continued, “all that you sang was

true. The Narwhal were among the first of the whales. They chose

to make contact with the early sandwalkers that did for the second

time venture into the sea on shell-sharks. But it is sung in the song

that they were all killed. None of them lived. They are no more,

forever. They are thought of only as the Ghosts.”

I left feeling more confused than before, more questions

having been created than answered. For nearly a tide I float-

ed alone far to the side of the pod mulling all that I knew and

thought I knew. Still more questions were being generated than

were being answered.

Finally, with a flip of my tail I shook off my lethargy and

resolutely swam to my mother, Rhapsody, whom I had not visited

in many tides. She was swimming in the midst of others, sunning

on the surface, warmed in these cold waters by the goodness of

the sun.

“Mother, I have chosen to accept the Narwal challenge, to

swim in different seas to seek answers to questions that fill my mind

with confusion. I wish to carry your blessing, a bit of your song,

with me as a charm to protect me from the new.”

Her beautiful eyes blinked as she looked at me in her gentle

way. I had thought, perhaps hoped, that she would try to dissuade

me, to convince me that all was folly, but I was to be disappointed.

“Harmony,” she sang, “you must always seek the truth in that which

surrounds you, and if truth is not there, then seek it out wherever it

may be. Carry this bit of song and be not gone long, I love you.”

I then sought Melody and when I found her, I excitedly told

her of my decision to go alone into the seas and search for the

truth. Other young whales gathered around, eyes wide in the ex-

citement of my journey.

My enthusiastic ramblings were interrupted soon enough by

the belching of Cacophony as he bullied his way through the other

whales to where I swam with Melody. “Well, bubble-breath, what’s

this I hear about your leaving?”

I repeated the intent of my journey. I was shocked that

Cacophony didn’t immediately sing that it was stupid. He floated

nearby, studying me slowly with those careful predator eyes of his.

He said nothing for a moment or two as our eyes coldly locked —

always in combat. This time, though, he saw my resolve, and he

blinked first. Embarrassed, he slapped me with his mighty fluke and

laughingly said, “Well, good luck, fish bait. You’ll need it. Someday

I will eat of your flesh second hand in the belly of a large sharp-fin.”

With a massive splash, he dove and was gone.

I turned my thoughts once again to Melody, “Well, I guess I

had better go,” I said, stumbling for the right thing to say and the

right way to say it. Unfortunately, my hopes for a poetic good-bye

were dashed as a swell lifted our two bodies together. The touch

was beyond sensual, it was ecstasy, and she did move away. Flus-

tered, I muttered, “Uh, eat lots of fish.”

My snappy repartee must have caught her off guard. She

laughed and sang in her sweet voice, “You, too, my Harmony.

You, too!”

With that miserable farewell, I swam away from the pod and

out to sea. It was odd but in the distance, faint but still recogniz-

able, I thought I saw another whale, a pale-skinned with a twisted

horn, Godwin! I swam toward the shape, but it quickly turned and

disappeared. Already I was seeing things. This journey will do me

good; cleanse the ghosts from my mind.

The pod song surrounded me for some time, but little by

little, it faded until it was nothing more than a gentle echo and then,

it, too, was gone. I was alone. It is odd how alone you really feel

when you leave that which you have become so accustomed to.

Big becomes bigger.

I swam, feeding as the need arose, for the seas were rich and

I exalted in the adventure. I swam for three tides and far into anoth-

er before I realized I didn’t know exactly where I was going. I was

looking for answers. I was seeking the sandwalker to verify or vilify

the truth of the Narwhal. But where were the sandwalkers? Logic

prevailed and I decided the best course was to swim nearer to the

dryside, where surely I would find answers.

I swam through light and dark, and dark and light, until my

eyes blurred with exhaustion. Finally, on the twelfth tide, I found a

shell-shark, the bearer of sandwalkers; or rather it nearly found me.

I had just breached from the deep after feeding and was allowing

the sun to soak warmth into my body, when from behind, a squeaky

voice laughed out in the sing-song fashion. “Out of the way. Out of

the way. Sandwalkers come looking for fun and they can’t seem to

find their way.”

I spun quickly in the water, and there was a shell-shark bear-

ing down, white froth pushing at its nose. I sank into the safety of

the deep, my heart pounding in my ears. “Where was the warning-

-the hum, the song that is not a song–that flows with every shell-

shark I have seen?” I questioned out loud.

I was rattled to my very soul when the squeaky voice an-

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

lows the wind” I looked for the source of the voice and was shocked

to see a small whale-like creature before me. Bigger than a tuna-tail,

smaller than the large sharp-fins, it floated like a dream, squeaking

its silly songs.

“What are you?” I asked. “You nearly sing the whale song,

but you are not whale. What are you?”

“Hmmm,” it gigglingly sang, “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, he quickly swam towards me and stopped

just inches from my eye. “My name is Little Brother. And that,”

he said turning, indicating yet another dolphin swimming quickly

towards us, “is my mate, Laughter Ring.”

“I am called Harmony,” I sang as deeply as I could, trying to

put some decorum to this chance meeting, “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?” I asked.

“Why? You, of all creatures, ask, ‘Why?’” he laughed. “Be-

cause if we didn’t lead the way, yonder creaker would run over dumb

whales like you. Besides, the sandwalkers that ride in the creaker

make us laugh and that my friend is a good thing.”

My back arched with the sting of the insult. “I have never

been thought of as dumb, Little Brother,” I grumbled angrily. “Best

watch who you speak to so flippantly.”

“Flippantly?” he laughed. “Flippantly? If you wish, great

whale, I shall flippantly flick my flipping flappers and fly.” He slipped

beneath the waters and then leaped across my back not once,

not twice, but thrice. I was becoming very angry, and the thought

crossed my mind of whether or not this dolphin would make a

filling meal.

“He means no harm,” giggled Laughter Ring, his mate, as

she glided to where I floated. “He means only to make you smile

and laugh at all the fun that spreads smoothly across the sea like

bits of foam after a storm.”

I calmed myself. After all, I had been called much worse by

Cacophony. With my composure regained, I looked at the dolphins

and asked, “You say that the sandwalkers make you laugh. How

can that be? I have seen them in their shell-sharks before, and in

their wake I have only found death and destruction.”

“Oh, ‘tis true,” spoke Little Brother as he again took over the

dialog. “Most of the sandwalkers are evil to their very salty core,

but some are fun, and many, in their simple way, bring joy to me.

Look, even as we sing, they turn their lumbering shell to follow us.”

I looked, and as Little Brother had said, the creaker was turn-

ing and heading our way. I started to dive deep but was stopped by

the dolphin, “Fear not, my friend. They will not hurt you. They are

curious and love to touch all they see in the sea.”

I was horrified, “You would allow them to touch you?”

“Yup,” said he, “It doesn’t hurt, and besides, it kind of tickles.”

Not to be outdone by a tiny dolphin, but with much trepida-

tion, I stayed still in the water and waited and watched. After all, I

was on this journey to seek the truth, and the truth in part was float-

ing my way. If I died, so be it.

I studied in morbid fascination this silent shell-shark the

likes of which I had never seen before. It was the same, yet different

for this shell had vast sheets of white strung across the shell. As

I watched, I could see for the first time sandwalkers scurrying like

crabs about the top to draw the kelp sheets down.

The creaker slid quietly to us and I waited expectantly. The

dolphins began cavorting in the water, dancing on their tails and

the like. After a time, they tired of this and swam back to me. “The

sandwalkers care not for us today. They are more entertained to

look at you, great white whale. Go to them; feel their strange dry

skin upon your flesh.”

Challenged by this pip-squeak of a dolphin, I nervously

moved close to the shell and cast my eye upon the creatures above.

They were strange looking, with thin wisps of sea grass waving on

their heads. Their fins were thin and their bodies were covered in

odd-colored scales.

I waited, rolling in the surf, not knowing whether I would be

tickled or stabbed with a mighty horn of the Narwhal. Fortunate-

ly, one of the sandwalkers reached a flimsy fin down and touched

my side above my eye. I blinked in fear, but nothing happened. If

anything, there was a gentleness about the stroking. I listened and

could barely hear above the wind that blew these strange creatures

almost singing to themselves. “Maybe they too have a song,” I

sang, “but it is an odd song without depth. Possibly, if I took them

to the deep, they would be able to sing with more strength.”

Little Brother and Laughter Ring rolled in the sea, bathing

me in gales of laughter. “I think not, my friend. They know not how

to hold their breath.”

We stayed beside the creaker for a great time as I saw all that

I could see, and finally I called to my new friends, “I must leave. For

this is perplexing. The Narwhal of the Horn told me that the sand-

walker brings death to the waters of life. Now I find that they are

not so bad and so I will just go back to my pod and add this to our

Song of the Sea.”

I turned to go but was stopped by the dolphins. “Ah,” said

Laughter Ring surprisingly serious, “all the sandwalkers are not as

these. Some–and most–do bring death.”

“Then,” I continued, “I must seek them out, wherever they

may be. For I have many answers given to me by the Narwhal that

have need of questions to be asked.”

“Well,” laughed the dolphins, “we shall guide you if you will

have us. For we have traveled far and we have seen what you seek.”

Before I could answer, with a flip of their tails, they were off leading

the way. I turned once and looked back at the shell-shark and the

sandwalkers it bore. It was odd, but as I swam away one of the crea-

tures waved a fin, almost as if to say good-bye. Maybe they do carry

a song.

With this thought to carry me on my journey, I strongly

surged after my newly acquired guides to the sea and new songs to

be sung.

CHAPTER FOUR

The tides passed quickly with the journey, and soon we

reached the cool, crisp waters where the deep quickly filled with the

joy of our song. As in tides past we grew strong there, eating the

wonderful variety of foods that abounded in these waters: Tuna-tail

and flipper-fin all made us fat and contented with the life we led. At

times the irreverent humming of the shell-sharks broke the stillness

of the sea, but they kept their distance and no one was harmed. It

was a time in my life when I thought nothing would ever change.

But the waters are always moving, and with that movement

comes constant change. We had been in the cool waters this time

for nearly a hundred tides when there came the strangers who

changed all of our lives forever. That tide, the golden lights turned

to muted gray as the dryside waters. Clouds skittered nearly at

water’s height, and there was no sky. It was a tide when I wished for

nothing more than to fall asleep and wake to an early golden light.

I had been at the outside of the pod, fishing for sweet meats

in the sea. I was darting about, playing as much as hunting, when

out of the murk of the deep came two ghostly forms, a silent bull

whale and his mate. They were the first strangers I had ever met,

although I had heard the faint song of the other whales. They stood

off from me, floating still, seeming to be etched in the crystal sea.

In time the female began to sing a melancholy song with a

lilting accent the likes that I had never heard before, “We two come

as one. We come from a pod that is no more and never shall be.

My mate was the Scribe, the recorder of the song as sung by our

pod. He has reason now to sing to your Scribe that which must be.

He must sing his final song of the sea so that we may join the oth-

ers.” With that, she sang no more, the two floating deathly still in

the water.

I frantically rushed through the pod searching for Tympani. I

finally found him listening on the far side and quickly told him of the

ghostly pair.

Tympani’s eye widened. This truly was an event of great

significance. “This, my Harmony,” he said, “is a deep sadness and

does not bode well for the two strangers. For this Scribe must sing

a song of the End of all as he knows it, before his song is complete.

He must sing through the entire song to someone like me so that he

too may have the end, the beginning. For a Scribe without an ac-

tive pod song is a whale without reason for living. Come, you may

listen, too, so that you might learn.”

We swam silently through the pod back to where the two

ghostly whales were waiting. Tympani approached slowly and then

stopped and sang the gentle opening of our song. His intonations

were followed by the sweet lonely wail of the other Scribe, as he

countered with the opening to his song.

There was a pause, a blood-racing silence in the sea, and

then the stranger continued in soft, deathly whisper, “I wish to sing

my song. In singing my song I will pass it on to you and then I may

end, so that I might begin again.”

“Our pod began at the beginning, and it has swum the mighty

waters of life recording all. There have passed many tides, and I

am the twelfth and last in a series of Scribes that has recorded our

song. Our song now ends in the glory of the END OF ALL, to hon-

or one who wished all to share in the end, the beginning.”

In a deep, rich voice he sang of a lifetime of hunts, both in

warm waters and cold. He sang of conflicts with the sandwalkers

and their occasional attacks. He sang of strange lights on the dry-

side beyond the waters. He sang of good. He sang of evil. He sang

of the life and of the death in his pod. As the whale sang, he musi-

cally bridged a chorus that resounded in lyric about the honorable

end he called the THOUSAND DEATHS OF THE SANDWALKER,

a symphony of glorious death to honor another. “We learned of the

THOUSAND DEATHS from the ghosts of the sea, the Narwhal of

the Horn. They taught us of the honor achieved in the DEATH, the

protest of the sandwalker, the essence of all evil in the sea.”

How long we floated and listened I do not know but this

strange song told all the history of this unknown pod that for what-

ever reason seemed to have disappeared. Then, as the golden light

began to change to the dark of the silverside, he sang these words

I shall never forget, “But we are no more and never shall be, for we

took upon us the honor and pledge of the THOUSAND DEATHS

OF THE SANDWALKER as dreamed by the mystical Narwhal.

Once the pod gave its pledge, it beached itself upon the shore so

that all might die in honor of one whose end was near and to protest

the encroachment of the sandwalkers on the sea.”

“What are the mystical Narwhal?” I whispered to our Scribe.

“Shh,” snapped Tympani, “Narwhal are the whales that no

longer exist.”

“What?” I muttered.

”Shh!”

The other whale paused looking at me bleary-eyed, then

continued his song, “Our Director had dedicated his lifetime to

honor us all. Our leader was afraid, in part, of dying alone and

asked us all to go with him to the end, the beginning. There is

only one test that will stop the THOUSAND DEATHS OF THE

SANDWALKER, and that is the sanity of the whale that requests

the honor and the sacrifice. How there can be sanity in such a re-

quest, I do not know, but our leader was judged to be right with the

world, and the pod agreed to join in this beaching . . . this protest

to the sandwalkers on the dryside.”

The two ghostly whales drew close as they sang this final

stanza, “Chanting and wailing the pod swam to the edge of the world

and lifted themselves onto the dryside. And there, voices sounding

as one, they expelled their last breath as they died. Thus we sing

our song. Thus we end our song. There is no more to our Song

of the Sea.”

The waters ran colder still as the final notes of this strange

song echoed, following the waves to the dryside. The two floated

flatly in the water. I looked, and then I looked again shocked, for

there was no life in them. They were both dead! They had died in

the singing of the final notes of their song.

As we floated in reverence near them the old, querulous voice

of Philosophy murmured, “I have heard this Death wish verse sung

before,” he mused, “still a very strange ending indeed. I must weigh

the values of this. Is it good or is it bad? Is it right or is it mad? I

wonder.” With that, he began swimming away.

“But what of the Narwhal?” I asked again, shocked and

moved by all that I had heard, “What are they?”

“The Narwhal lived long, long ago,” Tympani’s voice whis-

pered from afar, “but it is sung that they were killed one and all by

the sandwalker. It is said that their ghosts wander the sea seeking

revenge against those who caused their extinction, by convincing

other pods to give their lives in protest — the Thousand Deaths – a

great beaching.”

We floated for a time, in respect and honor of those pass-

ing beyond, then backed away as the two ghostly images dropped,

swinging from side to side, into the waters deep, never to sing again.

It took many tides for the memory of that ghostly pair to fade,

but like the morning mist, it soon burned thin and soon was gone

from the forefront of my memory. In the meantime the pod had

moved to the top of the world where the water was clear and so cold

that massive mountains of ice floated on the sea like some dryside

islands. It was in the shelter of these islands of ice that I did often

seek solace from the bickering of my age mates.

Early one tide, as I swam between the floes of ice, my child-

hood friends called out to me to play some silly game. Deep in

thought I swam beneath the ice to escape the noise of their game. I

moved swiftly through the water and when their voices were nothing

but a faint whisper I rose to the surface only to find myself surround-

ed by frozen walls of the water — ice. Everywhere I looked were

reflections of me. Like an echo of light, my many images bounced

and glittered all around me. I forgot the others and began singing

simple songs that caused the frost and rhyme to chime in harmony.

I floated there for hours wrapped in the wonder of my own conceit.

As light turned to dark, the walls of ice became even more magical,

filled with myriad dancing lights that skipped along the sky in a pro-

fusion of fantastical colors, shimmering as if they were not there.

Finally, I realized I must return to the pod and dove down and

under the crystal islands. With one eye cast above for the silverside

light, I continued diving but could not reach the dryside. I swam

and I swam as my heart began to pound like a great drum in my

ears. My lungs began to ache and my mind screamed the need for

breath. I raced along, the ice ever present above. Now my reflec-

tion was a haunting image above me, mocking me in my fear.

When I thought I could swim no more, I spied dancing lights

on open water above. I breached high into the dryside blowing

hard. Snow now speckled the sky. I sucked in the sweet air and

slowly my heart stilled its hammering. I looked around but could

see nothing of other whales, and new panic replaced old. Where

was the pod?

I quelled my fears and listened, at first hearing nothing but

the gentle wash of the sea. Then I began to hear the welcome

sounds of whale nearby, feeding. Relieved, I swam toward the mut-

ed song. As I swam back to the pod I availed myself of a few of the

sweet-meated flash-fish that came my way. Soon, I found myself

hunting in pack with other whales swimming on the other side of

this gigantic school of fish. I ate and ate, and soon I was once

again satisfied with life.

I sang out in joy my simple song of adventure in the mirrored

ice. I had just finished my new verse when I realized that no one

else was singing. I stopped mid-note, embarrassed that somehow

I was singing out of tune. Then I heard the others, and something

was definitely wrong! The song wasn’t right; the melody was differ-

ent and the pitch had changed.

I moved closer to the singing whales and then stopped. This

wasn’t my pod. Before me were the most peculiar whales I had ever

seen. Their skin was opalescent, pearly white; almost as white as

mine, and each whale had a long, twisted horn of ivory growing in

the center of its head.

“Oh, tides! Am I dead or am I dreaming?” I moaned trying to

put this visage into some logical sense.

A heavily accented voice rang out from close range, “You are

not dead and you are not dreaming though as a white whale without

horn, you are an oddity, even here. Prophetic, some might say.”

I turned to the sound, and there was another of these strange

horned whales floating vertical in the water, the lights of the silver-

side sparkling down from the surface. “What are you?” I muttered.

“Are you whale or fish or something magically in-between?”

“We are the Narwhal of the Horn,” whispered the other whale

in his odd accent. “I am Godwin, the Avenger, I am the keeper of the

Holy Song of Truth. ”The pod of Narwhal had moved closer and the

water buzzed as they chorused, “And this is good!”

“Surely you have heard The Holy Song of Truth?” Godwin

continued, moving closer. “Our song is the essence of the Song of

the Sea. Others have come to hear our song, the truth, the only

truth. We sing of wisdom. We are the chorus from all of the pods

that sing.” Again, the water agitated as the pod intoned, “And this

is good!” “From us the truth of the dryside sandwalker is known. To

us comes the plight of the dolphin and our other brethren, these

truths are woven into the Holy Song of Truth and then are sung for

all to hear. For we, the Narwhal of the Horn, were there at the be-

ginning of it all and our song is the oldest song of all.” “And this is

good!”

Godwin had moved nearly within a fluke’s distance of me

and again twisted his body upright in the water. His closeness was

uncomfortable and there was a sense of energy that was not unlike

the feeling that I had when the sharp-fin had ignored Cacophony’s

first attack. I was filled with unease, but still and all was captivat-

ed by the hypnotic tone of this horned whale. “I have heard you

called both Narwhal,” I sang nervously as the pod drew even closer,

“and the Ghost that wander the seas, but I was told that you all had

passed on to ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD.”

The pod murmured in unison, “A lie! A lie!”

Godwin chuckled, his horn bobbled in the light as a nighttime

rainbow danced on his ivory staff, reflecting off the ice. His eyes

squinted and he drew his thin lips into a tight smile. “As you can

see we are quite alive, filled as we are with the Holy Song of Truth.

If we be ghosts, then the seas best beware, be aware!”

“And this is good! And this is good,” the others chorused.

“It is time for all the truth to be known, time that all the words

be sung.” Murmured Godwin, his eyes foggy-veiled. Ponderously,

he began toning the litany, “In the beginning, all the world was dry-

side drenched in the darkness of the deep. ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN

THE WORLD smiled and the world was bathed in golden light.”

“This was good!” The Narwhals exclaimed.

Godwin, his pitch rising with fervor, continued, “Then, ALL

THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD slapped his mighty tail upon the

heavens and caused the sands of the world to crash and explode,

ringing smoke-filled clouds around the world.”

“This was good!” the other whales chanted.

“ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD laughed in delight

at his creation, his tears of joy falling to the fiery dryside that

exploded in the heat of his passion creating billowing clouds of

steam. Again, he sang, and the cloud-filled skies burst, and the

rains fell and the world was filled with the essence of ALL THAT IS

RIGHT IN THE WORLD, the waters of life.”

“Yes! Yes!” the others chanted, enraptured by the words.

This was good!”

“And in the waters of life he made the fishes: Sharp-fin,

tuna-tail, wiggle-fin and all the other fishes, all were one in the sea.

And ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD continued creation for

a thousand tides, until the waters were filled to brimming with every

form of life.”

There was a pause, a beat, a measure, then, all sang, “This

was good!”

“ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD looked down on all

that he had created and smiled, for it was good. The smile turned

to laughter, and the laughter became thunder that rolled through the

darkness and golden light alike and in that moment there appeared

in the waters Mother Whale.”

All of the brethren Narwhal harmonized in a low hypnotic

murmur, “This was good, good, good!”

Godwin stretched his flukes in benediction and continued,

“And from this Mother Whale calved all the species of whale and

brethren: flipper-fin, dolphin and others. All the whales of the world

sang the same song and everything that was, filled the majesty of

that melody. Whales swam the seas without fear and we all sang

the same song, a song so strong that we were as one pod, and there

were no others.”

“And this was good! And this was right!”

“The water was clear and we thought we would and could see

forever. The waters surged and rolled about the world but there was

a wrongness coming for there were the others, those who belonged

to the waves and lolled at the surface and refused ever to come

to the deep. These creatures fed upon themselves in frenzy and

brought discord to the song, charging the waters with fear.”

In a break of harmonic, the Narwhal chorus sang with angry

strength, off-key and in staccato, “And that was not good!”

Godwin paused, enthralled with the engaging power in the

singing of the song. Ponderously, his rich voice continued, “In its

wisdom, ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD knew that there

must be balance in all things, and he caused the golden light to

burn hotly upon the seas and clouds were formed and the waters

were diminished. Then, there was formed by the receding sea the

very edge of the world, the dryside. ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE

WORLD listened as the song was being sung, and those that would

not sing the song were cast from the seas and damned to the dry-

side for all the tides to come–and they were called – – – sandwalkers.

For then and evermore, these sandwalkers stood up on spindly fins

and paraded along the wave-drenched shores, longing to return to

the sea.”

And the Narwhal in chorus sang, “Now the sea was again

right within itself. This was good!”

As the horned one called Godwin continued, the song took

on an ominous tone as the other Narwhal rose silently to the sur-

face and began to softly slap the waters with their flukes, in a coun-

terpoint rhythm, “But the sandwalkers were not content with all that

had been given to them, the dryside. They came to the edge of our

world, dragging hollowed shells. They floated their shells on the

sea and stood in them, brazenly free to skim upon the surface of

the waters of life and again bringing discord to the song.”

“And this was not good!” proclaimed the pod.

“The sandwalkers took from the sea but gave nothing back.

In the spirit, the love of the song and as directed by the Holy Song

of Truth we, the Narwhal, went to the sandwalkers as they floated

on the waters to sing to them in hopes of resurrecting their very

souls. With blank eyes and open mouths the sandwalkers stupidly

listened not understanding a word that was sung, nor were they able

even to hear the melody. Their deafness crazed them and in their

frenzy they attacked a Narwhal that floated close to their shells,

dragging her up onto one of the shells and beat at her with sticks

and their flimsy fins until she was dead. As the pod watched in hor-

ror the sandwalkers ripped the sacred horn from her head and used

the bloody stump to murder others. They killed all that they could

reach from the shell-sharks, and the seas ran red with the blood of

Narwhal.”

The pounding on the waters became louder and louder still as

they all sang, “This was not good!”

Godwin shook in rapture, equal anguish and rage, as he

bellowed, “An alarm was sounded to all the brethren warning of

the true ways of the sandwalker. Heeding our warning the brethren

swam into deeper waters away from the sandwalker. But, no matter

where they went, the spindly beasts followed killing all that it could

find. The Narwhal were not as fleet of fin and most all of the sacred

horned ones were murdered. The brethren, whales, dolphins and

flipper-fin, thought the Narwhal dead, but this was not true. A few

survived and sequestered themselves in this enclave of ice. It is

here that we have remained hidden, afraid to venture forth into the

world.”

The waves rolled crashing hollow on the icy walls around,

and I thought all was done, but Godwin continued and, if possible,

became angrier still.

“The sandwalkers were not content simply with the death

of the brethren of the sea. To add to this insult, they poured their

filthy offal into the waters and all that swam close to these evil

waters died or were changed into hideous forms. The waters nearby

filled with wrongness. ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD began

to cry bitter tears, and even this rain stung the skins of those who

ventured too close to the dryside.”

The song ended here, as these ivory-horned whales floated

silently rising and falling on the lifting waves. Godwin shook him-

self from his cloudy reverie and slowly floated to the surface. His

mouth twisted into a thin, oily smile and he whispered conspiratori-

ally, “We call upon you, as we have called upon others, to do your

part; gain us some measure of revenge. You now hold the secret.

You now can change the world forever.”

“Me?” I was very confused and little of what he said made

sense. “But what can I do? I am but a young whale not yet to

his prime.“ I asked. “What possibly could I do that would have

any effect?”

“Ahh!” Godwin murmured, looking back at the pod that wait-

ed expectantly, “there is a significant verse of the Song of the Sea,

a verse that few pods sing. It is this verse that the Song deals with

the cataclysm called the Conclave.” “Conclave?” I muttered not

knowing where this was going. “Yes, my young whale,” chuckled the

Narwhal, “the Conclave. Let me sing you the verse from the Holy

Song of Truth so better you may understand your part and measure

of the Song.” Again Godwin slipped beneath the surface and with

tail down he floated in the water, twisting his body from side-to-side

and began to chant, “Lo, one golden tide a sacred white whale will

be born, and this great whale will be special to all the Brethren of all

the seas.”

In unison the pod responded, “Let the world rejoice. Let the

whales sing.”

“This whale will live and learn of all things. There will come

a time in the sacred one’s life that he will find himself alone. He will

find himself holding song with no one to sing to. In this moment,

this time of soulful mourning this whale and this sacred whale alone

will have the right to call for a Conclave, a gathering of all the Breth-

ren here in the cool, crisp untainted waters at the top of the world,

where the blue ice drops into the bay. His verse calling for Conclave

will echo throughout the waters of the world carried by the melody

of the Song of the Sea. And they will come: flipper-fin, dolphin and

whale. Here in Conclave the sandwalker will finally be judged!”

“Let the world rejoice! Let the whales sing!”

“The verdict is predestined. There can be no other call. For,

in Conclave the sandwalkers will be damned for all the evil they have

done. Then and only then will all the Brethren be empowered to rid

this world of the beast that walks on the dryside!”

The pod of Narwhal chanted as one, “And this is good! And

this is meant to be!”

Godwin’s tail snapped down hard on the surface of the water

as he raged on, “And with that blessing we can freely kill the Sand-

walker without conscience as the sandwalker has killed us. Death

now to the sandwalkers and all that soil the sea! Death now to the

spindly-legged filth. Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!”

“Death! Death! Death!” the others chanted, the water froth-

ing as they all began to spin in spasms created by the passion of

their anger.

I trembled confused. “I have seen the sandwalker, and, al-

though in part they helped in the death of my friend Adagio, I have

seen no other evil you say they portend.”

Godwin continued in his sing-song voice, “Then I challenge

you to go swim all the waters of all the world and see all that you

must see to believe. When you have seen all there is to be seen you

will share this song. You too will join the quest. Soon all that sing

in the sea will join in chorus, a chorus that will celebrate the death

of the sandwalker. So speak I, Godwin the Avenger, he who sings

the Song of the Holy Truth.”

A light wispy mist danced upon the waters giving ghostly

pale to these horned whales that floated, rising and falling with the

gentle waves that rolled between the cliffs of ice. All that had been

sung numbed me to my very soul but my reverie was broken finally

by the voice of the avenger.

“Your family pod is beyond that shelf of ice.” Godwin twisted

his horn and pointed to the ice looming in the distance. “Dive deep,

my friend, and swim true, for our song is now part of your song. I

assure you this,” he whispered ominously, “we will meet again, you

and I. For our destinies are one.” With that, he slowly floated away

into the mist. I spun around. They were all gone, ghosts again in

the seas.

Stephen Cosgrove

___

CHAPTER THREE

The tides passed quickly, and as the light times became lon-

ger and hotter the pod again began moving in the great migration,

following the sweet taste and tease of the colder waters at the top of

the world. We had done this many times before and each time the

trip filled the song with new verses of the trials of living as a whale.

As we made the journey we rarely slowed during the tides of the

golden light, stopping only to feed at the silverside, the dark times,

when the pod rested, tired from our long travels. After eating, the

others of my age would all gather at the edge of the pod and play.

The play was totally focused around Cacophony’s domination. He

bullied us all mercilessly for every small infraction of his rules that

he felt we had committed. After our verbal punishments, he would

make up a new game with his rules, which we would all play. His

rules unfortunately always ended with “Cacophony wins!”

Early one silverside tide as we gathered away from the

feeding pod, floating idly on the surface telling tales of the day’s

journey, Cacophony, quieter than usual, silently disappeared down

into the sea. Our songs were filled with laughter that infused such

events when, suddenly, the waters erupted and, as if from nowhere,

Cacophony launched himself from below the surface crashing into

our midst in a cascade of water and spray. Moments later he again

breached sending foaming kicker waves over our heads.

Over and over, he leaped high into the air as we sputtered

and complained but still looked on in admiration and envy. Finally,

I followed him below the surface to watch as he dropped like a rock

down into the water. With a mighty flip of his tail and the muscular

pulling of his flukes, he shot straight up through the surface into

the air.

Eagerly, I imitated Cacophony’s moves and found myself

quite unexpectedly launched from the sea. The dryside surround-

ed me as I exploded from the water and for a brief moment felt as

though I was suspended there, my friends looking up in awe from

below. Then my flight came to an abrupt end, and I crashed heavily

back down onto the waves. I vented and dove, breaching again and

again, a little higher each time. Cacophony followed, and the sea

was filled with our laughter.

Our raucous behavior caused the feathered-furies to gather.

Assuming that our frenzy of activity was a hunt, they wheeled about

the dry sky, searching for some opportunistic meal. Suddenly, I

breached so high that I found myself eye-to-eye with one of these

feathered flesh-eaters. Without thinking of the consequences, I

opened my mouth and snapped tightly on this creature whose broth-

ers had caused me so much fear on the day of my birth. For, you

see, I hoped to show this feathery thing the wet side of the world

and to see how well he flew beneath the water. He was of a different

mind and instead, all that remained was a mouthful of tail feathers,

and the rest of him went screeching away.

By now, the whole pod was lurching from the sea, reaching

for the sky. The world was filled with giggles, bubbles, laughter,

and froth. All of the young whales were breaching, save one, the

young fat whale called Adagio. Try though he did, Adagio could

not burst up through the water into the dryside. Soon Cacophony

began to swim round and round berating the chubby whale. But no

matter how hard he tried, Adagio could not breach and finally rested

at the surface, his eyes closed exhausted from the exertion. Then,

without warning, he rose into the air with a “whoosh.” Cacophony

had surfaced just below him, ramming him out of the world and into

the sky above.

Adagio’s eyes, at first wide with fear, squinted in twinkles of

joy, as Cacophony breached beneath him again and again. Over

and over, Adagio was hurled into the dryside.

As we thus played there came a strange ominous tone echo-

ing in the sea, a harsh, metallic noise full of disharmony. It was a

tune, yet not quite a song, a buzzing, a roar. The adult pod urgently

called us down to the deep, away from the surface, “Come away

from the surface!” they called, “Sandwalkers approach on their

shell-sharks!”

We didn’t know then of shell-sharks and sandwalkers but

the call was so insistent that we dropped down into the world and

safety: Melody, Percussion, Metronome, and I. But Adagio stayed

at the surface, for he had not heard the cries of warning and was

oblivious to the danger approaching. He was the slow one and

the thrill of being blasted into the air by Cacophony had dulled his

senses. Soon, even he began to realize that there was danger. But

every time he tried to retreat down into the world and safety, he was

popped back to the dryside by the obsessed older whale. He dove

again and again, but each time, Cacophony shoved him back to the

surface. The game had worn thin, and Adagio’s pleasure turned

to pain as he was rammed over and over. To add to the frightening

confusion of the small whale was the shrilly screaming noise of the

shell-sharks as they raced closer and closer.

Cacophony, obsessed with his brutal play, loudly sang as he

relentlessly rammed the helpless smaller whale, “Nothing to fear,

lump-fin whale. Nothing to fear! Only a puny sandwalker in a shell-

shark. Come, up we go!” As the first of two shell-sharks screamed

across the surface he again rammed Adagio viciously up out of the

water and into their path. The water churned, bubbling to confu-

sion, as one of the shell-sharks ripped across the back of Adagio

and then both sped away, their harsh droning fading to silence.

As quickly as the scare had begun, so was it over. The world

softened once again, and the surface smoothed. Relieved, we sur-

faced, laughing at our escape. Adagio floated nearby; his eyes still

glazed with fright.

But, something was wrong; very, very wrong. Adagio, softly

first, then louder, began screaming in discord, pain. My friends

and I rushed to him and only then did we realize that the sea was

turning red from the deep slices across his back! His song stopped

as suddenly as it started, and he began to fall into the sleep of the

deep. We all pressed close to him, holding his limp form above the

world so he could breathe. Like the clanging of rock on rock, we

sang a song of our fear and panic as the rest of the pod raced to

our aid.

Wispy mists of clouds began to gather on the darkening

horizon of the world as we supported Adagio. Winds from the dry-

side whipped the sea into an angry froth as we rocked on the waves

as one. Cacophony circled about us, laughing, “Let him sink into

the deep! Let him fall into the final sleep!” Though he taunted and

railed, we continued to press inward passing our warmth and life into

the unconscious Adagio. At last, we could hear the mass of the

pod calling for us to hold on. My mother, Rhapsody, broke the sur-

face near us and moved in beside me and offered her bulk to relieve

some of the pressure from Adagio’s dead weight.

She sang in staccato, “How did this happen?”

Melody, Percussion, Metronome, and I all remained silent.

No song did we sing as we watched, waiting for Cacophony to admit

his part in this tragedy. Then, Cacophony began to sing in his

crude, raking voice, “It was the white one, Harmony who wouldn’t

let him swim away!”

I started to object, but was stopped curtly by my mother who

sang, “Silence! We will deal with this later. For now–silence–so the

injured one can sleep. He will live, though scarred.”

It was then that Adagio opened his pain-filled eyes. Haltingly,

he sang a simple song, “It was not Harmony . . . It was the other,

the one called . . .” At that moment, whether by accident or design,

Cacophony, buoyed by a wind-whipped wave, came crashing down

on Adagio’s head, shoving him back down into the world. Cacoph-

ony’s massive body lay passively on Adagio, forcing the life from

his lungs.

I knew what Cacophony was attempting to do, and I rammed

at his side, vainly trying to break Adagio free. I hammered and

hammered, finally bowling the larger whale from Adagio’s still form.

Cacophony, in fear of being further implicated, sounded deep and

soon was lost from sight at the bottom of the world’s gloom. In a

blind rage, I followed him, diving deeper than I had ever dived before.

Finally, near the bottom of the world I found him, or rather

he found me. Out of the murkiness, he lunged, crushing his mighty

head into my side, rolling me over and over. Before I could recov-

er, he attacked again and again. Finally drawing all of my fear into

strength, I twisted my body and lashed my tail out as he passed

smashing him full in the face. He was stunned, and before he could

return to the attack again, I charged and rammed his exposed flank.

Bubbles burst from his mouth, more from shock than pain.

Suddenly, a voice sang out. “Your violence must stop. Ada-

gio is dead!”

All of the pent-up anger within me vented like soiled air, and I

went limp. With a final blow, Cacophony slapped me viciously with

his fluke, and then he, too, was gone. So dazed was I that as a new

form appeared I tensed for battle.

“Anger not for I am Tympani, the singer of the Song of the Sea.”

With a heavy flip of his tail, Tympani began the climb back to

the golden light. Stiffly, I followed remembering my mother teaching

me of Tympani, the Scribe, the recorder — the singer of the Song of

the Sea. The Scribe only watches and remembers.

At this time in my life, how I sorely wished that I could be an

observer, rather than the participant I was.

We broke the surface together, and Tympani began to create

and sing a lament to Adagio, a working verse of the Song of the

Sea. In dulcet tones, he began singing of the first tide, the begin-

ning of the pod. He sang of all the beauty of the waves and the

taste of the tides. He sang of the great whales of the sea. He sang

of the births, deaths, loves, and battles of the pod since the song

began at the beginning of time. Ghosting sounds echoed from the

deep as other whales hesitantly joined in the chorus here and there.

Together they sang through the births of the young whales and

finally of Adagio’s death, the last and latest verse, for now, in the

Song of the Sea.

As Tympani finished, there was a low silence broken only

by the lonely sound of the wind whispering over the waves. After a

time, sure that Tympani was finished and there were no echoes to

the song, I asked, “Why do we sing?”

The old whale chuckled and said, “Singing is the soul of the

thinking creature – its memory is the song. It is the primary differ-

ence between whale and their cousins and the other creatures of

the sea. We remember. Every whale plays an important role in the

song. Symphony is the Director, the leader of the pod who guides

us where we go. He sets the tempo for the song to be sung. Old

Philosophy, the Composer, sets the deep emotional mood for the

song as he challenges the reality of all circumstances. He gives

theme to the music, and purpose to our being.”

From the deep, came the rumbling gastric mumbling of Ca-

cophony, “What a mouthful of carp bile!”

Tympani ignored the interruption and continued, “And I have

the proudest, yet loneliest part of the song for I am Scribe, the

recorder of the song for the pod. For I must stand off and watch,

listen and record all as it is sung. No matter what violence threat-

ened the pod, whether from the waters of life themselves or by the

lowly sandwalkers, I cannot be involved. For, the Scribe must never

interfere. The Scribe must only listen and remember the Song of the

Sea and pass it on before he dies.”

I was caught now in this net of intrigue–captured by the

song and all its melodies. “And who will you pass the song on

to?” I asked.

The old whale paused in the water and floated quietly, “It is

the tradition of the pod that positions of responsibility be passed on

from father or mother to son or daughter. So by what has passed

before, I must pass the song to my son.” He paused, and then con-

tinued, “However, my son carries but one toneless melody. My son

is . . . Cacophony!”

From the deep rolled oily, maniacal laughter.

CHAPTER TWO

The next hundreds of tides were filled with learning and new

experiences so great that now it is difficult at best to remember

them with the passion I experienced then. I learned that by stretch-

ing the muscles of my body I could swim faster and stronger. I

learned to move my flippers to guide me round and round or straight

ahead in powerful bursts and how to sound, to seek the deep cool

waters below.

I learned of being whale.

I learned that I was a rare and wondrous occurrence — for I

was born albino – alabaster shell white. I learned as I listened to

the songs that all whales sing: songs of this and songs of that,

places to go, places that had never been seen before. All was sung

in beautiful melody. This was and is the Song of the Sea.

Long into my childhood one early golden tide I rushed to my

mother to drink my meal, I was offered instead a small silver fish,

long since finished with life.

What fun! What delight! A new toy! I grabbed the fish by

the tail and rushed away on a passing wave. I dove into the deep,

thrashing my head from side-to-side banging myself in the eye with

this new plaything.

On and on I played, until finally I came to the surface, where

I tossed the toy up into the dryside and caught it as it fell. Splash,

roll and crash, I thrashed about the waters shredding it to unrecog-

nizable condition. Finally, I threw it high into the air and leaped

forward to catch it. I waited, but it did not fall. I cast my eye to the

sky and looked about the dryside, but there was no toy falling, fall-

ing to the sea to play with me. There instead were the horrid feath-

ered-furies of my birthing day eating my toy.

I was mad. I was furious. These feathered monsters were

destroying my very first toy. I charged into them as they floated on

the silken seas and panicked they fluttered and squawked out of the

water. As they flapped, they carried my fish away. I gave chase but

soon they were the fatter and the toy was gone.

I rushed back to my mother lamenting my loss. She chuckled

and softly sang. “No, my dear, sweet Harmony, that was not a toy

to be played with. That was food to be eaten, nourishment that will

help you grow and become one with the sea.”

It seemed a bit confusing to me. Food before had always

come from my mother. The toy, or rather the fish, had come from

the mother but was not a part of her. Milk was food; fish were fun,

and now fish were to be food and not fun? Strange to say the least.

Mother rolled disappearing into the deep. In but a moment

she returned with a new toy, or rather food. “Now my Harmony,

don’t play with this, you must eat it!”

“Oh yuck! Eat a fish! Eat a fellow form from the sea?”

“Fear not my son,” she said. “We take from the sea to be-

come part of the sea. The fish live to eat and be eaten. Eat now

and you shall see.”

I closed my eyes, opened my mouth and swallowed this part

of all that was around me. Unfortunately, I swallowed nearly as

much water and coughed and hacked, but surprisingly, this tiny mor-

sel was sweet, and I found myself wanting to taste more.

Mother dove, and I followed. With mighty twists of her body,

she silently glided down near some flickering, flashing forms.

“Wow, look at all the food!” I sang in glee. I rushed into the

shifting mass of fish, but just like that, in an explosion of silver and

blue, they were gone. I looked about and found another flickering

mass and charged, but they, too, scattered.

Mother patiently taught me the delicate ways of hunting the

seas. She taught me to slip quietly into a school of fish and then

quickly to catch that which would be caught. She taught me pa-

tience and waiting so that the fish would come to me. I learned that

the harder a fish is to catch, the sweeter the meat. But the sweeter

the meat, the harder the fish is to catch. I was fast; some of the fish

were faster. But I ate and ate until my belly swelled, ached, and I

could eat no more.

I was so full that I could barely float, feeling as if I were filled

with stones. My mother laughed and left me to my misery singing,

“You must take from the sea only that which you need — no more,

no less! If you take more, there will be less, and eventually nothing

will be left in the sea and you, my child, will be very hungry indeed.”

With that she left me with my lesson, and an aching tummy, soon to

heal with rest in the soothing sea.

The next golden light and the next, I hunted the seas, be-

coming more and more independent of all those things that my

mother provided

With each hundred tides past I grew older and bolder. Now

I often forayed alone into the surrounding waters but always the

adults of the pod were within the call of my still inexperienced song.

Stronger and stronger I became, slowly breaking the ties that bond-

ed me to my mother. Making new rules, writing my own song.

One day as I was swimming, skimming the dryside edge, I

bumped quite innocently into another young whale much larger than

I. Suddenly, without warning, I was flipped unceremoniously onto

my back and buffeted about in the churning waters. Over and over

again, I was tossed and rolled, and though I tried to turn and race

away, this bully of a whale seemed obsessed with my destruction.

He rammed into my sides repeatedly and bellowed, “You will respect

the waters in which I swim. You will not foul the waters near me.

Remember and never forget that I am Cacophony, he that rules

the sea!”

His song was loud and discordant, lacking all form of melody.

The attack was finally broken off when a sweeter song was sung,

“Cacophony! Leave him be! Yours is not the only song of the sea.

He bumped into you quite innocently. I was watching and I did see!”

This calmed somewhat the angry, young bull and after a last

swat of his fluke on my side he swam away. Suddenly I was surround-

ed by other whales my own age and size. They gleefully bumped and

rubbed against me. There was Percussion, noisy and always crash-

ing about the sea. There was Metronome, softly spoken but always

in rhythm and perfect rhyme. Most special was Melody, the one

whose voice had saved me from Cacophony. She was the prettiest

of all — soft of eye and song.

From then and thereafter I spent more and more time with the

others of my age, and we learned together. And as we learned, the

memories of our childhoods seemed to fade away, crowded deep by

new memory — new verses to the song. It was during these tides

that I began to hunt with the others my age.

One tide as we hunted as a pack circling the fish into a tight

circle so one-by-one we could eat, the great bully Cacophony joined

us. “You clacker-claws only hunt the fearsome minnow,” he railed.

“I do not eat a hundred tiny fish in order to make a meal, I eat but

one that fills me full. Come with me and I’ll show you how the mas-

ter hunts.” With that he haughtily ploughed into the murk of the

deep, assuming correctly that we would meekly follow.

Now I don’t think that Cacophony had really hunted bigger

fishes in the sea, but he had opened his big mouth and now he

and we had to see what would swim in. We passed many groups of

sweet-meated fish: tuna-tail, bug-eye, and flat-tail. Cacophony

disdained them as being, “Too small, you foam heads, too small!”

We swam farther and farther from the pod following this great hunter

of the sea as he sought his monstrous prey.

And soon we found a fish that suited Cacophony’s expanded

definition of a meal. Before us was a large, sleek fish that circled

idly in the waters. His snout was neatly pointed, and a large arcing

fin traced a wake on the surface of the water.

“You know,” I sang nervously, “it seems that my mother did

tell me about this fellow creature from the sea. She called it a

sharp-fin.” I was joined by the others as we chorused, “The sharper

the fin, the sharper the teeth; the sharper the teeth, the greater the

bite, the greater the bite the greater the chance a sharp-fin meal may

turn and make a meal of you.’”

“Oh, that’s a floating pool of carp bile!” Cacophony sang

cockily off-tune. “This tall-finned fish shall be my meal this tide.”

With that he began the hunt. There was no finesse, no circling to

confuse his prey. Cacophony charged straight at this steely-eyed

fish and not surprisingly this fish didn’t run like the other fishes.

This fish just stared stupidly as the large whale attacked. But the

finned fish was not so stupid, as he was arrogant. Cacophony swam

closer, his jaws extended, hopefully to kill this fish in one great bite,

but as he drew down, the fish turned and seemed to smile. This

fish didn’t wish to be eaten.

The attacker soon became the attacked, as this finned and

slick-skinned serpent, snaked about and opened his mouth. Rows

upon rows of glistening, jagged teeth lined his upper and lower jaws.

He was quicker than quick and sliced by Cacophony in a flash of

light. The first time, he missed, and Cacophony realizing the error

of his ways turned to escape, but this finned-devil slid silkily by, slic-

ing a cut from Cacophony’s mouth to his eye. The water filled with

red-brown sweetness, and without fear of consequence, we rushed

to the rescue.

I am sure it was not by design that we saved Cacophony. It

was more surprise than fear that shocked the sharp-fin from his

meal as we charged. He saucily twisted his tail, and without con-

cern, as if nothing had happened at all, slipped away into the deep.

We gathered protectively about Cacophony as we swam back

to the main body of the pod lest the sharp-fin return but we were

again alone in the sea. Cacophony uttered not a sound, filled I am

sure with fear and shock. As we swam, the stinging salty waters

of life cured the cut and staunched the bleeding. By the time we

arrived at the outside shadow of the pod, Cacophony was back to

form. He rudely twisted from the center of our protective flotilla

bruising some in the process. “Why did you stop it?” he bellowed.

“I was just letting it attack to get it closer. You jelly fish ruined my

hunt!” With that he swam away from the pod to sulk.

We couldn’t help at first being shocked by our sudden

change from heroes to hinderers, but I think all of us realized this

was Cacophony’s only way of thanking us for saving him from a

slashing death. None of us ever spoke of it again, although it was

recorded forever in the Song of the Sea.

As sung by Harmony as sung into the Song by the Scribe Philosophy in the tide 53545

“Like a wave crashing to the dryside, so shall you, as others before, become lyric and melody of the Song of the Sea.”

CHAPTER ONE

 

As this was the end, so it is the beginning.

I float. I gently swim.

I have nowhere to go.

I have everywhere I should be.

I am enigma.

I am empty, yet filled with the singing of the final Song of

the Sea.

be forgotten.

I am memory waiting for one last thought before I, too, will

I am called Harmony.

I am a white whale.

My tears mingle with the waters of life. I grieve for I am the

last living whale of my pod — all others are dead and gone.

My family is dead.

My friends are dead.

My enemy is dead.

The rules of the Song of the Sea are never to be broken.

It was by those rules and in defense of those rules that all of the whales of my pod willingly died.

In protest of this tragedy, this horrible wicked waste of lives, I will live. I choose to sing our song over and over so that all the brethren of the waters will be wrapped in the strength of its melody and lyric and they will learn they need not die! And as prophesized in the Song of the Sea first sang in the Holy Song of Truth, I call for the Conclave and as proScribed I must sing my song for you.

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 of life were mirror smooth.

Before my birth, in the first moments of consciousness, I remember lying still in the darkness. My sanctuary, the womb, was the lull before the storm of life. I could hear no sound but the beat-

ing of two hearts: Mine and she who was everything. There was a singleness in the two of us, my mother and I, a bond that would never be broken.

Then, in a burst of bubbles and an explosion of light, I was thrust into the world. Spinning round and round, I felt a terrible wrenching pain as the cord of life snapped, and I was alone for the first time and forever more.

I screamed for her, but as the waters gently washed me clean, I calmed myself and began to look around.

Lo, what a world!

It moved. It surged. It washed and gurgled about me. It was quiet. It was cool yet it was warm. It was all things in opposition. It was paradox. It was the sea — the beginning, the end.

Light danced upon the waves. Around me, an expanse of blue stretched from one side of the horizon to the other with strange bits of white fluff and foam suspended above the dryside, waiting for a breeze to carry them to some distant place. The world I floated upon turned me this way and that. Everywhere I looked, all was the same, yet different.

Bright, light blue.

Stark, bright white.

Gently, the world breathed upon me as I saw all that I  could see.

Winged, feathered creatures flew toward me, buoyed by the gentle breeze. They heeled and reeled, swimming in the air like winged poems. Then, one by one, they began to scream and swooped down, pecking at my gentle flesh, stabbing with their sharp beaks.

Panicked, I sank into the water — falling, falling, gently falling. Creatures, in colors muted by the water, wiggled and wriggled about, the fishes of the sea. My fears forgotten, I fell into the world — down and down, round and round, deeper and deeper.

The light changed from bright to dim, and dimmer still. In the distance I could see a gigantic, shadowy shape moving toward me. With a gasp, I took a deep breath and choked for there was nothing to breathe! Helplessly, I sank lower and lower through this watery world. Behind me, the monstrous creature silently chased, surely to watch me die.

Miraculously, I was lifted back up through the world into the light and bright. With a fearful gasp, I breathed deep and found the world turned air again, but the mountain of flesh was still there before me. I turned to escape but there was another blocking my way and another and another! They were everywhere! Massive walls of flesh, brown, gigantic eyes staring — glaring at me. I vainly tried to escape.

Then, musical laughter rang through the waters, buffing the sharp edge from my fear.

Still, the monstrous shapes surrounded me. Again I sought freedom, but a most melodious voice called my name, “Harmony, little white whale, why do you flee?”

I froze. The voice was music, and it knew my name. But what could it be? I remembered the voice but it was different somehow. Who was speaking to me in a voice I knew so well but could not see?

I sang out in frustration as my eyes filled with salty tears, “Who are you that sings? I know you, yet I know you not.”

Laughter splashed over and around me like a wet-water wave.

I was so startled by the closeness of the sound that I sought once again to escape down into the world. Again the mountains of slick, black flesh pressed against me and held me tight. I wiggled this way and that, using all the strength at my call, but to no avail. I was trapped.

Then again the voice, “Do not fear, little Harmony. It is but your mother.”

I looked about, but still saw only high, black walls of flesh. “Mother, mother! Where are you? I look but I cannot see!”

Once again, laughter danced upon the waters, shaking the flesh that held me fast. Slowly, like an iris, the black wall before me opened up, and there blinked a most enormous and beautiful eye.

I looked into that eye and saw there the clear reflection of a tiny white whale. But what held my attention was not the reflection, but rather the great eye, the gentle eye that would always be able to see into the depths of my very soul, the eye of my mother, Rhapsody.