CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We had no plans save for our daily needs, but one tide there
came a faint and plaintive song — a cry from across the sea. It
was so faint that for the longest of times we thought it was but the
rustling of the kelp against the coral but time after time it was sung
and finally we listened. The song turned the sweet water in which
we swam a bit bitter. It was the final song — the death of an entire
pod of whales. Unmistakably, somewhere the death song was being
sung, and somewhere a great many whales were dying a useless
death — in protest of the sandwalker.
We may not have sought the source of the song, albeit mor-
bid curiosity is a strong trait of dolphin. But there was another song,
a song sung in dirge, a wailing. We had no doubt of this song’s
origin. This dirge, this song was sung by our friend, Harmony.
Without question or word spoken, we immediately left the
corals of Winsome Bright not knowing whether we would ever re-
turn. We swam with an urgency that suited the situation.
The call we heard was filled with such agony, such longing, it
could only mean the death of our dear friend. Little Brother led and
I following in the path Harmony etched in the water with his song.
The song we heard had come a short way across the seas but as
close as we were, it still took nearly two tides. It was with great
trepidation that we approached the great dryside that reared from
the waters of life. We searched and searched, listening vainly for
traces of the song, but all we heard were the whispers of others who
had gathered in awe at this horrible spectacle.
Near the end of the fourth tide, we found the babies, the
whale calves, but there were no mothers here. The little whales cir-
cled us and called out short sobbing songs, wanting to be touched
even by us, their smaller cousins.
Little Brother and I calmed them as best we could as we
moved through this terrible tragedy. The babies sang about Harmo-
ny, the great white, and how he had pushed them out to sea when
they sought to join the others as they forced their way up onto the
dryside. It may not have been too late, for although they had heard
nothing for a time, recently they had heard a singular song — an an-
guished lament, Harmony’s dirge. We told them to stay where they
were and we rushed to the shore.
Leeching into the water from the dryside were the rotting
carcasses of hundreds of whales, but nowhere in the carnage did we
find a body cast in alabaster — the white. In the short wave troughs
we rushed from one end of the shore to the other finding nothing
but mounds of dead flesh. It was only as we were about to give up
that we found his body.
Harmony was pushed up against the shore, and we were sure
he was dead. As befitted our friendship, Little Brother and I felt that
he, above all, deserved a proper joining with ALL THAT IS RIGHT
IN THE WORLD. We began, in concert, to pull and tug on his
mighty form. Slowly, his hulk of a body began to move scraping the
beach as we drug it out to sea. Imagine our shock when the body
convulsed, pulled away from us and inched back up onto the shore.
We pulled on the body again and once again it shuddered
closer still to the shore. Our shock was compounded when this
corpse muttered in a guttural voice, “Ah, no matter. It matters not
whether it is a feathered fury or a great sharp-fin pulling me into the
sea as a meal. It matters not; the song is dead.”
I looked at Little Brother and he wide-eyed at me, “He is not
dead, at least not of body,” I laughed in relief.
“But he is surely dead of mind,” Little Brother groaned as
he tugged against the behemoth form. “Why else would he throw
himself at the shore?”
Harmony lurched up onto the shore and we yanked him back.
He struggled free and regained all the ground he had lost and
then a little more.
I was exhausted and mad at this self-pitying mound of flesh.
“You blubber brain,” I shouted in frustration, “help us, for pity’s sake!”
Harmony turned, his eyes half-lidded. “Help us? Help who?”
he asked deliriously.
Little Brother mimed his words, “Help us? Help who? Help
me? Help you? Come on,” he shouted, “help yourself.”
He blinked his great eyes, recognition brightening them for a
moment, but then they once again slipped into a fogged stupor. “Let
me die!” he cried. “For the song is silent, and the pod is dead!” With
that, he flopped higher onto the shore but was still short of his goal.
Again Little Brother and I yanked him back into the waters
of life.
Staring ahead to his self-sought destruction, he wailed like
some spoiled child-whale, “By all that is holy, let me die, for all is lost!”
With all of our strength, we yanked him farther into the
life-giving waters. “No, not quite all,” shouted Little Brother, “for
out in the deep wait the children that you saved. Did you simply
save them to let them die of confusion?”
We caught our breath, and the seas became quiet save for
the distant discordant singing of the children.
“No!” Harmony bellowed as he twisted from us. “I am whale
and my right is to die as the others before.”
“Fine,” I taunted, “and the Narwhal are right as they sing.
But, what happens when there are no more whale? What happens
when all 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 with their
ruination of the world.”
“But, “ Harmony protested weakly, “I have sung the song I
am entitled to die.”
“That’s coral crap and you know it,” snapped Little Brother.
“Just who did you sing to? Did you sing to the children, so they
can continue this madness? Or did you sing to the sandwalker?
There is good reason why the sandwalker does not sing the Song of
the Sea. For how can it sing that which it cannot hear?”
Harmony froze in his undulations to escape. With a sigh
breathed deep, he exhaled all that was wrong with his soul and
slowly turned his great body back to the sea.
We all said not a word as we moved out into the deeper,
cleaner waters. No words needed to be spoken for Harmony was
filled with grief, a sadness best cleansed with silence. Suddenly,
quietly, and without word he sank deep into the world.
Little Brother looked worriedly around, “Do you think we
should go after him? Does he still mean himself harm?”
“No, I think not,” I said. “I think he needs a greater silence
than can be provided here with us. He needs to learn again to sing
the Song of the Sea.”
We waited there on the inky surface and nearly gave way to
our own fears of his self-destruction, then Harmony breached with
such power we were tossed to the sides like foam in a windy sea.
We uttered not a word as Harmony breathed deep the sweet
air that swept the seas. The gleam was once again in his eye, and
we knew he was resolved to put life before him and his fears in the
past. Little Brother and I quietly followed as we moved out to sea to
find the children who waited. After a brief time, we found them not
far from shore, confused and so very alone.
There were seven whale calves in all, four of them female.
They sang to us for guidance. They asked for the song and they
asked for food. Fortunately, all but one of them had the first taste
of fish and needed not their mother’s milk. Little Brother, Harmony,
and I swam ourselves ragged, hunting fish and returning to feed the
hungry mouths that waited.
Though we tried vainly to feed the littlest one, she was so
distraught she would not eat of the fish. Instead, she cried fitfully for
the warmth of her mother’s milk. Little Brother cavorted about with
a tiny tuna-tail balanced on his nose trying to achieve with laughter
that which nature refused to allow. Still, the child refused to eat.
Harmony sang soothing songs laced with hungry messages, but the
child would have none of that either.
“What can we do?” the great whale asked. “I can soothe them
with song and feed them the fish, but I cannot help this little one.”
“It has been done before,” I said quietly. “We are both of
the family of the sea. I will nurse this young one until she can be
taught to eat the fish. It is not 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 me. “Are you . . . are we with child?”
I laughed nervously, “I don’t know about you, but I am. If you
haven’t noticed these last many tides, I have been growing large.”
Little Brother, my mate, with his eyes wide in amazement swam
around and around like a sharp-fin examining a soon-to-be meal.
“But, but,” he stuttered and stammered, “I just thought you
were getting a little fat. I mean, I thought you were eating a bit more
than I . . .”
“Hmm,” I muttered as I swam close to the child, “you and I
shall talk of this later. Fatter indeed!” Fortunately, the child-whale
and I were able to work things out between us, and she quietly
suckled. Surprisingly, this sharing — this need and meeting of the
need — created a strong bond. I soon felt oddly tied to this child.
Hardly enough to satisfy the young whale the milk did en-
courage her to try tiny bits of fish. Nourished a bit by both the
fish, and me she survived. We wiled the tides, gaining strength and
confidence for the young pod.
During these tides, Harmony would often disappear and we
would be left to our own devices, herding this pod of tiny whales,
keeping them in some measure of safety. There was no fear of
sharp-fin but there was the bitter taste of the sandwalker, and always
the possibility that they would come to harvest the young whales.
It was in this protective mode that we now circled the group when
Harmony returned after three tides. His eyes, before lack-luster,
now sparked with life. He called us to him and while the young
calves played quietly amongst themselves he sang, “The Narwhal
are right, but wrong in how to teach it. They hide within their frozen
crystal walls and give gifts of hate to any whale that happens by.
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 Conclave, the greatest
meeting of all the brethren of the sea.”
There followed a faint echo from afar, “And that is good!”
Little Brother and I turned toward the faint accented voice
but could see nothing. “Who is that that sings?” I asked.
To which Harmony muttered, “Narwhal! The ghosts now
move beyond their enchanted chambers.”
“What did you sing?” asked Little Brother.
“Nothing,” he murmured. “Nothing. But both draw close. It
is time that I pass to you the entire Song of the Sea.”
“No!” I said. “I will not listen. There is no way that I will let
you sing the song and die!”
“I have no plans to die,” whispered the whale, “but it is time
to break with traditions. No single brethren should be responsible
for the Song of the Sea. I will give it to you and you in turn will
pass it to chosen others. In that way the song will live.” And with
that he began singing the long, memorable song, the history of our
world.
When he finished Little Brother muttered, “By all that is holy,
I never would have thought any song could be so long.”
“Or beautiful,” I sighed.
“And long,” Little Brother quietly laughed.
“It is the history of the world that you now share.” Harmony
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 another group,
tell them 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.”
The laughter gone, Little Brother spoke, “We shall be three
when we meet again: Laughter Ring, our baby, and me. Worry not
of us. We shall carry the invitation to sing to all that have the will
to hear.”
With that brief farewell and promises to meet again in the
cold icy waters, Little Brother and I swam quickly away.