CHAPTER TWENTY -NINE
Harmony sighed as he released a mercury-colored balloon of
air into the sea. It coalesced and twisted around in pursuit of the
dryside and freedom.
“The sandwalker is guilty. Therefore, it is now condemned!”
He paused. “Go forth!” he cried to the Conclave. “Go forth and
hide. Go to the deepest of the deep and wait. In time, the commu-
nity of sandwalker will destroy themselves. In a short time, they will
kill everything on the dryside, sandwalker included. They will crowd
themselves to the very edge of the sea. With nowhere to go and
with nothing to eat, they will turn on themselves and, like the sea
snake that thinks its tail another snake, will begin to devour them-
selves. Then, and only then, will the song be sacred again. Then,
and only then, will the waters of life be sweetened by All That Is
Right in the World.”
Harmony, with all the grandeur of his countenance, turned in
the water and slowly swam from view. The Conclave now broken,
all the whales, dolphins, and flipper-fins began to disperse. I turned
to Laughter Ring and Little Brother. “What does it mean?” I signed,
relieved that, for the moment, I was still alive.
“It means,” toned Little Brother morosely, “that it is over.”
“I . . . I don’t understand what Harmony meant. What is the
punishment? We are just to be left alone?”
Laughter Ring answered, “You are banished! Yes, you are to
be left alone. Without the interference of the love or consciousness of
the sea, or of All That Is Right in the World, the sandwalker will die.”
They were right. The human race was on course to destroy
itself. The Conclave had merely sealed the fate already self-deliv-
ered. Their answer was to do nothing but wait and hide, knowing
that the sandwalkers’ greed and supreme desire for immortality
would be his demise. Harmony was right: the sandwalkers were
damned by thier own desires. “Is there nothing I can do?”
In unison, they shook their heads and sang, “Nothing.” The
somber moment was broken by the torpedo like return of the dol-
phin-child, Giggles. She swam around and around, pleased to see
me and, happier still, to be reunited with her parents.
“I must go to Peter,” I signed, “and tell him of all that has
happened.” With a heavy heart, I rose in the water toward the light
of the nighttime summer sun. I had failed.
As I neared the surface, I felt a twisted whisper like the hiss-
ing of a snake, “Not so fast, little dryside sister!” I n the distance,
I could see the ghostly outline of a Narwhal of the Horn, his ivory
tusk waving defiantly in the crystal waters.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! The Conclave is over for all, save you. It
is not as easy as Harmony decreed. We need blood in the water to
seal the verdict. We need your blood, sandwalker. For you know
the song, and it must not be sung to the others . . . the sandwalk-
er. The sandwalker might learn to listen. The sandwalkers might
change thier way. I do not want them to have the opportunity. The
sandwalker’s song will end here!”
Godwin swam closer and closer, his horn dancing back and
forth, reflecting bits of light that shot errantly all about. “Yesss, you
will die now!” With that, he surged forward, his horn lowered like
a lance, and slashed by. At first, I was relieved that it had been a
clean miss and spun to face him again. So sharp was his horn that,
were it not for the water turning to a pink cloud, I would not have
known that I was injured. On my right shoulder was a gash that cut
through the multiple layers of the dry suit and into the flesh.
Again and again, he sliced by me in the water, each time
cutting a bit more. Then on the next path he neatly sliced the hose
and my regulator bubbled and frothed as the oxygen sprayed.
“This is good!” he chanted over and over and over. “This is
good! Slowly you will die. Painfully, my sweet, painfully slow.”
I ripped the straps from my shoulders and the tank dropped
spiraling down into the depths. I released my weight belt and in
one desperate surge, I forced myself to swim up and away from the
demented Narwhal. I finally broke to the surface, and strong hands
grabbed me, lifting me into the boat. I had seven lacerations like
fine razor cuts over my abdomen, legs, and arms. Peter ripped the
goggles from my face, and I breathed deep of the sweet-scented air
of the dryside. Relieved that it was over and safe in Peter’s arms, I
pulled the hood back and shook my hair free, my heart pounding in
reflex to the fear.
For the moment, I felt safe.
Suddenly, an iridescent horn lanced through the bottom of
the boat. Fred, finally confronted with an attacker, closed his strong
jaws around this bit of bone–this lethal dagger. The shock of not
being able to readily pull free caused Godwin to breach, elevating
the boat like an airborne pancake. Only then did Fred reluctantly let
go, and the whale allowed us to fall back to the surface.
We sat in the water, spinning around. “What was that?”
mouth-shouted Peter.
“That was part of the Conclave I didn’t tell you about. Pe-
ter, let me introduce you to Godwin, the Avenger. He’s a Narwhal,”
I signed wildly, looking about for the next attack. Once again, it
came from below as the horn erupted through the bottom of the
boat. Again and again, it slashed, seeking solace in flesh. Knowing
that there was no recourse, yet not fearing death, I turned to Peter
and signed, “The odds are we won’t survive this.” With that, I put
my arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth. I refused to
die with any regrets, and I would never regret that kiss.
Our embrace was broken apart as the horn shafted between
us and then retracted for its next assault. But the attack was cut
short by a monstrous breaching right beside the boat. The air
vibrated with challenge, and I could hear Harmony’s call of anger.
“Back off, Godwin of the Narwhal. The Conclave spoke. The ver-
dict was to let them be!”
“No,” whisper-whined the horned whale. “She knows of the
song. If she sings it to others, they will save themselves from their
deserved fate.” His tone dropped lower and he spoke in staccato.
“She will die now. Their song will die now and forever! Be aware
white whale, if you interfere, you will die, too.” With that, he turned
back to us and lowered the horn.
Chastised, Harmony settled below the water, the Narwhal
slashed his horn back and forth, causing the sea to foam and boil in
turmoil. “Now, you die! Now, you die!” he whisper-screamed. Ly-
ing full on the surface, he began the final rush toward us. Peter, the
dog, and I huddled, knowing we could do little more than wait for
the end.
He nearly reached the boat when a great sucking in of the
sea preceded the powerful breaching of the great white whale. Full
he breached from the sea, and full he fell on Godwin. The fiery eyes
of the Narwhal widened in surprise and shock and then went blank.
He was dead! His back broken by the mass of Harmony’s breach.
Beyond relief, we sat in the boat, numbed by the proximity of
death and the violence of action. Only then did I notice that Har-
mony floated oddly still in the water, the dead Narwhal very close.
Slowly the water around them grew slick with an ever widening band
of blood. I grabbed Peter’s arm in horror and pointed. There, im-
paling Harmony was the great, evil, twisted horn. It had run Harmo-
ny through, lancing out his back.
The weight of the now-dead Godwin shifted with an ocean
swell causing the ivory horn to slowly but sickeningly pull free.
The Narwhal dropped down like a spiraling leaf to the end . . . the
beginning.
Without thought, I leaped into the water and swam to Harmo-
ny. “Why,” I signed, “why risk all for a sandwalker?”
“Because,” he softly sang, “the Narwhal was right. If the
sandwalker can learn to sing the Song of the Sea and to grasp its
full meaning, then there is hope for whale and sandwalker alike.
There is a tradition with the whale that a Scribe, a recorder, of the
Song of the Sea, must carry the song. The Scribe must never be
involved but instead must stand off and watch and record so that
nothing will be lost from the song. I was a Scribe, a recorder, but I
stepped away from my responsibility and became very involved for a
time. I now pass the song on to you, Sharing, so that you may sing
it to others.”
With reverence, he began to sing the most wondrous song I
have ever heard, the history of the world through the heart and soul
of a whale. I listened to the song of Harmony. From Harmony, I
heard the song of Laughter Ring and finally heard my own song . . .
Sharing.
When he finished, Harmony softly cried, “Go, Sharing. Go
to the dryside and sing the song to any who will listen. Do not
weep for me. Many, many tides ago, I loved and lost my love to the
dryside. I now go to where she waits for me. Our spirits, our souls
forever entwined.”
He slowly began to settle in the water. Floating down and
down to the crystal-cold waters below, his last words echoing into
the deep. “Oh, Melody, how I love you. I now am part and parcel of
the song.” And with that, Harmony joined the end . . . the begin-
ning.
I drifted on the surface of the bay. Peter and the dog watched,
not fully understanding but surely feeling empathy and compassion
for the moment. I finally swam back to the boat and, with Peter’s
help, crawled over the water-slick sides. Sobbing I explained to
Peter what had happened and we sat for the longest wrapped in the
reprieve of Harmony’s final justice. The sandwalker, mankind, has
a chance albeit though a small. We must all learn to embrace this
new philosophy, to sing the song and change.
The oars long-since lost, we finally began paddling by hand
the long journey back to the dryside. We had to circumvent the gla-
cier, since traversing it would have required more effort than we had
strength. Our dear friends, Laughter Ring and Little Brother, again
came to our rescue. Always playful and with Giggles at their side
they nosed the small craft along the icy shore and pushed it scrap-
ing up on the gravelly beach.
Sure that we were safe, they began to swim away, Laughter
Ring called to me, “I hate goodbyes, my sweet friend. So, there is
a place called Winsome Bright, and there lives a wonderful Beluga
called Momma Love. If you seek us or need our counsel, she will
know where we are. You found this place, you will find Winsome
Bright.” Then, they swam into the shimmering midnight sun.
Hours later, Peter and I were rescued by a group of very
curious environmentalists and a gaggle of reporters and taken back
to the little town of Gilroy. We have been here now some three
months, and I have tranScribed all of the song as best remembered.
As a sidebar, a tiny melody to an already complex symphony,
Peter and I were married the week after the Conclave. Bonded as
we were already by the events, it was only natural that we bond for
life. He has heard the song, and I have heard the song; once heard,
it must be sung. We now sing the song for any who will listen.
Now it is late, and tomorrow we will begin a journey that will
last our lifetime. I came out to walk the beach alone, to gaze at the
now-empty sea and to wonder at the grandeur of it all. The night
is not bright but well lit nonetheless in this early northern fall. Cot-
ton-gauze clouds filter the half moonlight as I walk my silent walk.
Mercury waves slip and slide like long, twisty snakes, hissing up
and down the pebbled shore. The air, cool and crisp, bites at my
cheeks, exploding into silver vapor streamers as I exhale my breath
long-held. This is Alaskan September, fall in a place of early hard
winter. I look back to where the gravelly shore refuses to mark my
passing with lingering footprints. It is as if I were placed where I am
coming from–nowhere … having nowhere to go.
For I am now of the Song of the Sea for I have heard it sung.
I am the one in billions of humanity who must try to teach the oth-
ers to sing. Failing to do so, man will earn the punishment he has
so freely passed on to others . . . extinction. Like my footprints, we
will leave no trace on the jagged edge of the dryside near the waters
of life.
If you hear the song, sing it again and again. Fear not the
Narwhal or others who, for their own narcissistic devices, do not
choose to listen, let alone sing.
May you find Harmony in the singing of the Song of the Sea