CHAPTER SEVEN
I wasted no time on the journey home to the pod. I stopped
rarely to eat and never to sleep. Many times I had to force myself to
snag a fish just to maintain my strength. What I had experienced
reeled through my mind like a song sung off-key.
There was much to think about. Some of the sandwalkers
were evil. Many of the sandwalkers were good. All of them tried to
sing, albeit though a tiny snatch of song. The sandwalker was truly
paradox, for there were many good, but there seemed to be many
more evil.
The protest as proclaimed and advocated by the Narwhal
was true in its intent, but was more death the answer? Should we
answer the death of our brothers and cousins with violence? Was
there no better way? Was there not a solution to this invasion of
the seas besides the Conclave? Surely ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN
THE WORLD must have some reason for allowing all this to con-
tinue. These thoughts and others like them raced through my mind
like a sharp-fin in feeding frenzy.
As I swam, I listened for traces of the pod’s song, and
though I heard other bits of melody, the tunes did not ring true of
my pod. Finally, some fifteen hundred tides after I had left as a ca-
pricious youth, I returned an older, wiser, and much subdued whale.
It was odd fate, as I neared the coast of the dryside, that the first I
heard of the song was Cacophony telling all that he would feed first,
and whatever was left as scraps, they could feed upon.
I sang briefly announcing my return, and, of course, the first
to meet me was the mad bull himself. As I approached, Cacophony
stopped still in the water, his massive body having grown even larg-
er and more grotesque during my absence.
His voice had not improved with age. “Well, well, if it isn’t the
wayfaring stranger himself. Thought you might have confused your-
self with the salmon and run yourself up a clear water stream and
spawned. Still and all, you had best understand, bubble-breath,” he
continued, “that I now control this pod. Soon, when my father has
the sense to flip over dead, I will be the Scribe. Then I will sing the
song, and you will have to listen.”
I was tired, hungry, and in no spirit to listen to his prattling.
“Squiggle-fin!” I rumbled. “On a good day you couldn’t catch a jelly
fish by yourself. Go beach yourself.” With that, I quickly brushed
by him. Cacophony probably would have thrashed me then and
there, so weak was I, but my tone was assured; and being the bully
he was, he only attacked when he was sure he would win.
I moved through the body of the pod and swam directly to
Tympani, who was singing an intricate verse of the song to old
Philosophy. As I approached Tympani stopped singing and a hush
fell over the pod. Philosophy, having not seen me swim through
the pod, looked at the Scribe perplexed as to why he had stopped.
Then he saw me. It took a moment for him to recognize me, yet
alone realize that I had been gone for so many tides. Grumpily he
moved to the side and I faced the recorder of the Song of the Sea.
All was silent and still. In a strong but tired voice, I sang my song,
adding new verses to our song, new understandings, profound ques-
tions that would be answered over generations of tides. The pod
was silent as I finished. No one moved, and the wind slacked and
then died out all together.
Philosophy was the first to break the silence as he idly float-
ed away musing, “Much food for thought. Much thought is needed.”
Tympani sang soothingly, “You have done well by the
song, my young friend, but now you must rest and build your
strength. When you are fulfilled, come to me and we will sing
more of your adventures.”
And rest I did. I thought of nothing but myself for at least
twelve tides filling my body with the sweet meats that ran free in the
sea, but never again did I touch the meat of the flipper-fin. I placed
myself in self-imposed isolation, wrestling with all that I had seen.
There were questions, many, many questions and the answers that
I sought were buried somewhere deep in the Song of the Sea. I
vowed to learn all I could from Tympani before his death and the
passing of that song to his son, Cacophony. I knew full well that
with the death of Tympani would also come a death of the song as
it should be sung. This was a fact and there was little I could do
about it, save to press the Scribe for as many verses as he could
afford to sing to one single whale.
From that twelve day tide forward I dedicated all my time to
the absorption of the Song of the Sea. Always near Tympani, as
many tides passed, I listened to the song unfold verse by cryptic
verse. No matter who the Scribe was singing to, I was there listen-
ing, learning – seeking the answers to obscure questions created by
the adventures of my journey.
Early one silver tide, Tympani stopped in mid-tune as if
listening to some unsung melody. “It is time,” he sang to the pod.
“It is my time. I have lived a long, wonderful life. But now I am old
and it is time for the waters of life to wash over me no more. I am to
again be undistinguishable from the sea, I am to become one with
ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD.
I listened in silent shock as this great, quiet whale and
mentor portended his own death, the coda of his song. My silence
did not go unnoticed, for Tympani sang a gentle tune to me, “Birth
and death are nearly the same: the end and the beginning. My time
is marked upon the sea and I have nothing to fear in giving myself
back to the waters of life. You and the others will feel the loss, but
that is the melody of the song for as long as it is sung. I will be
remembered in the song, and in the music of that memory, there is
no end. There is no death.”
By this time, the rest of the pod had gathered around the
aging Scribe of the Song of the Sea. He sang loudly so all could
hear and none would forget, “Tradition calls for me in dying to pass
the song on to my son, Cacophony who as tradition and the song
dictate will become the new Scribe, the new recorder of the song.
But traditions are created by those they serve, so I will change that
which has been for all of the tides in the sea. Rather than passing
the song on to my son, Cacophony, I pass the song to Harmony,
the great white, so that the song will be sung for all eternity.”
There was an interminable silence from the pod for this had
never been done. Then, as one they chanted, “So be it blessed
now by ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD. It is done. It is to
be sung as verse and lyric of the song.”
The seas moved in silence and no one of the pod moved
with the echoes of the music that was sung. Finally, the back of the
pod, a great thrashing and wailing began as the news rested with
Cacophony. “It was mine. The song was mine to sing as Scribe.
May you all be carved bloody deep by the sandwalkers. This is
bilge and flotsam!” With that he noisily crashed deep into the water,
his vile curses soiling the sea.
I was honored but saddened more by the imminent loss of my
dear old friend.
Tympani solemnly continued, “As is the tradition, come dive
with me, my Harmony. There in the deepest of deep, the clearest of
waters, I will sing the entire Song of the Sea for you to remember for
your lifetime.”
With that, the aging whale breached, diving deep into the
sea. I looked at my mother and my friends knowing that when I
returned all would be changed forever. I could never integrate in the
action of the pod ever again. I would be he who stands to the side
remembering all for all. The song called to me and I wanted to hear.
I dropped down into the world. Deeper than deep I fell in spi-
ral, following the haunting melody of the past and the future to be.
Down and down, round and round into the coldest, clearest water.
There in the emerald dark of the sea, I found the shadowed form of
my dear, dying fiend Tympani, the Scribe.
As the pressure settled about me like a well-worn mantle,
Tympani began to sing this ancient song that had been passed on
for so many generations: “The pod was born in a flash of light that
was the beginning and the end of all things. We were there at the
edge of creation and will be there when creation crumbles.” His
voice, like the tides rushing through crystal coral, rang true and I
listened and remembered all. He sang songs of the sandwalkers and
their crude entrance to the dryside, of their foaming desire to rid the
seas of all that sing. He sang of the destruction and of the death,
the crying and dying as songs were stopped before they were sung.
He sang of births and beginnings and of the glorious passing
of the song from one Scribe to another, over millions and millions
of tides. He sang of the structure of the pod, the Conductors who
lead and must be followed if there is to be a melody. He sang of the
Composers, the creators who force new melodies upon the pod. He
sang of rhythm and rhyme.
He sang loudly the praises of Philosophy, our dreamer, and
now the oldest living member of the pod . . . Philosophy, who dared
to dream of things undreamed, and who shared with the entire pod
his thoughts of the deep and its relationship with the dryside and
those creatures beyond.
Tympani sang as I had never heard him sing of all things
before — even the birth of me, the great white, Harmony, destined to
grandeur by the fluke of being born white. When he sang of Adagio
I remembered the innocence of youth of things lost and found.
Finally he sang to me the responsibility of the Scribe and all
that he must do, the sacrifices that must be made in order to save
the song at all cost. “A Scribe must never be directly involved in
any action, but rather, must stand aside and record the events as
they happen. The Scribe must listen to the glorious melodies of
birth and death. He must listen to the laughter without laughing,
the sadness without shedding a tear. For no matter the pattern or
melody, the Scribe must stand to the side and record and remem-
ber the Song of the Sea. If the pod should cease to be, the Scribe
must pass this song to another pod and thus ensure the continu-
ance of eternity.”
In the distance, faint as faint could be, I thought I heard
queerly accented voices sing out, “And so the prophesy has been
filled. And it is good!”
I turned to the voices, but the water was dark and I could see
nothing. Surely this was nothing more that imagination still stimu-
lated by the insane visions of my dream of the Narwhal of the Horn.
I looked back at Tympani, and, although, he stared at me oddly, he
made no comment. Obviously he had not heard the ramblings of
my mind.
The old whale smiled and then slowly sang only for me,
“You are so young, my dear great white Harmony,” he sang, “but the
whole of the melody is now part and parcel with your spirit. You are
now the Scribe and I, at last, am free. Come with me and listen, as
I sing my final song and suffer, yet exalt, in the glory of the end, the
beginning, the incorporation with the waters of life.” With that, he
sank deeper still into the heavier waters and began to hum a haunt-
ing melody, a song of death and dying.
The song had taught me that the passing was a time of
celebration of oneness with all that is, but I could not help but be
gripped in melancholy. As I watched the beginning of Tympani’s
quiet passing, I felt a loss I had not felt before, a regret at not know-
ing him better, regret at not seeing all that he saw when he saw it.
Tympani’s hums were quiet and gentle filled with solitary re-
flection. His reverie, however, was shockingly interrupted by a flash
of slick-black flesh as Tympani was rolled to the side as he was
rammed hard by another whale . . . Cacophony!
His gentle hums became strained and discordant as Cacoph-
ony rammed him over and over screaming, “Want to die the quiet
death, old man? Want to end your tides in dignity? Then give me
the Song of the Sea.” As if in answer, Tympani stopped all singing
and accepted the brutal abuse in silence, which only enraged and
angered the bull to attack again and again.
With mighty flips of my flukes, I surged to rescue my old
friend. I was nearly in the middle of the melee when Tympani with
his last bit of strength sang out, “No! Harmony, stand off! You are
the Scribe, never to be involved, never to interfere. You, as the
singer of the song, must watch and wait. Do nothing. It is my wish
and the command of the song that you only record this. Do not
involve yourself. This is your ultimate test.”
“Yes, singer, listen,” roared Cacophony, “listen well. I will
give you a song to sing.” With that he smashed his massive head
again into the side of his father. But Tympani did not cry out, and
the water again slowly filled with gentle harmonic humming as a
smile crossed the old whale’s face like the shadow of sun and cloud
on the sea. And with that, Tympani passed into the end . . .
the beginning.
Cacophony continued to ram repeatedly the now-vacant flesh
but finally realized that his torment was in vain. He stood back
confused. Then, in a flash of tail and fluke, he was gone. I floated
nearby remembering all there was to remember of the song. For the
song was now everything and all. In respect to the memory of his
father, I didn’t chase after Cacophony and smash him into the deep.
Instead, I surfaced and, with all the strength in me, sang the new
verse of the Song of the Sea to all who would listen of the ignomini-
ous death of the greatest Scribe of all, Tympani.
Anger was the wound, and time was the healer. But as the
now singer of the song, the Scribe, I was damned to remember–for-
ever. There would be no healing for me. Again echoing in my mind
I could hear, “And this is good!”
As dark turned to light, turned to dark, like the flickering
of one’s eye, I found myself distancing from the pod as I learned
to listen. Circling, always circling, listening for all the new gentle
melodies. With the listening came learning, and knowledge filled
the empty voids of loneliness. As time and tides passed, innocence
washed from me, and my senses became dulled. My sensitivity
became objectivity as I concentrated on the song–only the song.
It coursed through my veins, chilling my blood until no day passed
when I didn’t feel a bit colder and very numb.
As we swam from cold to warm to cold to warm and then to
stormy seas and back again, my peers, the others of my age and
birthing all seemed younger and different, yet paradoxically the
same. I could sing of them and all their adventures but I never
joined with them again.
I watched and recorded the joys that occurred and also the
anguish and heartache. A worse fate was that I was forced to watch,
remember, and sing of Cacophony’s railings and of his discordant
belches of life. To me, his very presence soiled the waters, made
them unlivable. Listening to him sing was like listening to a rock
sing to the sand, but as was my mission, I did as I was charged to
do and recorded, making all a part of the song.
Cacophony did not swim alone. Slowly, as the tides
changed, some of the younger whales began to follow his strength
despite whether right or wrong. One of these was a whale called
Metronome, who never could decide whether he was whale or jel-
lyfish. To him life was a game of make-believe. What he never
pretended, though, was deep and undying love for Cacophony’s
strength. He drank of it, and slowly he lost his own personality,
becoming a shadow to the hulk of the disgruntled whale.
Cacophony used Metronome as a game piece, an object of
interference when needed. When Cacophony was caught in his net
of lies and cowardice, he would simply say, “Metronome did it!” and
this simple fish brain accepted these accusations from this blocker of
light, as a compliment and acceptance. His moony eyes would widen
in pride whenever Cacophony called his name–for whatever reason.
It was at this time that all the younger whales passed from
the warm waters of youth to the colder chill of adulthood becoming
fully vested members of the pod. They were now thought of as adult.
This fact was strange to watch and record as a part of the song
because I knew them so well. Like the blinded, lustful salmon that
rushed from the sea to the clear-waters for procreation, the young of
the pod, those born with me and some much later, blindly ignored
the beauty of the light that danced on the waters. They missed
much because of their eagerness to dive to the deep where they
would be called adult, take a mate, bear young, grow old and die.
They taught themselves to squint in the sun and limit their
vision, and in this act somehow came the wonderfulness of adult-
hood, but much was missed. As they rushed with the current of
time, their dreams began to die and with that death so went the
laughter of innocence. With the death of the dreams came the
inability to hear clearly the Song of the Sea and the great variety of
melodies that lay within.
Even I was attracted to the deep and I teased myself with its
feeling of strength and pressure. Though I often thought of taking
a mate and could feel my blood warm to life’s current, the responsi-
bilities of my life as the Scribe brought me back to my senses. To
watch objectively from a distance was almost to freeze time in place,
though I never forgot how to dream. But all the perfection of my
dreams were nearly shattered one day as I recorded a bit of song
that was sung very off-key.
Cacophony had already taken a mate, a silly cow by the
name of Percussion. Her name was appropriate, for her singing was
as the beating of a weed on a water-soaked log. She was in the
constant want of Cacophony, a fact he both relished and ignored.
As Percussion now ploughed through the waters, great with
the calf that grew inside, Cacophony’s eye wandered to other mate-
less whales. One of these was my friend, Melody, who always sang
to me dear gentle tunes of laughter breaking like frothing waves on
the sea. She often sang of the moonlight dancing on the waters
and, of her, I would drink deep and remember forever. Cacophony
wanted her as much for her song, as for the fact that she sang to me.
Then, one bright silverside night, Cacophony and his shad-
owy, off-beat friend, Metronome, cornered Melody in a smooth-wa-
tered cove close to shore. “Well, well, well,” crowed Cacophony in
his discordant rumbling tone, “look what we have here a delectable
bit of fish, sweet and tightly meated. Melody, let’s you and I join
together as one to taste those saltless waters!”
Unfortunately, Melody swam away from the open waters,
deeper into the cove. As she sought escape from eminent disaster,
she taunted him to gain time, “Oh, but Cacophony you have sung
the song that only can be sung to one, to Percussion who bears
your young. Are you to violate all the laws and mate with two or
three? For, if this is true, then why not mate with your shadow,
Metronome? Though he be male, it is sung that he can sing a two-
part harmony.” With that, she quickly dove deep, attempting to dive
beneath Cacophony and escape the trap of the cove. But the bull
was fast, and with mighty kicks of his flukes, he dove and blocked
her escape.
Cacophony’s eyes flashed wild, sparked with anger like
clashing rocks on a wind-torn shore. “Don’t fool with me, Melo-
dy. The pod knows that you yearn to mate with Harmony, the great
white, but we all know that he is made impotent by the song that he
must carry. Come to me and let’s give the pale-one something to
sing about.”
Melody turned to retreat back into the cove, but her way was
now blocked by the bull-cow, Metronome, who had quietly slipped
in behind her. “Are you going somewhere, my gentle squid?” he
called. “My master wishes you to stay. Maybe I, too, will be allowed
to share in the sweetness of you when Cacophony has had his fill.”
Panicked, she began to swim in ever-tighter circles as the
two drew their hunt net tighter and tighter closed. The great bull,
Cacophony, bellowed a rambling challenge into the sea. “Harmony,
great white, where are you? Where is the Scribe when you need
him to record an important passage in the song? Harmony, come
record this song as I mate with this sweet-meated tuna. For I am
Cacophony! I am destined by the blood that boils in my loins to
father my own pod.”
As was my responsibility, I floated nearby shaking near the
breakers of this coral cove and listened to the song as it was poorly
sung. The song pounded at my heart, and none too soon I could
listen no more. Filled with the haunting melodies of Adagio and
Tympani as they had died from the result of this putrid bit of life, I
charged. Borne by the strength of a wave at my back, I smashed
into Cacophony’s side. Bubbles blew, and the sweet air that main-
tains life was forced from the massive bull. He breached, gasped,
and then dove back to the fight in the blinding anger that was his
special kind.
“Ahh, the Scribe has feelings yet,” he rumbled gleefully.
“How dare you to attack the greatest whale ever! Come fight me,
Scribe. With your imminent death I am yet to have the Song of the
Sea by default alone.”
Anger replaced all reason and rule. I was no longer the
Scribe. As he dove, I twisted on my spine and, with all the strength
I could muster, smashed my head into his side as he overshot his
mark. Stunned, he floated between sunlight and the waters deep. I
attacked again and again, smashing into his side with all the pas-
sion that boiled in my soul, remembering all those that had been
injured by this cowardly bully. How many times I do not remember.
I could hear and see nothing but the death of this whale. I ham-
mered and slashed, and for the first time in my life, I wouldn’t sing
the song.
I backed Cacophony to the shore and prepared to end
his life, once and for all. But a whale blocked my way. At first, I
thought it was Metronome and I was well-prepared to kill him also,
to rid the water of all disease. Before I could do any harm logic
overcame passion and in the far distance I could hear Metronome
keening a song of fear and loathing far out to sea. I stopped my
charge and looked. The whale before me was older than old. His
skin was dulled by many tides and hung slack like waters with-
out waves. His soft voice was querulous, yet rang with authority.
“Scribe, stop that which you do! Death as you wish it for Cacoph-
ony, though he be deserving, must not happen at your whim! You
must leave him be! You are now the wrongness in the sea. You
have violated one of the oldest verses of the song. Listen and lis-
ten well, you are Scribe, and Scribe is commanded by all that is holy
never to interfere. Scribe is charged with standing away and record-
ing all that is sung of the song. You are wrong in being involved!”
“Who are you?” I challenged, “that charges me with wrong-
ness. Cacophony has soiled the seas in all the verses since the day
he was calved. He has been the disharmony in all the melodies. He
must die, and he must die now! Who are you, old whale, who stops
that which must be?”
A silence pervaded the sea as the old whale lifted with a
wave that attempted to wash all things to the shore. “Know you
me not, Scribe? Has your anger wiped your memory clean? I am
Philosophy, the elder of the pod, the dreamer of dreams since the
very beginning of the song. Listen to that which you have been
charged with . . . remembering. Remember me in song. Remember
that which you have pledged to do. Then do what must be done.”
The Song of the Sea began to reel in my mind and heart as I
listened to the old whale. Cacophony floated nearby, awaiting life or
death but seemingly not caring which. I wished nothing more than
to crush the life from him, but the song sang to me and, as before,
I listened. The responsibility for which I was charged took prece-
dence over all. Tides before, near the very deep, I had drunk the
melody that Tympani had sung. In honor of the memory of the mel-
ody that I carried in my very soul, I broke off the attack. Sullenly, I
swam to the deep and reflected on my wrongness. I was to observe
and not be involved; that was the song, and that was the only way it
could be sung.
I cleansed myself in those darkened waters. When I
breached, Cacophony was gone, and the seas were quiet still. In
the distance I could hear the pod moving stoically onward in the
seas, the event forgotten, to be remembered only by the Scribe who
was charged with all remembering — the Song.
I sang the event of the fight over to myself again and again
until the angry tune had become part and parcel of the song. Then,
and only then, did I move to rejoin the pod.
Times and tides passed. The song took on a gentle melody,
as all events became non-events and monotone. I allowed the memo-
ries of my journeys to fade like morning’s mist. There were births and
deaths and tiny things that became simple notes in a complex song.
Percussion, the ill-fated mate of Cacophony, calved at a
time of storm, and the winds whipped the sea into a mighty froth.
She breached and dove, breached and dove, through the changing
of the tide, groaning and complaining of the child birthing within
her. Then, she began the spin of life. Round and round she spun
in tighter and tighter circles, until the momentum itself sent a slick
bundle of life spinning too, into the sea.
As long as I live and as long as I sing, I shall always pause
at the crescendo of birth. It is magic and power of the most perfect
kind. It is violent and possesses a demonic strength like a mighty
storm of clashing light. Following the storm always comes the calm,
which only heightens the amazement of the event that has just
past. Always, there is anguish as the child wishes for a separate
soul, as if the mother wished to hold on to that bond. The battle for
life is a battle of lives and from this singularity there comes two: the
child fresh and new and the mother forever changed by the event itself.
Percussion named her calf Progeny, but he was as unlike his
father as Cacophony was unlike his own father, Tympani. In time,
Progeny became my shadow, a shimmering dart that flowed in the
waters where I swam. As I recorded all that happened, he watched
and looked on in innocence and constantly asked, “Why?” “Why”
was his byword and the beginning to all that he spoke to me, “Why
do we sing?” “Why do we swim?” “Why do sandwalkers walk on
the sand?” “Why do they want us dead?” “Why can’t they sing?”
“Why has my father forsaken me?”
To most of these questions I could answer with simple song,
but to the final question I had no answer. I suppose I could have
sung some of the off-colored songs that Cacophony composed. I
suppose I could have sung of the death and destruction that he
caused, but I didn’t, for to sing that verse would have been to alter
the song, and Philosophy had brought that message home hard.
There comes a tremendous responsibility with a shadow like
Progeny. Many, many times he wrapped himself in the coral kelp
that grew in great profusion on most of our journeys. He would
wait patiently for me to unwind him, then, once again, he would slip
into my wake and tag along. It was wrong to interfere even in these
small matters, but it was a small wrong. I dutifully recorded my sim-
ple rescues and continued on my way.
Because of the little calf, I did although violate the precept
of my vow one final time. One break of tide, as I moved away far
from the main pod to rest my ears from the onslaught of the song,
I breached as was my wont and Progeny followed, imitating in his
small way my bigger moves. To do a final cleansing of my soul, I
dove deep, and Progeny stayed above in the bright silvered light
warming himself against the now colder waters.
I swam deeper than I had in many hundreds of tides, and I
did not surface for a goodly time. In the deep, I reflected on the
song and allowed the harmonics to wash over me. The pressure,
though strong about me, left my spirit clean, and I felt again rejuve-
nated. So deep was my musing and delight in finding release from
the mundane that, as I slowly lifted from the bottom of the crystal
cold dark, I didn’t recognize the simple prelude to fear and danger.
I was snapped from my fog of self-complacency as there
came from the surface a screaming . . . a tiny song of terror. With a
mighty thrust of my flukes, I climbed into the warmer waters of the
bright side. Above me, sitting still in the rocking waters, were shell-
sharks, and within the shells, as always, the sandwalkers.
The remembering happened of other times and other plac-
es, of dolphins caught in nets of kelp and their brutal beatings.
My blood ran through my veins and blocked all sense of logic, of
responsibility to the sacredness of the Scribe. I calmed myself,
humming bits of the song that would help me in this situation.
Silently, I eased to the waters’ surface, and once again there
came the non-musical screams of fright, and this time I recognized
the singer of that song–Progeny. Twisting this way and that, I sud-
denly saw clearly what had transpired. For there, right before me,
was my little friend, trapped, rolled, and caught in a weaving of kelp-
like vine. With age comes a certain maturity, a detached ability to
slow before reacting. Carefully I dropped below the surface. I moved
closer to the shell-sharks and their passengers, the sandwalkers.
In other verses stored in the song were memories of the
sandwalkers, not simply killing whales, but literally stealing them
from the waters of life. Obviously, this was what was happening
here. The sandwalkers were rolling poor, dear Progeny in their
stronger-than-kelp and trying to lift him from the waters. My respon-
sibility was to stand off and record objectively all that happened to
the song, but this bit of verse was one I could not leave alone.
I breathed in those sweet, energy-instilling airs of above and
dove deep. Then with bends and kicks of my body and with all
muscles in play, I surged up through the sea. With all the power
in my body and soul, I rammed into the rocking shell-shark. I was
surprised that it lifted as easily as it did but not as surprised as
the sandwalkers who spilled into my domain. I charged again and
again, ramming all of the shell-sharks until they looked down with
large blank stares. With my teeth, I ripped and tore at the stronger-
than-kelp and finally, like a slippery eel, Progeny flashed by me in
fear and slid to the deep.
v engeance warmed my blood to boiling as I hummed the
roaring song of Adagio and remembered other scars of the sympho-
ny called the Song of the Sea. I breached high from the water and
came crashing down on the shell-sharks. Delightfully, I could feel
them splinter and break beneath me. Over and over, I breached and
broke until there was nothing left to break. Nothing save the sand-
walkers themselves. How insignificant they looked from beneath.
Pale flipping fins that thrashed and fought at the waters, instead of
working with them. I surfaced in their midst, prepared to wreck per-
sonal havoc and to take one or two with me to the deep for a long
discussion of the wrongs they had committed to those of my kind.
But as I prepared to sing of blood, I remembered the shell-
shark with the clouds of kelp and also the little yellow shell that
had saved me so long ago. I stopped and stared and looked into
the eyes and very soul of a sandwalker. In that momentary gaze,
I found bits and pieces of a song. Not our song, but a song just
the same. My study was broken by the distant drone of other shell-
sharks racing from somewhere in the distance. Knowing that Prog-
eny was safe and fearing for my own safety, I slipped back to the
waters to find my adopted little brother. As I swam away, I waved
one fin, a sign of disdain.