CHAPTER SEVEN<\/p>\n
I wasted no time on the journey home to the pod. I stopped<\/p>\n
rarely to eat and never to sleep. Many times I had to force myself to<\/p>\n
snag a fish just to maintain my strength. What I had experienced<\/p>\n
reeled through my mind like a song sung off-key.<\/p>\n
There was much to think about. Some of the sandwalkers<\/p>\n
were evil. Many of the sandwalkers were good. All of them tried to<\/p>\n
sing, albeit though a tiny snatch of song. The sandwalker was truly<\/p>\n
paradox, for there were many good, but there seemed to be many<\/p>\n
more evil.<\/p>\n
The protest as proclaimed and advocated by the Narwhal<\/p>\n
was true in its intent, but was more death the answer? Should we<\/p>\n
answer the death of our brothers and cousins with violence? Was<\/p>\n
there no better way? Was there not a solution to this invasion of<\/p>\n
the seas besides the Conclave? Surely ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN<\/p>\n
THE WORLD must have some reason for allowing all this to con-<\/p>\n
tinue. These thoughts and others like them raced through my mind<\/p>\n
like a sharp-fin in feeding frenzy.<\/p>\n
As I swam, I listened for traces of the pod\u2019s song, and<\/p>\n
though I heard other bits of melody, the tunes did not ring true of<\/p>\n
my pod. Finally, some fifteen hundred tides after I had left as a ca-<\/p>\n
pricious youth, I returned an older, wiser, and much subdued whale.<\/p>\n
It was odd fate, as I neared the coast of the dryside, that the first I<\/p>\n
heard of the song was Cacophony telling all that he would feed first,<\/p>\n
and whatever was left as scraps, they could feed upon.<\/p>\n
I sang briefly announcing my return, and, of course, the first<\/p>\n
to meet me was the mad bull himself. As I approached, Cacophony<\/p>\n
stopped still in the water, his massive body having grown even larg-<\/p>\n
er and more grotesque during my absence.<\/p>\n
His voice had not improved with age. \u201cWell, well, if it isn\u2019t the<\/p>\n
wayfaring stranger himself. Thought you might have confused your-<\/p>\n
self with the salmon and run yourself up a clear water stream and<\/p>\n
spawned. Still and all, you had best understand, bubble-breath,\u201d he<\/p>\n
continued, \u201cthat I now control this pod. Soon, when my father has<\/p>\n
the sense to flip over dead, I will be the Scribe. Then I will sing the<\/p>\n
song, and you will have to listen.\u201d<\/p>\n
I was tired, hungry, and in no spirit to listen to his prattling.<\/p>\n
\u201cSquiggle-fin!\u201d I rumbled. \u201cOn a good day you couldn\u2019t catch a jelly<\/p>\n
fish by yourself. Go beach yourself.\u201d With that, I quickly brushed<\/p>\n
by him. Cacophony probably would have thrashed me then and<\/p>\n
there, so weak was I, but my tone was assured; and being the bully<\/p>\n
he was, he only attacked when he was sure he would win.<\/p>\n
I moved through the body of the pod and swam directly to<\/p>\n
Tympani, who was singing an intricate verse of the song to old<\/p>\n
Philosophy. As I approached Tympani stopped singing and a hush<\/p>\n
fell over the pod. Philosophy, having not seen me swim through<\/p>\n
the pod, looked at the Scribe perplexed as to why he had stopped.<\/p>\n
Then he saw me. It took a moment for him to recognize me, yet<\/p>\n
alone realize that I had been gone for so many tides. Grumpily he<\/p>\n
moved to the side and I faced the recorder of the Song of the Sea.<\/p>\n
All was silent and still. In a strong but tired voice, I sang my song,<\/p>\n
adding new verses to our song, new understandings, profound ques-<\/p>\n
tions that would be answered over generations of tides. The pod<\/p>\n
was silent as I finished. No one moved, and the wind slacked and<\/p>\n
then died out all together.<\/p>\n
Philosophy was the first to break the silence as he idly float-<\/p>\n
ed away musing, \u201cMuch food for thought. Much thought is needed.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tympani sang soothingly, \u201cYou have done well by the<\/p>\n
song, my young friend, but now you must rest and build your<\/p>\n
strength. When you are fulfilled, come to me and we will sing<\/p>\n
more of your adventures.\u201d<\/p>\n
And rest I did. I thought of nothing but myself for at least<\/p>\n
twelve tides filling my body with the sweet meats that ran free in the<\/p>\n
sea, but never again did I touch the meat of the flipper-fin. I placed<\/p>\n
myself in self-imposed isolation, wrestling with all that I had seen.<\/p>\n
There were questions, many, many questions and the answers that<\/p>\n
I sought were buried somewhere deep in the Song of the Sea. I<\/p>\n
vowed to learn all I could from Tympani before his death and the<\/p>\n
passing of that song to his son, Cacophony. I knew full well that<\/p>\n
with the death of Tympani would also come a death of the song as<\/p>\n
it should be sung. This was a fact and there was little I could do<\/p>\n
about it, save to press the Scribe for as many verses as he could<\/p>\n
afford to sing to one single whale.<\/p>\n
From that twelve day tide forward I dedicated all my time to<\/p>\n
the absorption of the Song of the Sea. Always near Tympani, as<\/p>\n
many tides passed, I listened to the song unfold verse by cryptic<\/p>\n
verse. No matter who the Scribe was singing to, I was there listen-<\/p>\n
ing, learning \u2013 seeking the answers to obscure questions created by<\/p>\n
the adventures of my journey.<\/p>\n
Early one silver tide, Tympani stopped in mid-tune as if<\/p>\n
listening to some unsung melody. \u201cIt is time,\u201d he sang to the pod.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is my time. I have lived a long, wonderful life. But now I am old<\/p>\n
and it is time for the waters of life to wash over me no more. I am to<\/p>\n
again be undistinguishable from the sea, I am to become one with<\/p>\n
ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD.<\/p>\n
I listened in silent shock as this great, quiet whale and<\/p>\n
mentor portended his own death, the coda of his song. My silence<\/p>\n
did not go unnoticed, for Tympani sang a gentle tune to me, \u201cBirth<\/p>\n
and death are nearly the same: the end and the beginning. My time<\/p>\n
is marked upon the sea and I have nothing to fear in giving myself<\/p>\n
back to the waters of life. You and the others will feel the loss, but<\/p>\n
that is the melody of the song for as long as it is sung. I will be<\/p>\n
remembered in the song, and in the music of that memory, there is<\/p>\n
no end. There is no death.\u201d<\/p>\n
By this time, the rest of the pod had gathered around the<\/p>\n
aging Scribe of the Song of the Sea. He sang loudly so all could<\/p>\n
hear and none would forget, \u201cTradition calls for me in dying to pass<\/p>\n
the song on to my son, Cacophony who as tradition and the song<\/p>\n
dictate will become the new Scribe, the new recorder of the song.<\/p>\n
But traditions are created by those they serve, so I will change that<\/p>\n
which has been for all of the tides in the sea. Rather than passing<\/p>\n
the song on to my son, Cacophony, I pass the song to Harmony,<\/p>\n
the great white, so that the song will be sung for all eternity.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was an interminable silence from the pod for this had<\/p>\n
never been done. Then, as one they chanted, \u201cSo be it blessed<\/p>\n
now by ALL THAT IS RIGHT IN THE WORLD. It is done. It is to<\/p>\n
be sung as verse and lyric of the song.\u201d<\/p>\n
The seas moved in silence and no one of the pod moved<\/p>\n
with the echoes of the music that was sung. Finally, the back of the<\/p>\n
pod, a great thrashing and wailing began as the news rested with<\/p>\n
Cacophony. \u201cIt was mine. The song was mine to sing as Scribe.<\/p>\n
May you all be carved bloody deep by the sandwalkers. This is<\/p>\n
bilge and flotsam!\u201d With that he noisily crashed deep into the water,<\/p>\n
his vile curses soiling the sea.<\/p>\n
I was honored but saddened more by the imminent loss of my<\/p>\n
dear old friend.<\/p>\n
Tympani solemnly continued, \u201cAs is the tradition, come dive<\/p>\n
with me, my Harmony. There in the deepest of deep, the clearest of<\/p>\n
waters, I will sing the entire Song of the Sea for you to remember for<\/p>\n
your lifetime.\u201d<\/p>\n
With that, the aging whale breached, diving deep into the<\/p>\n
sea. I looked at my mother and my friends knowing that when I<\/p>\n
returned all would be changed forever. I could never integrate in the<\/p>\n
action of the pod ever again. I would be he who stands to the side<\/p>\n
remembering all for all. The song called to me and I wanted to hear.<\/p>\n
I dropped down into the world. Deeper than deep I fell in spi-<\/p>\n
ral, following the haunting melody of the past and the future to be.<\/p>\n
Down and down, round and round into the coldest, clearest water.<\/p>\n
There in the emerald dark of the sea, I found the shadowed form of<\/p>\n
my dear, dying fiend Tympani, the Scribe.<\/p>\n
As the pressure settled about me like a well-worn mantle,<\/p>\n
Tympani began to sing this ancient song that had been passed on<\/p>\n
for so many generations: \u201cThe pod was born in a flash of light that<\/p>\n
was the beginning and the end of all things. We were there at the<\/p>\n
edge of creation and will be there when creation crumbles.\u201d His<\/p>\n
voice, like the tides rushing through crystal coral, rang true and I<\/p>\n
listened and remembered all. He sang songs of the sandwalkers and<\/p>\n
their crude entrance to the dryside, of their foaming desire to rid the<\/p>\n
seas of all that sing. He sang of the destruction and of the death,<\/p>\n
the crying and dying as songs were stopped before they were sung.<\/p>\n
He sang of births and beginnings and of the glorious passing<\/p>\n
of the song from one Scribe to another, over millions and millions<\/p>\n
of tides. He sang of the structure of the pod, the Conductors who<\/p>\n
lead and must be followed if there is to be a melody. He sang of the<\/p>\n
Composers, the creators who force new melodies upon the pod. He<\/p>\n
sang of rhythm and rhyme.<\/p>\n
He sang loudly the praises of Philosophy, our dreamer, and<\/p>\n
now the oldest living member of the pod . . . Philosophy, who dared<\/p>\n
to dream of things undreamed, and who shared with the entire pod<\/p>\n
his thoughts of the deep and its relationship with the dryside and<\/p>\n
those creatures beyond.<\/p>\n
Tympani sang as I had never heard him sing of all things<\/p>\n
before — even the birth of me, the great white, Harmony, destined to<\/p>\n
grandeur by the fluke of being born white. When he sang of Adagio<\/p>\n
I remembered the innocence of youth of things lost and found.<\/p>\n
Finally he sang to me the responsibility of the Scribe and all<\/p>\n
that he must do, the sacrifices that must be made in order to save<\/p>\n
the song at all cost. \u201cA Scribe must never be directly involved in<\/p>\n
any action, but rather, must stand aside and record the events as<\/p>\n
they happen. The Scribe must listen to the glorious melodies of<\/p>\n
birth and death. He must listen to the laughter without laughing,<\/p>\n
the sadness without shedding a tear. For no matter the pattern or<\/p>\n
melody, the Scribe must stand to the side and record and remem-<\/p>\n
ber the Song of the Sea. If the pod should cease to be, the Scribe<\/p>\n
must pass this song to another pod and thus ensure the continu-<\/p>\n
ance of eternity.\u201d<\/p>\n
In the distance, faint as faint could be, I thought I heard<\/p>\n
queerly accented voices sing out, \u201cAnd so the prophesy has been<\/p>\n
filled. And it is good!\u201d<\/p>\n
I turned to the voices, but the water was dark and I could see<\/p>\n
nothing. Surely this was nothing more that imagination still stimu-<\/p>\n
lated by the insane visions of my dream of the Narwhal of the Horn.<\/p>\n
I looked back at Tympani, and, although, he stared at me oddly, he<\/p>\n
made no comment. Obviously he had not heard the ramblings of<\/p>\n
my mind.<\/p>\n
The old whale smiled and then slowly sang only for me,<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are so young, my dear great white Harmony,\u201d he sang, \u201cbut the<\/p>\n
whole of the melody is now part and parcel with your spirit. You are<\/p>\n
now the Scribe and I, at last, am free. Come with me and listen, as<\/p>\n
I sing my final song and suffer, yet exalt, in the glory of the end, the<\/p>\n
beginning, the incorporation with the waters of life.\u201d With that, he<\/p>\n
sank deeper still into the heavier waters and began to hum a haunt-<\/p>\n
ing melody, a song of death and dying.<\/p>\n
The song had taught me that the passing was a time of<\/p>\n
celebration of oneness with all that is, but I could not help but be<\/p>\n
gripped in melancholy. As I watched the beginning of Tympani\u2019s<\/p>\n
quiet passing, I felt a loss I had not felt before, a regret at not know-<\/p>\n
ing him better, regret at not seeing all that he saw when he saw it.<\/p>\n
Tympani\u2019s hums were quiet and gentle filled with solitary re-<\/p>\n
flection. His reverie, however, was shockingly interrupted by a flash<\/p>\n
of slick-black flesh as Tympani was rolled to the side as he was<\/p>\n
rammed hard by another whale . . . Cacophony!<\/p>\n
His gentle hums became strained and discordant as Cacoph-<\/p>\n
ony rammed him over and over screaming, \u201cWant to die the quiet<\/p>\n
death, old man? Want to end your tides in dignity? Then give me<\/p>\n
the Song of the Sea.\u201d As if in answer, Tympani stopped all singing<\/p>\n
and accepted the brutal abuse in silence, which only enraged and<\/p>\n
angered the bull to attack again and again.<\/p>\n
With mighty flips of my flukes, I surged to rescue my old<\/p>\n
friend. I was nearly in the middle of the melee when Tympani with<\/p>\n
his last bit of strength sang out, \u201cNo! Harmony, stand off! You are<\/p>\n
the Scribe, never to be involved, never to interfere. You, as the<\/p>\n
singer of the song, must watch and wait. Do nothing. It is my wish<\/p>\n
and the command of the song that you only record this. Do not<\/p>\n
involve yourself. This is your ultimate test.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, singer, listen,\u201d roared Cacophony, \u201clisten well. I will<\/p>\n
give you a song to sing.\u201d With that he smashed his massive head<\/p>\n
again into the side of his father. But Tympani did not cry out, and<\/p>\n
the water again slowly filled with gentle harmonic humming as a<\/p>\n
smile crossed the old whale\u2019s face like the shadow of sun and cloud<\/p>\n
on the sea. And with that, Tympani passed into the end . . .<\/p>\n
the beginning.<\/p>\n
Cacophony continued to ram repeatedly the now-vacant flesh<\/p>\n
but finally realized that his torment was in vain. He stood back<\/p>\n
confused. Then, in a flash of tail and fluke, he was gone. I floated<\/p>\n
nearby remembering all there was to remember of the song. For the<\/p>\n
song was now everything and all. In respect to the memory of his<\/p>\n
father, I didn\u2019t chase after Cacophony and smash him into the deep.<\/p>\n
Instead, I surfaced and, with all the strength in me, sang the new<\/p>\n
verse of the Song of the Sea to all who would listen of the ignomini-<\/p>\n
ous death of the greatest Scribe of all, Tympani.<\/p>\n
Anger was the wound, and time was the healer. But as the<\/p>\n
now singer of the song, the Scribe, I was damned to remember–for-<\/p>\n
ever. There would be no healing for me. Again echoing in my mind<\/p>\n
I could hear, \u201cAnd this is good!\u201d<\/p>\n
As dark turned to light, turned to dark, like the flickering<\/p>\n
of one\u2019s eye, I found myself distancing from the pod as I learned<\/p>\n
to listen. Circling, always circling, listening for all the new gentle<\/p>\n
melodies. With the listening came learning, and knowledge filled<\/p>\n
the empty voids of loneliness. As time and tides passed, innocence<\/p>\n
washed from me, and my senses became dulled. My sensitivity<\/p>\n
became objectivity as I concentrated on the song–only the song.<\/p>\n
It coursed through my veins, chilling my blood until no day passed<\/p>\n
when I didn\u2019t feel a bit colder and very numb.<\/p>\n
As we swam from cold to warm to cold to warm and then to<\/p>\n
stormy seas and back again, my peers, the others of my age and<\/p>\n
birthing all seemed younger and different, yet paradoxically the<\/p>\n
same. I could sing of them and all their adventures but I never<\/p>\n
joined with them again.<\/p>\n
I watched and recorded the joys that occurred and also the<\/p>\n
anguish and heartache. A worse fate was that I was forced to watch,<\/p>\n
remember, and sing of Cacophony\u2019s railings and of his discordant<\/p>\n
belches of life. To me, his very presence soiled the waters, made<\/p>\n
them unlivable. Listening to him sing was like listening to a rock<\/p>\n
sing to the sand, but as was my mission, I did as I was charged to<\/p>\n
do and recorded, making all a part of the song.<\/p>\n
Cacophony did not swim alone. Slowly, as the tides<\/p>\n
changed, some of the younger whales began to follow his strength<\/p>\n
despite whether right or wrong. One of these was a whale called<\/p>\n
Metronome, who never could decide whether he was whale or jel-<\/p>\n
lyfish. To him life was a game of make-believe. What he never<\/p>\n
pretended, though, was deep and undying love for Cacophony\u2019s<\/p>\n
strength. He drank of it, and slowly he lost his own personality,<\/p>\n
becoming a shadow to the hulk of the disgruntled whale.<\/p>\n
Cacophony used Metronome as a game piece, an object of<\/p>\n
interference when needed. When Cacophony was caught in his net<\/p>\n
of lies and cowardice, he would simply say, \u201cMetronome did it!\u201d and<\/p>\n
this simple fish brain accepted these accusations from this blocker of<\/p>\n
light, as a compliment and acceptance. His moony eyes would widen<\/p>\n
in pride whenever Cacophony called his name–for whatever reason.<\/p>\n
It was at this time that all the younger whales passed from<\/p>\n
the warm waters of youth to the colder chill of adulthood becoming<\/p>\n
fully vested members of the pod. They were now thought of as adult.<\/p>\n
This fact was strange to watch and record as a part of the song<\/p>\n
because I knew them so well. Like the blinded, lustful salmon that<\/p>\n
rushed from the sea to the clear-waters for procreation, the young of<\/p>\n
the pod, those born with me and some much later, blindly ignored<\/p>\n
the beauty of the light that danced on the waters. They missed<\/p>\n
much because of their eagerness to dive to the deep where they<\/p>\n
would be called adult, take a mate, bear young, grow old and die.<\/p>\n
They taught themselves to squint in the sun and limit their<\/p>\n
vision, and in this act somehow came the wonderfulness of adult-<\/p>\n
hood, but much was missed. As they rushed with the current of<\/p>\n
time, their dreams began to die and with that death so went the<\/p>\n
laughter of innocence. With the death of the dreams came the<\/p>\n
inability to hear clearly the Song of the Sea and the great variety of<\/p>\n
melodies that lay within.<\/p>\n
Even I was attracted to the deep and I teased myself with its<\/p>\n
feeling of strength and pressure. Though I often thought of taking<\/p>\n
a mate and could feel my blood warm to life\u2019s current, the responsi-<\/p>\n
bilities of my life as the Scribe brought me back to my senses. To<\/p>\n
watch objectively from a distance was almost to freeze time in place,<\/p>\n
though I never forgot how to dream. But all the perfection of my<\/p>\n
dreams were nearly shattered one day as I recorded a bit of song<\/p>\n
that was sung very off-key.<\/p>\n
Cacophony had already taken a mate, a silly cow by the<\/p>\n
name of Percussion. Her name was appropriate, for her singing was<\/p>\n
as the beating of a weed on a water-soaked log. She was in the<\/p>\n
constant want of Cacophony, a fact he both relished and ignored.<\/p>\n
As Percussion now ploughed through the waters, great with<\/p>\n
the calf that grew inside, Cacophony\u2019s eye wandered to other mate-<\/p>\n
less whales. One of these was my friend, Melody, who always sang<\/p>\n
to me dear gentle tunes of laughter breaking like frothing waves on<\/p>\n
the sea. She often sang of the moonlight dancing on the waters<\/p>\n
and, of her, I would drink deep and remember forever. Cacophony<\/p>\n
wanted her as much for her song, as for the fact that she sang to me.<\/p>\n
Then, one bright silverside night, Cacophony and his shad-<\/p>\n
owy, off-beat friend, Metronome, cornered Melody in a smooth-wa-<\/p>\n
tered cove close to shore. \u201cWell, well, well,\u201d crowed Cacophony in<\/p>\n
his discordant rumbling tone, \u201clook what we have here a delectable<\/p>\n
bit of fish, sweet and tightly meated. Melody, let\u2019s you and I join<\/p>\n
together as one to taste those saltless waters!\u201d<\/p>\n
Unfortunately, Melody swam away from the open waters,<\/p>\n
deeper into the cove. As she sought escape from eminent disaster,<\/p>\n
she taunted him to gain time, \u201cOh, but Cacophony you have sung<\/p>\n
the song that only can be sung to one, to Percussion who bears<\/p>\n
your young. Are you to violate all the laws and mate with two or<\/p>\n
three? For, if this is true, then why not mate with your shadow,<\/p>\n
Metronome? Though he be male, it is sung that he can sing a two-<\/p>\n
part harmony.\u201d With that, she quickly dove deep, attempting to dive<\/p>\n
beneath Cacophony and escape the trap of the cove. But the bull<\/p>\n
was fast, and with mighty kicks of his flukes, he dove and blocked<\/p>\n
her escape.<\/p>\n
Cacophony\u2019s eyes flashed wild, sparked with anger like<\/p>\n
clashing rocks on a wind-torn shore. \u201cDon\u2019t fool with me, Melo-<\/p>\n
dy. The pod knows that you yearn to mate with Harmony, the great<\/p>\n
white, but we all know that he is made impotent by the song that he<\/p>\n
must carry. Come to me and let\u2019s give the pale-one something to<\/p>\n
sing about.\u201d<\/p>\n
Melody turned to retreat back into the cove, but her way was<\/p>\n
now blocked by the bull-cow, Metronome, who had quietly slipped<\/p>\n
in behind her. \u201cAre you going somewhere, my gentle squid?\u201d he<\/p>\n
called. \u201cMy master wishes you to stay. Maybe I, too, will be allowed<\/p>\n
to share in the sweetness of you when Cacophony has had his fill.\u201d<\/p>\n
Panicked, she began to swim in ever-tighter circles as the<\/p>\n
two drew their hunt net tighter and tighter closed. The great bull,<\/p>\n
Cacophony, bellowed a rambling challenge into the sea. \u201cHarmony,<\/p>\n
great white, where are you? Where is the Scribe when you need<\/p>\n
him to record an important passage in the song? Harmony, come<\/p>\n
record this song as I mate with this sweet-meated tuna. For I am<\/p>\n
Cacophony! I am destined by the blood that boils in my loins to<\/p>\n
father my own pod.\u201d<\/p>\n
As was my responsibility, I floated nearby shaking near the<\/p>\n
breakers of this coral cove and listened to the song as it was poorly<\/p>\n
sung. The song pounded at my heart, and none too soon I could<\/p>\n
listen no more. Filled with the haunting melodies of Adagio and<\/p>\n
Tympani as they had died from the result of this putrid bit of life, I<\/p>\n
charged. Borne by the strength of a wave at my back, I smashed<\/p>\n
into Cacophony\u2019s side. Bubbles blew, and the sweet air that main-<\/p>\n
tains life was forced from the massive bull. He breached, gasped,<\/p>\n
and then dove back to the fight in the blinding anger that was his<\/p>\n
special kind.<\/p>\n
\u201cAhh, the Scribe has feelings yet,\u201d he rumbled gleefully.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow dare you to attack the greatest whale ever! Come fight me,<\/p>\n
Scribe. With your imminent death I am yet to have the Song of the<\/p>\n
Sea by default alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
Anger replaced all reason and rule. I was no longer the<\/p>\n
Scribe. As he dove, I twisted on my spine and, with all the strength<\/p>\n
I could muster, smashed my head into his side as he overshot his<\/p>\n
mark. Stunned, he floated between sunlight and the waters deep. I<\/p>\n
attacked again and again, smashing into his side with all the pas-<\/p>\n
sion that boiled in my soul, remembering all those that had been<\/p>\n
injured by this cowardly bully. How many times I do not remember.<\/p>\n
I could hear and see nothing but the death of this whale. I ham-<\/p>\n
mered and slashed, and for the first time in my life, I wouldn\u2019t sing<\/p>\n
the song.<\/p>\n
I backed Cacophony to the shore and prepared to end<\/p>\n
his life, once and for all. But a whale blocked my way. At first, I<\/p>\n
thought it was Metronome and I was well-prepared to kill him also,<\/p>\n
to rid the water of all disease. Before I could do any harm logic<\/p>\n
overcame passion and in the far distance I could hear Metronome<\/p>\n
keening a song of fear and loathing far out to sea. I stopped my<\/p>\n
charge and looked. The whale before me was older than old. His<\/p>\n
skin was dulled by many tides and hung slack like waters with-<\/p>\n
out waves. His soft voice was querulous, yet rang with authority.<\/p>\n
\u201cScribe, stop that which you do! Death as you wish it for Cacoph-<\/p>\n
ony, though he be deserving, must not happen at your whim! You<\/p>\n
must leave him be! You are now the wrongness in the sea. You<\/p>\n
have violated one of the oldest verses of the song. Listen and lis-<\/p>\n
ten well, you are Scribe, and Scribe is commanded by all that is holy<\/p>\n
never to interfere. Scribe is charged with standing away and record-<\/p>\n
ing all that is sung of the song. You are wrong in being involved!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho are you?\u201d I challenged, \u201cthat charges me with wrong-<\/p>\n
ness. Cacophony has soiled the seas in all the verses since the day<\/p>\n
he was calved. He has been the disharmony in all the melodies. He<\/p>\n
must die, and he must die now! Who are you, old whale, who stops<\/p>\n
that which must be?\u201d<\/p>\n
A silence pervaded the sea as the old whale lifted with a<\/p>\n
wave that attempted to wash all things to the shore. \u201cKnow you<\/p>\n
me not, Scribe? Has your anger wiped your memory clean? I am<\/p>\n
Philosophy, the elder of the pod, the dreamer of dreams since the<\/p>\n
very beginning of the song. Listen to that which you have been<\/p>\n
charged with . . . remembering. Remember me in song. Remember<\/p>\n
that which you have pledged to do. Then do what must be done.\u201d<\/p>\n
The Song of the Sea began to reel in my mind and heart as I<\/p>\n
listened to the old whale. Cacophony floated nearby, awaiting life or<\/p>\n
death but seemingly not caring which. I wished nothing more than<\/p>\n
to crush the life from him, but the song sang to me and, as before,<\/p>\n
I listened. The responsibility for which I was charged took prece-<\/p>\n
dence over all. Tides before, near the very deep, I had drunk the<\/p>\n
melody that Tympani had sung. In honor of the memory of the mel-<\/p>\n
ody that I carried in my very soul, I broke off the attack. Sullenly, I<\/p>\n
swam to the deep and reflected on my wrongness. I was to observe<\/p>\n
and not be involved; that was the song, and that was the only way it<\/p>\n
could be sung.<\/p>\n
I cleansed myself in those darkened waters. When I<\/p>\n
breached, Cacophony was gone, and the seas were quiet still. In<\/p>\n
the distance I could hear the pod moving stoically onward in the<\/p>\n
seas, the event forgotten, to be remembered only by the Scribe who<\/p>\n
was charged with all remembering — the Song.<\/p>\n
I sang the event of the fight over to myself again and again<\/p>\n
until the angry tune had become part and parcel of the song. Then,<\/p>\n
and only then, did I move to rejoin the pod.<\/p>\n
Times and tides passed. The song took on a gentle melody,<\/p>\n
as all <\/span>events became non-events and monotone. I allowed the memo-<\/p>\n ries of my journeys to fade like morning\u2019s mist. There were births and<\/p>\n deaths and tiny things that became simple notes in a complex song.<\/p>\n Percussion, the ill-fated mate of Cacophony, calved at a<\/p>\n time of storm, and the winds whipped the sea into a mighty froth.<\/p>\n She breached and dove, breached and dove, through the changing<\/p>\n of the tide, groaning and complaining of the child birthing within<\/p>\n her. Then, she began the spin of life. Round and round she spun<\/p>\n in tighter and tighter circles, until the momentum itself sent a slick<\/p>\n bundle of life spinning too, into the sea.<\/p>\n As long as I live and as long as I sing, I shall always pause<\/p>\n at the crescendo of birth. It is magic and power of the most perfect<\/p>\n kind. It is violent and possesses a demonic strength like a mighty<\/p>\n storm of clashing light. Following the storm always comes the calm,<\/p>\n which only heightens the amazement of the event that has just<\/p>\n past. Always, there is anguish as the child wishes for a separate<\/p>\n soul, as if the mother wished to hold on to that bond. The battle for<\/p>\n life is a battle of lives and from this singularity there comes two: the<\/span><\/p>\n child fresh and new and the mother forever changed by the event itself.<\/span><\/p>\n Percussion named her calf Progeny, but he was as unlike his<\/p>\n father as Cacophony was unlike his own father, Tympani. In time,<\/p>\n Progeny became my shadow, a shimmering dart that flowed in the<\/p>\n waters where I swam. As I recorded all that happened, he watched<\/p>\n and looked on in innocence and constantly asked, \u201cWhy?\u201d \u201cWhy\u201d<\/p>\n was his byword and the beginning to all that he spoke to me, \u201cWhy<\/p>\n do we sing?\u201d \u201cWhy do we swim?\u201d \u201cWhy do sandwalkers walk on<\/p>\n the sand?\u201d \u201cWhy do they want us dead?\u201d \u201cWhy can\u2019t they sing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy has my father forsaken me?\u201d<\/p>\n To most of these questions I could answer with simple song,<\/p>\n but to the final question I had no answer. I suppose I could have<\/p>\n sung some of the off-colored songs that Cacophony composed. I<\/p>\n suppose I could have sung of the death and destruction that he<\/p>\n caused, but I didn\u2019t, for to sing that verse would have been to alter<\/p>\n the song, and Philosophy had brought that message home hard.<\/p>\n There comes a tremendous responsibility with a shadow like<\/p>\n Progeny. Many, many times he wrapped himself in the coral kelp<\/p>\n that grew in great profusion on most of our journeys. He would<\/p>\n wait patiently for me to unwind him, then, once again, he would slip<\/p>\n into my wake and tag along. It was wrong to interfere even in these<\/p>\n small matters, but it was a small wrong. I dutifully recorded my sim-<\/p>\n ple rescues and continued on my way.<\/p>\n Because of the little calf, I did although violate the precept<\/p>\n of my vow one final time. One break of tide, as I moved away far<\/p>\n from the main pod to rest my ears from the onslaught of the song,<\/p>\n I breached as was my wont and Progeny followed, imitating in his<\/p>\n small way my bigger moves. To do a final cleansing of my soul, I<\/p>\n dove deep, and Progeny stayed above in the bright silvered light<\/p>\n warming himself against the now colder waters.<\/p>\n I swam deeper than I had in many hundreds of tides, and I<\/p>\n did not surface for a goodly time. In the deep, I reflected on the<\/p>\n song and allowed the harmonics to wash over me. The pressure,<\/p>\n though strong about me, left my spirit clean, and I felt again rejuve-<\/p>\n nated. So deep was my musing and delight in finding release from<\/p>\n the mundane that, as I slowly lifted from the bottom of the crystal<\/p>\n cold dark, I didn\u2019t recognize the simple prelude to fear and danger.<\/p>\n I was snapped from my fog of self-complacency as there<\/p>\n came from the surface a screaming . . . a tiny song of terror. With a<\/p>\n mighty thrust of my flukes, I climbed into the warmer waters of the<\/p>\n bright side. Above me, sitting still in the rocking waters, were shell-<\/p>\n sharks, and within the shells, as always, the sandwalkers.<\/p>\n The remembering happened of other times and other plac-<\/p>\n es, of dolphins caught in nets of kelp and their brutal beatings.<\/p>\n My blood ran through my veins and blocked all sense of logic, of<\/p>\n responsibility to the sacredness of the Scribe. I calmed myself,<\/p>\n humming bits of the song that would help me in this situation.<\/p>\n Silently, I eased to the waters\u2019 surface, and once again there<\/p>\n came the non-musical screams of fright, and this time I recognized<\/p>\n the singer of that song–Progeny. Twisting this way and that, I sud-<\/p>\n denly saw clearly what had transpired. For there, right before me,<\/span><\/p>\n was my little friend, trapped, rolled, and caught in a weaving of kelp-<\/p>\n like vine. With age comes a certain maturity, a detached ability to<\/p>\n slow before reacting. Carefully I dropped below the surface. I moved<\/p>\n closer to the shell-sharks and their passengers, the sandwalkers.<\/p>\n In other verses stored in the song were memories of the<\/p>\n sandwalkers, not simply killing whales, but literally stealing them<\/p>\n from the waters of life. Obviously, this was what was happening<\/p>\n here. The sandwalkers were rolling poor, dear Progeny in their<\/p>\n stronger-than-kelp and trying to lift him from the waters. My respon-<\/p>\n sibility was to stand off and record objectively all that happened to<\/p>\n the song, but this bit of verse was one I could not leave alone.<\/p>\n I breathed in those sweet, energy-instilling airs of above and<\/p>\n dove deep. Then with bends and kicks of my body and with all<\/p>\n muscles in play, I surged up through the sea. With all the power<\/p>\n in my body and soul, I rammed into the rocking shell-shark. I was<\/p>\n surprised that it lifted as easily as it did but not as surprised as<\/p>\n the sandwalkers who spilled into my domain. I charged again and<\/p>\n again, ramming all of the shell-sharks until they looked down with<\/p>\n large blank stares. With my teeth, I ripped and tore at the stronger-<\/p>\n than-kelp and finally, like a slippery eel, Progeny flashed by me in<\/p>\n fear and slid to the deep.<\/p>\n v engeance warmed my blood to boiling as I hummed the<\/p>\n roaring song of Adagio and remembered other scars of the sympho-<\/p>\n ny called the Song of the Sea. I breached high from the water and<\/p>\n came crashing down on the shell-sharks. Delightfully, I could feel<\/p>\n them splinter and break beneath me. Over and over, I breached and<\/p>\n broke until there was nothing left to break. Nothing save the sand-<\/p>\n walkers themselves. How insignificant they looked from beneath.<\/p>\n Pale flipping fins that thrashed and fought at the waters, instead of<\/p>\n working with them. I surfaced in their midst, prepared to wreck per-<\/p>\n sonal havoc and to take one or two with me to the deep for a long<\/p>\n discussion of the wrongs they had committed to those of my kind.<\/p>\n But as I prepared to sing of blood, I remembered the shell-<\/p>\n shark with the clouds of kelp and also the little yellow shell that<\/p>\n had saved me so long ago. I stopped and stared and looked into<\/p>\n the eyes and very soul of a sandwalker. In that momentary gaze,<\/p>\n I found bits and pieces of a song. Not our song, but a song just<\/p>\n the same. My study was broken by the distant drone of other shell-<\/p>\n sharks racing from somewhere in the distance. Knowing that Prog-<\/p>\n eny was safe and fearing for my own safety, I slipped back to the<\/p>\n waters to find my adopted little brother. As I swam away, I waved<\/p>\n one fin, a sign of disdain.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" 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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-1334","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-uncategorized","7":"entry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1334","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1334"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1334\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1335,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1334\/revisions\/1335"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1334"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1334"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stephencosgrove.com\/bookstore\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1334"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}