“No!” cried Ekkthurian. “The council—”
“Yes,” Thakkur said. “This is a matter for all to decide and takes no special knowledge of the fishing waters, which is the council’s purpose.” Thakkur looked down over the brown velvet mass of otters. “Those who would send the boy away, please stand.”
Perhaps a dozen otters stood up, some of them sheepishly. One young otter looked around him and sat down again.
“Now those who would give him sanctuary.”
The velvet floor seethed, as all over the cave otters rose up. Then all heads turned to look at Teb. And when the council left the dais, a crowd of otters gathered around him, standing tall to touch and stroke him. Mikk and Charkky hugged him so hard, they nearly toppled him and had to pick up his fallen crutch. Then Mitta was there—hugging, too, and giving him a wet lick on the ear.
“And when you grow tired of my crowded cave, Tebriel, and the ruckus of the cubs, Thakkur has said you may have a cave of your own.”
So it was that, when at last he put his crutch aside and could walk the cliffs of Nightpool with only a small clay cast, Teb chose his own cave and moved into it. Though the moving was simple enough: his moss bed cover, his old bloodied tunic and trousers and boots, the note he had carried, and a clamshell for eating. He chose a cave down island from Thakkur’s, jutting high above the pounding waves and with salt spray coming in and the rising sun to wake him. It had seven shelves for his possessions and a single sleeping shelf. A cave for a bachelor otter, such as Mikk and Charkky shared, and at once it was home to him and seemed wonderful.
The year was coming on toward winter now, and turning cold, and Mitta found him a second moss blanket, for, as she pointed out, he had no fur to warm him. He cut and tied a breechcloth from his old, torn trousers and donned the tunic again. And as the winds turned chill, Mitta began to weave him a gull-feather blanket.
She sent all the young otters along the cliffs gathering feathers and moss, and Teb made a loom for her by tying four driftwood poles into a square and lacing it with grass rope, as she directed. The weaving began well, thick and soft, and Teb took Mitta’s place gathering oysters and clams so she could work on it.
He gathered cattail root and water herbs, too, from the freshwater lake, but he was growing very tired of raw food and longed for roast mutton and fresh-baked bread. He longed to be swimming, too, for the late fall turned hot suddenly, and even the small cast itched and made him hot all over. Though he did not know whether he could swim, and he thought it so strange that he could remember vividly roast mutton and good things to eat, yet could remember nothing of real importance about himself, who he was or where he belonged. He watched the otters fishing in the sea and playing, flying through the clear water, darting and twisting. He watched them floating, napping in the sea anchored in the rocking beds of kelp, watched the mothers carrying their cubs on their backs or rocking them on their stomachs, watched Mikk and Charkky’s scouting band of young otters go out to track the fish migrations, and he felt left out and alone.
There were three little bays at the north end of the island, and here in these sheltered places the seaweed was thick, and the periwinkles and little mud crabs grew. One bay had a shingle beach that he explored and tide pools to poke into. He watched the bright, small sea creatures that lived there, ruffled snails and anemones that looked like flowers, and he walked the rocky oyster beds that spread north from the island’s tip, exposed at low tide, and gathered the oysters, prying them up with a thick fragment of shell. But he was restless and longed to be out in the sea. He explored the island’s wave-tossed beaches with Charkky and Mikk, and they showed him, from the far north end of the oyster beds, a deep undersea trench that ran out from the mainland, dropping down across the undersea shelf toward the deeps. The otters preferred to stay in the shallower waters above the wide shelf, where the fish were plentiful and the larger creatures of the sea—the great eels and the giant squid and huge sharks—did not usually come. Teb could see the mark of the undersea trench, like a drowned river, on the land, too, where the high cliff broke into a ravine and spilled out a little stream. When the tide was in, the seaweed and mud flat were disturbed, and the little creatures that lived there moved about, drawing great flocks of gulls to dive and feed. And the highest tides splashed their waves into the northernmost caves of Nightpool, giving the occupants wet floors, which the otters seemed to find delightful.
He watched the otters humping through the sea in smooth shallow dives, then floating facedown so they could see the fish beneath the water. He watched them dive deep, to come up below a fish where it could not see them, to grab it from below, then surface. They would lie on their backs eating the squirming creatures with relish.
A larger bay opened toward the south end of the island, with a jutting arm of land to protect it, and it made a fine place to drive big schools of fish in toward land, the otters working together as men would herd horses, driving the fish nearly onto the shore, then grabbing as many as they could hold and stuffing them into large string bags. Teb was watching such a drive one morning when he turned to see Ekkthurian atop a jutting rock, watching him. He smiled at the thin, dark otter and tried to talk to him, but Ekkthurian scowled and turned away, and later Teb saw him with his two companions, talking angrily to Thakkur, just beside the great cave.
He came on them suddenly and heard Ekkthurian saying, “He is leading the young otters in unnatural ways, Charkky and Mikk spend too much time with him, and the small cubs are beginning to look up to him and to repeat things he says, such as that cooked food tastes delicious, that a steel knife would pry up oysters better than a shell does. They are otters, not humans, and they must not forget it. The boy is not a good influence.”
Teb slipped away, not wanting to hear more, and stayed off by himself for the rest of the day. But that night, as he sat at supper with Mitta and her cubs, she said, “You are sad, Tebriel.”
“No, not really.”
“You will remember one day who you are and where you came from,” she said. “And you will have the cast off soon.”
“I know.”
“Meantime, though, it’s hard to be patient.”
“Yes.” He didn’t tell her what really bothered him. It is an ugly feeling to know you are not wanted, even by only a few.
“Have you tried again to read the small paper you carried?”
“Yes. It seems it ought to come right, that if I looked at it just the right way, I could read it. But I never can.”
“There is some writing in the great cave. Could that help?”
“Where?”
“On the walls among the pictures. A few marks, all together in one place, just to the left of the entry.” She saw his excitement and grinned. “Go, then. Go and look.”
He went slowly over the rim of the island, impatient at his clumsiness in the cast, then stood at last in the great cave, alone. It was dim now in the fading light. He approached the dais and stood looking at the sacred clamshell, remembering the only prophecy that Thakkur had been able to bring forth about him, that somehow he was linked to the fate of Tirror and so, too, to the fate of Nightpool. But how? What could such a prophecy mean? At last he turned away.
The words were all together as Mitta had said, one beneath each animal leader, fox and otter and wolf, owl and great cat. Teb studied each word and knew that the separate letters made the sounds of the animals’ names. He had a vague memory of someone showing him how this could be, someone saying the sounds of the letters, but he could not dredge up who, or where that had happened.
He stayed in the cave a long time, fitting sounds to letters the way he thought they should be. There was no word for badger or unicorn, or for the dragon. He stood looking up at the dragon with a terrible yearning that left him puzzled and excited.
He returned to his cave to unfold the paper, to try again to read.
It was a long message. He sounded out some of the letters, and tried to make words, but it wasn’
t much help. He thought one word might be “of” and the one before it “care.” He could not guess at the rest, could make no sense of the carefully penned, faded lines. He put it away again, under a round rock on the shelf, and stood idly watching a band of otters floating on their backs in the green swells, cracking sea urchins open with their worry stones and eating them, tossing the shells into the waves. And it was as he stood there that something strange began to happen in his thoughts, that a song began to form, clear and rhythmic, speaking of the sea and the otters, a song that made itself. When it was finished, he remembered every word.
A verse came about Mitta, and about Charkky and Mikk, about Thakkur, until as he sat in his cave door musing, dozens of verses were formed, painting clearly the life around him, the joy and animal wildness of Nightpool, and each verse a little song in itself to cheer and entertain him. He knew he would remember them all without effort, and he wondered how that could be, when he couldn’t remember anything at all about himself.
It was the day that Mitta cut the last cast from his leg with a sharpened shell, and massaged his leg and pronounced it mended, that she said, “I think you must begin to cook your meals, Tebriel. You are not looking well, and you are eating less and less.”
He stared at Mitta. Cooked food would taste wonderful. “But cook how? There’s no way to make fire, Mitta. You need flint.”
Mitta glanced at the tumbling cubs, then sent them out to play. When they were gone, she said quietly, “You must steal what you need to make fire.”
He stared at her. “Steal it where? And what would Thakkur say?”
“Thakkur agrees with me. You are too thin and pale. Maybe raw food does not agree with you.” She touched Teb’s hand with a gentle paw. “Charkky and Mikk will go with you; they will like another ramble before winter. You will take the raft. You can steal what you need from the place of battle where they found you. Steal it from the dead.”
Teb sat quiet for some time. Mitta turned to her weaving, working feathers in with moss. Already the blanket was a fourth finished. She said nothing until Teb said suddenly, “You think if I go there, I’ll remember. Who I am, and what happened to me there.”
She looked at him evenly, a wild, steady look, the kind of look a hunting otter fixes on its prey.
“Perhaps, Tebriel. Do you think it is worth trying?”
It was later that he wondered uneasily if he was afraid to go back there, afraid of remembering. But that was silly. They would go there to the coast of
Baylentha, and he would find, somewhere among the bodies, which by now must be nothing but skeletons, the small striking flint he would need to make fire, and maybe a pan to cook in, maybe a good knife dropped and forgotten. And maybe he would find himself, maybe he would meet Tebriel there and know him and know all that had happened in his life.
Chapter 11
“Hah,” said Charkky, “it’s barely light. I’ll just nip down for a flounder, on our way.”
“You keep pushing the raft,” said Mikk. “I’ll get the flounder.” He dove so suddenly he seemed to disappear, and was back in no time with a fine silvery flat fish with both its eyes on one side of its head. He bit it in half and gave the tail half to Charkky; then both otters swam along pushing the raft, each holding the great piece of fish in his mouth, chewing away. Teb watched them for a moment, then turned his attention to the gray heaving sea and the first hint of sunrise in the east where the sea met the sky. He had breakfasted on cattail root and a plant that Mitta called water lettuce, and he thought with longing of cooked food, porridge and mutton and berry pies and ham. Though he could not imagine the food in any setting, not a room, or even catch the vision of a cookfire. He knew what a flint striker would look like, though, and he hoped there would be a flint somewhere on the battleground. He had turned to watching the high cliff that marked the edge of the mainland when the raft gained speed suddenly, and four more otters popped up with dripping whiskers to stare at him as they pushed. Jukka and Hokki and Litta, three bright young females, and Kkelpin, a black scar on his shoulder showing beneath the foaming water. The raft moved so fast now Teb felt he was almost flying, and a song made itself in his head as they sped along, about the six otters and the sea and the tall black cliffs and the gulls.
“What are you grinning about?” Charkky said, poking his head up over the edge of the raft. “What are you thinking, Tebriel?”
“That I’m going as fast as king of the ocean now, and you’re six fine steeds pulling me.”
He got a face full of water for that, and he managed to push Charkky under, but only because Charkky let him. By midmorning the sun had burned the clouds away and the day was hot, and Teb watched the swimming otters with envy, and let his feet trail over, until he realized it made a drag on the raft.
“Come in,” shouted Charkky, popping up in a distant wave. They were taking turns now, pushing.
“Hah,” said Mikk, leaping up onto the raft. “Have a swim, Tebriel.”
“I don’t know if I can swim. I don’t remember . . .”
“We’ll help you. It’s simple.”
“Simple for you, maybe.” He was so hot and itchy, and the water was so cool. He knelt, watching the swells and wondering if he would sink. But how could he sink with six otters crowded around ready to pull him out? If he couldn’t swim, though, he would look like a fool.
But then at last he could stand it no longer, and he slipped in and let the cool water take him, easy, buoying him—and he was floating.
“If you can float,” said Charkky, “you can swim.”
Jukka looked skeptical, her dark face close to Teb’s, as if she meant to save him.
He tried wriggling as the otters did, but he went under, and when he came up they were all laughing at him.
“You’re not an otter,” Charkky said. “I don’t think . . .”
“You’ve no tail for wriggling and thrusting,” Jukka said, huffing at him with an otterish giggle.
“Float again,” said Mikk. “Move your arms and legs; they’re all you have to move when you haven’t a tail.”
“He doesn’t even have webs between his toes,” said Litta, with a small female smirk. “How can he . . . ?”
“Just do it,” said Mikk, scowling at Litta.
“Don’t think about it,” said Kkelpin. “It will come easier if you just do what comes naturally.”
Teb lay flat on his face and felt the cool salty water soothe him, and soon he was stroking out, kicking. Then he was really swimming, as if his body had known all along. He kicked and reached in a long, easy crawl in the rolling ocean, surrounded by diving, laughing otters. He glanced back to see the raft coming along, pushed by one otter, then another. He hadn’t realized how much they had been slowing for him, bobbing and waiting and pacing him patiently; now he felt he was almost flying through the clear green sea.
Then at last, when the muscles of his hurt leg began to ache, he flipped back onto the raft, and again his steeds sent it speeding.
“You swim like a fish,” said Charkky. “Look ahead, we’re coming to the cave of the ghost.”
“What is that?” Teb could see a dark cleft dividing the cliff; then when they drew closer he could see it was a cave. A clattering rose suddenly, and an immense flock of birds burst out and went sweeping away over the sea, to wheel far out, screaming.
“Cormorants,” shouted Mikk.
“Is that the ghost?”
This made Charkky and Hokki laugh and dive.
“You won’t see the ghost,” Mikk said. “No one does; he lives on the white cliffs in the cave.” They were opposite the opening now, and Teb could see that the cave was huge. A damp, cold breath blew out of it, smelling of bird droppings, and the jagged stone inside was covered with droppings heavy and white as snow.
“It is said he comes out to make the storms of the sea,” said Jukka, shaking water over Teb. “That his birds stir the wind into storm, and he himself roils the sea and makes it heave and churn.”
Or, things he thought he had never known—but how could he tell?
He watched Charkky dive down to retrieve oysters from the undersea caves, then lie on his back shucking and eating them. He could not see the land above the cliffs—they were far too tall—but green grass hung over where some of the cliff had crumbled out from beneath the turf. And once, just beyond the cave of the ghost, he saw horses silhouetted against the sky, and that, too, made a yearning in him, so he could almost smell their sweet scent and feel them warm and silky beneath his hands.
Why did it all stay hidden? And what was the song that had come, so different from the others? Why did it make him lonely?
The sun was just overhead when they came to the Bay of Ottra and were surrounded at once by a mob of splashing, diving, huffing otters. He remembered the sea alive with them when he had come this way before, shaken with fever and pain, his leg like a shattered stone hung to his body, heavy and useless and hurting. He remembered being taken to the marsh and fed there among the tall, bright green grass in a bright green otter holt. He had not remembered all this before. But of course, Charkky and Mikk had told him how it was; he was only remembering their tale. He looked at the crowd of curious otters splashing and pushing close to the raft and listened to Mikk tell why they had come, and he felt very silly when they rolled over in the water laughing and barking because the little band was going to steal fire.
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