West of January

THE GREAT ONES SAW ME FIRST, AN EMACIATED WILD MAN, burnt almost black by the sun. My long hair was bleached white; my beard hung halfway down my chest. I was without bow or rod or clothes, and I must have been very close to death.

The great ones told the seafolk. Pebble and some of the other men came ashore, and I fled in terror into the rocks. The men went and fetched the women, and Sparkle came after me alone, bearing food and water. Sparkle always had courage.

I do not recall that meeting or how she calmed my wild-beast soul. I do not even remember the subsequent journey, when the women had coaxed me at last into their coracle—which I called a chariot, to their great amusement. I should certainly never have entered it or stayed in it, had I observed how it was powered.

They took me out to the grove and put me in a bower, a dim wickerwork nest, fragrant and bright with trailing blossom.

At first my only companion was ancient Behold, gnarled and scraggy, the first truly old person I had ever met. Her dangling dugs made me think of tent flaps, but she was a gentle nurse and a resolute protector against those who would have pestered me.

A few meals, a few sleeps, and I began to take notice of my surroundings—an egg-shaped green shade, more spacious than a tent and much higher. The walls and floor were spongy with sea moss. Next to the water vines, sea moss is the most useful of the many plants that colonize a sea-tree grove. There was no furniture, but the floor was more comfortable that any bed I had ever known, rocking as waves ran through beneath it. The walls blazed with blossom—chains and bells and sunbursts of pure color—soaring to meet a roof where blue sky sparkled through leaves. Had I died? Could this be the Paradise that the Heavenly Father promised?

The sea tree is a curious vegetable. Far below the water’s surface it trails a single long root—for balance and to act as anchor if the plant drifts into shallows. It also spreads a shallow canopy of floating tendrils that lock together with those of other trees to build a grove. Upward sprout a multitude of thin trunks, barely thicker than canes. Wherever two come into contact, their continuous shiftings rub off the bark and they grow together, merging into a solid joint. Left to itself, a copse of sea trees would soon become an impenetrable jungle, twice the height of a man. The seawomen cultivate passageways, weaving walls and floors, and forming a single communal dwelling of enormous extent. Basketwork becomes solid grid, the leaves keep out the sun, and the whole network flexes and squeaks as the waves run beneath it and through it. It is cool and secure and comfortable.

The grove creaked and rustled all the time, and over that steady melody I could hear voices, both near and far, in song and talk and laughter. Sometimes I heard voices raised, but never in argument or quarrel, only in conversation—it was usually easier just to shout through walls than to go visiting.

Eventually I sat up, shakily. At once a man’s deep bass voice burst out near at hand, and I flinched with a wail of alarm.

“Are better, then?” said a voice.

With another start, I saw that I was not alone. Toothless old Behold was sitting cross-legged at the far end of the bower, braiding leather.

“Some,” I said nervously.

She grinned at me, her face a restless seascape of wrinkles. “Feel strong now?”

“Oh, very strong!” I said. “Like a horse.” I was joking, but Behold misunderstood. Chuckling, she rolled up her work, tucked it under one arm, and crawled across the billowy floor to a hole not much larger than a tusker burrow. I watched her depart with some apprehension. Had I somehow insulted her?

Still weak, I lay down again and tried not to tremble when those male voices sounded too close. If I couldn’t eat or drink, I could always take another nap, I thought. Then the light was blocked, and my eyes snapped open again. A woman was kneeling over me. Like Behold, she wore only a pagne. She was much younger and very close, and I did not think of tent flaps. Cool fingers brushed my cheek.

“Says are feeling strong now?”

I gulped. “A little stronger.”

She smiled and lowered her lips to mine.

I turned out to be stronger than I had thought—strong enough to accept what was offered, at least. I also decided that my suspicions were correct. I must certainly have died.

When I awoke the next time, there was another woman altogether lying at my side, just as inspiringly desirable as the first. Much of my recovery is a blur in my mind, but food, sleep, and loving care of that magnitude work miracles on a man. The dream girls appeared and ministered to me and then vanished, to be replaced by others no less lovely. With the third, I was capable of asking her name. With the fifth, I began to make conversation.

While I was still dallying gently with the sixth, a man thrust his head through the doorway and leaned giant fists on the moss. His arms and shoulders were as massive as a herdmaster’s, but smooth instead of furry. His hair was tightly curled and his brown woolly beard encircled a huge toothy grin.

“Am Pebble!” he said.

I manage a timorous smile, clutching tight to my companion, whose name was Flashing and who seemed quite unconcerned at being discovered in such revealing intimacy.

“I’m Knobil.”

The newcomer grinned more widely yet and extended a hand that looked as large as a small saddle.

With my heart thumping madly, I released Flashing and crawled over to him. His hand swallowed mine whole and my wrist as well.

“Like sunfish, Knobil?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will have good surprise, then! Are feasting. Caught very big sunfish! Come!” He chuckled and disappeared.

Flashing was tying on her pagne, and I suddenly realized that I should do the same. I scrambled back together to get it, while congratulating myself on having actually shaken hands with a man. I had seen Violet do that, and my father.

The seafolk garments were much briefer than any I had known in my youth, merely a scrap of sealskin with two thongs attached, wrapped around and knotted. Flashing laughed. We were both kneeling on the moss; she reached out and grabbed my pagne, and for one inspiring moment I thought she wanted a rematch, but all she did was give it a twist around. “Tied on wrong side!” she explained, her eyes twinkling perceptively. The knot went on the left side, apparently.

Pebble was waiting for me in the corridor, and I was astonished to discover that he was no taller than me. He wore the same scanty pagne of golden sealskin, and above it he had the chest and shoulders of a herd-man, but from the waist down he was as slim and short as a trader. The seafolk, I was soon to discover, are all that shape—not truly large, but seeming so because of their enormous chests. I had already noticed the women.

“Come!” he said again and set off along the passage at a trot.

The floor was springy with moss, moving rhythmically as waves ran beneath it. I took two steps and pitched flat on my face. I scrambled up and repeated the process.

Chortling loudly, Pebble returned to help me. There was no sympathy in his grin, but there was no mockery, either. He just found my clumsiness very funny, and evidently he expected me to do the same. Flashing had either tarried behind or gone another way.

Steadied by Pebble’s giant hand, I staggered along the passage, feeling like a stupid child. The corridor twisted and branched until my head spun. The grove was not solid, though. From time to time we passed water-filled clearings. The small ones were dark and shaded; the large ones, sun-bright. The seafolk call them “doors.”

As we walked, Pebble was continually catching protruding springs and tucking them back into the wicker walls. He was probably not even aware he was doing it, but it is only thus that the sea trees can be kept from filling every cranny of the copse.

“Will like sunfish!” he proclaimed. “Is very hard to catch. Am best hunter in the tribe! Have big feast now.”

The thought of a big feast was unnerving. Already I regretted my rash decision to come. I knew so little about these folk! They seemed to be friendly, and I was deeply grateful, but I was now remembering Violet’s sternest warning—that with strangers one must always try to discover their mating habits as soon as possible, because sexual customs vary greatly. A mistake with those is the fastest road to trouble, he had said. I wondered what trouble I might have stumbled into already.

“Sir…”

Pebble’s teeth shone. “ ‘Sir’ me and feed you to fish!”

“Pebble, then?”

“Mmm?” Without breaking stride, he pulled a blossom from the wall and proceeded to eat it.

“Friend Pebble? This…making waves…with Flashing…”

“And Wave? And Sea Wind! Is good one, yes?” His twinkling eye said that my activities had been no secret. “And Silver? Mmmm!”

“It’s all right, then? No one minds? I don’t understand your customs, you see.”

“Is not customs, is just way of life.” He looked puzzled, chewing vigorously. He plucked another flower and handed it to me. “Eat that—is good. Did enjoy Flashing?”

“Very much!” I was sure that such open generosity did not fit any of Violet’s teachings—it also deeply offended my herdman sense of right and wrong, although that had not stopped me from accepting it. “What happens if…what happens if the woman becomes…if she learns she is going to bear a child?”

Pebble stopped dead and stared at me wide-eyed. “Have big feast for her! Are very happy! Love babies very much!”

“Oh!” I said warily. “That’s nice.”

I did not dare inquire what responsibilities that child’s father had, but in fact the answer would have been outside my wildest guesses—none at all. Unique among all the peoples of Vernier, the seafolk need never worry about food because they have the great ones to help them. Moreover, any adult would die of starvation before seeing a child go hungry. The whole tribe nurtured the children.

“Is my feasting place!” Pebble exclaimed proudly, leading me into one of the larger clearings. The central pool shone bright in the steep rays of the sun, while the broad shelf of soft green moss surrounding it was shaded by the overhang of the trees. Water and moss flexed together as the sea’s gentle swell ran through the glade. A fire crackled and steamed at the far side. Many people were already there, standing or lounging around on the platform—mostly women, but a few children of assorted ages. From the smallest to ancient Behold, who was tending the fire, every one of them showed the thick chest and shoulders of seafolk, and every one had woolly brown curls. At the sight of me, they fell silent in surprise.

I was paralyzed to be facing such a crowd, and yet at once I sensed that something was wrong. There were least four times as many women as men—that seemed perfectly natural to me—but few children. I had opened my mouth to ask about that, but fortunately I didn’t have a chance to hurt my hosts’ feelings.

For at that moment a roar of welcome filled the feasting place. I might have turned and fled, had Pebble not still been gripping my arm. Before I could even try, I was enveloped in a breaking surf of people, all riotously attempting to hug and kiss me—men, women, and children. The mossy shelf on which we stood could not bear the weight; it bent, and the giant ball of seafolk with its terrified herdman center tipped gently off into the water.

To everyone but me, this was hilariously funny and became even funnier when they realized that their visitor could not swim and had not returned to the surface. I was hauled up from the depths, set onto the moss, and thumped until I stopped coughing. The smaller kids were rolling in helpless mirth, and some of the adults openly weeping at such unexpected merriment. The inside of my nose hurt even more than my dignity, and my breathing was not helped by the number of people still trying kiss me.

But then a voice began calling for some consideration for the guest. It was not Pebble, though. As a herdman, I was shocked to discover that a woman was shouting orders and hauling people back to give me air. Much more surprising was that even the men were obeying her with good-humored grins.

Pebble beamed proudly. “Is wife, Sparkle.”

Violet had told me about wives. In cultures where marriage was practiced, he had said, a woman was allowed to choose the man who would own her, or at least she might protest if she did not approve of her father’s choice. Usually but not always, a man was limited to owning one wife and therefore might display dangerous jealousy.

Violet would likely have approved of Sparkle. I certainly did. She was older than Pebble, smallish and rather slender for the women of that tribe. Some races might have preferred wider hips in a woman, but the seafolk are a beautiful people, and although the seamen did not rate Sparkle as the loveliest, I considered her just perfect. She had a dignity and purpose that others did not, yet she lacked none of their childlike gaiety. Her face was round and happy, with dark eyes, brown curls, and a fascinating dimple that came and went unpredictably. Even if she did not curve as voluptuously as some, true beauty flows also from within, from a brightness of spirit, and none could match Sparkle in that.

She sat herself on one side of me and put an older man, Eyes, on the other, all our legs dangling in the water. Then she directed the flow of people so that I could meet the company one at a time. First the children climbed all over me, giggling, fingering my straight gold hair and my beard, gazing closely into my eyes as though they were peepholes to my soul, hugging, and kissing.

Behind them came the women. Their greetings were just as innocently intimate and exuberant as the children’s.

Then even the men, in their turn, enveloped me in tight embraces that I found strange and frightening. But I was delighted to discover that none of the men was larger than I. Either I had grown enormously in my time on the sands or I was not a midget, as I had always believed.

Pebble was now running around, greeting his guests and putting flowers in their hair. My hair was too straight to hold a blossom so he tucked one behind my ear, and the laughter started all over again.

More visitors entered the clearing from underwater, including a woman holding a tiny baby, who seemed undisturbed by the experience. There was more kissing and fondling. An elderly couple came in through one of the other doorways.

Behold’s fire sizzled and hissed upon a floating pad of moss. The seafolk made fires rarely—at least in that climate—and always put them on such a floating hearth. Probably the surrounding jungle was much too damp to burn, but it was their home and on this they took no chances.

The steamy odor of sunfish was making my mouth ache. Pebble came around with a basket full of tasty morsels, urging everyone to fill both hands. They were delicious, although I did not know what they were, but I was shocked speechless at the sight of a man serving food.

By then I had met everyone, and the hugging had ended. By then, too, the mossy shelf had sunk so that we were all sitting in the sea, with the warm swell rising to our waists.

I noticed that all the men tied their pagnes at the right, except one. His name was Sand, and he was a fuzz-faced adolescent, Pebble’s brother. Apparently Sand lived within a permanent cloud of girls, rarely having fewer than four clustered close around him. All of them, and almost all of the older women, tied their belts on the left hip, like Sand himself, and Flashing, and me. Having by now caught my breath, I asked Sparkle.

She half-turned to smile at me in disbelief. “Not know? Is sign of being married, Knobil. Am Pebble’s wife. Is my husband. Have our pagnes tied at right. Sand not married. Nor you.”

I nodded in understanding. “There were some girls who came… I mean, I dreamed that girls came to visit me…”

“Were making waves?”

I nodded uneasily.

Sparkle was well named. Her eyes gleamed brighter than anyone else’s and her laugh was pure sunshine. “Not wives, Knobil! Don’t dream of wives. Make waves with others—no waves for wives!”

“I promise,” I said. “It may not be an easy promise to keep, though.”

“Must be very strong!” she said warningly. Under the water, her hand was stroking my thigh. Sparkle had been the very first of those dream girls to come to my bed.

Pebble had slid into the sea and begun bringing the fire around the clearing. He was effortlessly treading water, with only his head above the surface. As he reached each guest, he would spear a slice of the sunfish on a big bone fork and hold it up, laughing and talking all the time. I would not have thought that forty or so people could have produced so much noise. Even the singing continued while they ate.

I accepted a slab of sunfish so large I had to hold it in both hands. I tore at it joyfully. Everyone else was doing the same.

“Herdmen have many wives?” Sparkle inquired innocently, so at some time in my illness I must have told them that I was a herdman.

One thing I had not learned from Violet was tact. “Not wives. A herdmaster owns his women.”

Sparkle wrinkled her gorgeous nose in disapproval.

“I… I don’t disapprove of wives!” I said hastily.

She choked on a mouthful of sunfish and sniggered.

“I mean…” I began and then lapsed into uneasy silence.

Pebble finished serving the sunfish and emerged onto the shelf with the rest of us to begin gorging, talking all the time like everyone else. Unwanted scraps went into the water and ominously vanished.

“Friend…?” Pebble said with his mouth full. “Knobil—is foolish name!”

“Why so?” I asked politely.

“Doesn’t mean anything!”

“It means me.”

Pebble pulled a face, wiping dribbles of fat from his beard with the back of a paddle-sized hand. “Need a song!”

The audience broke into cheers of agreement.

“What sort of song?” I asked.

When a child is born to the seafolk, I was told, the parents compose a song and sing it to the tribe and to the great ones, and that song is the child’s name, although usually only the first word is used. His song is almost the first word a child learns to say—or sing, rather.

I demanded some examples, and several youngsters eagerly sang their names for me. As a herder I had whiled away much of my youth in composing impromptu jingles—singing was about the only entertainment possible for children herding woollies—and I had always had a knack for inventing verses. I scratched my beard for a moment, then sang how the golden sand was warm and soft, but it mourned because the sea was brighter; then a lucky wave washed over it, and thereafter the sand was happy because it could also sparkle.

This faint effort earned tremendous applause, probably more because of the tune than the words—I had used a fine grassland melody that was obviously new to my audience. I had to repeat the performance several times, and from then on I was not Knobil, but Golden.

Pebble called for silence. “Being better makes us all glad!” he proclaimed. “Will now tell us his story. How did come to be on the beach, Golden?”

“I am a pilgrim,” I said. “I am on my way to Heaven.”

Cold disapproval fell over the clearing. Black glances were exchanged. There was no sound except chewing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked nervously. “You don’t approve of pilgrims?”

“Is waste of good man!” Sparkle said. “Need you here, Golden.” She had finished her meal and was now surreptitiously fondling my thigh again—the underside this time.

“Must stay!” Pebble agreed.

“I need to recover my health. I shall be very grateful if you let me stay until then, until I’ve recovered my strength.”

Sparkle pinched me.

The seafolk could not remain disapproving for long, and soon Pebble asked which way I needed to go. I mentioned the Great River and explained that I had only a vague idea of where it might be. There were many thoughtful glances around, and then everyone turned to the three old folk.

“Is long,” Behold said. “But going downstream. Help Golden with raft, maybe?”

Sparkle saw my surprise. “Remembers journey here,” she explained. “Before was born.”

“Before she was born?”

She laughed. “Me! Came from South Ocean.”

“Talk to great ones!” Pebble shouted, jumping to his feet.

“Time met them, anyway. Can hold breath, Golden? Will take you!”

I was not sure what was involved, but already I felt I could trust Pebble. Ever since Anubyl had beaten my mother, I had known that I was a despicable coward, yet I hoped to hide that fact from my hosts. I was overwhelmed by the hospitality of these kindly seafolk, and I would certainly lose their friendship if they learned the truth about me, so I rashly said that of course I could hold my breath. Pebble was in the water at once, waiting for me. I joined him, nervously supporting myself by clutching at the tangle of roots below the moss.

“Deep breaths!” he commanded. “More! Now hold my belt.”

I took hold of his pagne and was yanked under as he sounded—down into darkness and utter silence. It was the first complete darkness I had ever known. I could feel the water surging past and the power of his strokes below me. Tentatively I opened my eyes and saw nothing at all. Fortunately I did not panic—I just froze, too terrified even to struggle. Roots stroked along my back like hard fingers.

How long? I did not think I could hold my breath much longer.

Then we passed under another clearing. I saw a glimmer of light and vague shapes as our smaller or older companions surfaced for air, for the whole company had come along, but Pebble did not think to stop to let me breathe. He was hardly less at home underwater than on the surface, and any journey was a race to him. Now I was learning what those massive seaman chests were for. Although I was not exerting myself and he was swimming for two, I ran out of air long before he did, while the brightness of our destination was still far, far away.

That time I came very close to drowning. They laid me in the sunshine on the moss apron that bordered the grove, and they worked me like a bellows to empty my lungs of half the March Ocean. Pebble thought it was hilarious.

“Must teach you swimming, Golden,” he said, scratching the woolly beard around his grin. “And soon, think.”

By the time I had recovered enough to take part in events again, everyone who had been present at the feast had arrived. A wide moss platform fringed the outside of the copse, and despite many small sea trees sprouting in it, there was easily enough space for fifty or sixty people. I noticed with surprise that Sparkle was holding the baby I had seen earlier, and again the little mite had not objected to being submerged. More men and women were popping up out of the water, attracted by the noise and clambering up on to the spongy green beach. Other seafolk emerged from corridors and walked along to join us in the blinding sunshine. Pebble began making introductions, and I was hauled to my feet to be hugged and kissed by these newcomers. Soon we were ankle-deep again, and the wave crests ran past our knees. Again I noticed the strange scarcity of children.

I was between Pebble and Sparkle, with my back to the sea. Fortunately Sparkle had just handed the baby to another enthusiastic admirer. I had been embraced by Blossoms, a hugely fat man, jovial and grizzled, and was now being kissed by his wife, Cloudy, whose way of greeting a young man came perilously near to rape. An explosion of whistling and chirping close behind me made tear loose and whirl around.

I panicked. Cloudy and two others went over in a giant splash as I plunged screaming into the mob. Unable to run in the water, I overbalanced and went down myself, taking along two more people. I tried to rise and was struck by a returning wave, and was submerged again.

Arms gripped me tightly. I was blinded and spluttering and shaking with terror, but someone was holding me, clutching my head firmly against something soft, soothing and comforting me. Everyone else was bellowing with laughter and, I suppose, helping my victims to rise. I blinked my eyes clear and found myself sprawled on Sparkle’s lap. She was kneeling in the foam, clasping my head to her breast, and also yelling furiously. “Is not funny! Pebble! Eyes! Must not make fun of a guest…”

The mirth faded awkwardly away. I became aware that my face was positioned on Pebble’s wife in a way that he might not appreciate. My arms, by merest chance, were around her. I looked up, and our eyes met for a moment. Then I tried to struggle loose.

“Tell,” she said, not releasing me.

“I thought it was a tyrant…” I twisted my head around to take a better look at what had so alarmed me.

Of course, the great ones do not look at all like tyrants. They are fish-shaped, black above and white below, with a big triangular fin on their backs, with two paddle arms, and wide, flat tails. They are four or five times the length of a man, some of the males even larger. This one had surfaced by the edge of the platform, holding his head out of the water to discover why the humans were making so much noise. I had seen only the white underside, the eye, and the slightly gaping mouth, full of teeth, grinning ominously. The eye was close to the corner of that mouth and seemed tiny in the huge head, but it was larger than my hand. No, it did not look like a tyrant, but it was very near and unthinkably enormous. The head alone stood as high as a man.

I recoiled with a whimper, and Sparkle clutched me to her even more tightly. “Is Gorf,” she said gently. “Great one. Will not harm you.”

I had made a fool of myself yet again. Worse, I had exposed my timidity, my lack of manhood. No wonder they had all laughed at me—a pilgrim, and a coward? Yet I saw that Sparkle held some sort of authority over them, for again they had obeyed her commands. But a pilgrim should not need to be held like a frightened child, and I should not be in this close contact with a wife. Again I tried to pry free.

“Tell me, what is a tyrant?” Sparkle asked, seemingly unaware of the intimacy. Concern filled her dark eyes—her large, deep, so-beautiful eyes.

“It’s a people eater. Tyrants live in High Summer. But they don’t really look like…like Gorf.”

“Help you up?” Pebble reached down and helped, firmly. He was smiling, but perhaps not quite so widely as usual.

“I was startled,” I muttered as I regained my balance. “I’ve never met a great one before.” A weak excuse.

“But have met tyrant?” Sparkle asked, rising also.

I nodded, and then I stupidly jumped as Gorf piped his ear-shattering, high-pitched queries again. Pebble wheeled around and waded over to the edge of the platform, tugging me along behind him as if about to feed me into that tooth-lined chasm. I tried vainly to resist, until I discovered that Sparkle was coming also.

Pebble reached out to pat the monster. Gorf snorted and gently sounded, the vast head going forward and down, the great fin and back rising, slowly curving over to follow, then the tail for a moment darkening the sky. The crowd rose and fell unevenly as the grove surged.

“Will tell us about tyrant, Golden,” Sparkle said, “at next meal. Frighten all the children, and grownups also?”

“Must meet great ones,” Pebble insisted. “Stand here! Sing them your song, so know who you are. Then shall ask about Great River.” He took Sparkle away and left me to my fate.

So I found myself alone at the edge of the shelf while everyone else stood back, smiling broadly. My voice was not at its best as I first sang my name to the great ones. I was trying not to wonder if I had been put forward as a human sacrifice. Half a dozen great heads rose from the shiny sea to listen, remaining motionless while the beady eyes studied me carefully.

Then the closest of the great ones turned slightly and hurled a whole ocean of water, taking me completely by surprise and washing me over backward. I sat up to find the human audience howling with laughter, the great ones responding in ear-splitting whistles and deep boomings.

“Like you!” Pebble announced as he ran forward and once more pulled me to my feet. “Only do that for people are liking. Now again!”

I saw amusement in his eyes, and challenge. I set my teeth. The first group of great ones sank out of sight, and a dozen others replaced them. This time I kept my voice from quavering, and I was ready for the soaking, as three or four squirted at me.

There were about fifty of the great ones in attendance then, and I had to sing my song four times before I was allowed to rejoin the crowd at the edge of the trees. I wiped my eyes and wrung water from my hair.

Sparkle patted my arm. “All right?” she asked, her smile reassuring.

I nodded and smiled as best I could. Apparently great ones were harmless, but I was still quivering.

Pebble and young Sand and grizzled old Blossoms had now taken my place at the water’s edge; they were having an argument.

“Speak to the great ones,” Sparkle explained.

“They can do that? Really talk?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes works, sometimes not. Is difficult because don’t have real words. Also, often don’t want to talk—”

A head rose from the sea. It was Wheen, a female, Sparkle said. Apparently Pebble had won the argument, and it was to be done the way he wanted. He waved his hands to beat time. Then Blossoms began a string of deep booms, Sand made clicking notes in the midrange, and Pebble himself shrilled squeals in a painfully high falsetto. It was melody, not speech.

I could see fins and dark surges farther out, where other great ones flowed up to the surface to steal glimpses of the activity and blow plumes of spray.

The recital ended, Pebble rubbing his throat as if it hurt. Wheen snorted and responded with a roll of deep thunder beneath high clicking. The men tried again and were drenched for their pains. Wheen vanished, as if in contempt. Another great one—larger and closer—put his head up. It was Gorf again, Sparkle said.

The singers tried their harmony once more; Gorf’s reply was longer and more complicated. The audience began muttering querulously.

Sparkle was frowning. “Think says no river flowing out of this sea. Is one running in.”

Old Behold shouted from somewhere, “Flows out! Think not remember? Was long, hard, upstream.” A couple of the older folk agreed loudly.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “My angel did not say which way it ran.”

Pebble and Sand and Blossoms, intently conferring about their next message, were suddenly catapulted into the air as a great one jostled the platform beneath their feet. All three disappeared into the sea with ungainly splashes. The human audience yelled with laughter, and a few of the great ones raised their heads to make rude chattering noises. Then one of the largest of the males reared up with Pebble in his mouth. I cried out in horror.

“Is all right,” Sparkle insisted beside me. “Will not eat him.”

Up…up…rose the monster, only the upper half of Pebble visible. He was yelling and laughing and beating his fists on the huge snout. At the top of the leap, he was released with a motion halfway between tossing and spitting. He went spinning through the air, cartwheeling and still shouting. At the last moment he straightened and slid into the water without a splash. The great one balanced on his tail for a moment, then toppled backward to vanish in an explosion of spray. The sea-tree grove heaved and swayed.

Two more of the great beasts had emerged, bearing riders. Clutching the giant dorsal fins, Sand and Blossoms were being carried off into the distance in great bounding arcs, faster than a horse could gallop. I thought it must feel like riding a roo.

Then Pebble reappeared, this time upside down, head and arms and chest inside the great one’s mouth, legs kicking. Again he was lifted high and flipped even farther into the sky. Again he straightened before he hit the water. I was horrified by the dangers—if he fell badly he could break his back. It was a ridiculous game.

Then everyone was playing it. Men and women, youths and girls, all streamed off the platform to sport with the great ones, until only a few old folk and mothers with babies remained. The mossy shelf reemerged as the load decreased. I watched this mass insanity in rank disbelief. Any one of the great ones probably outweighed half of the seafolk, yet they were all mixed in there together in one mad watery roughhouse, sea and sky full of people and leaping sea monsters.

Then Pebble and another man were thrown skyward simultaneously, arching over a group of swimmers and narrowly missing each other. I shuddered and averted my eyes. An arm slid around me.

“Is foolish, yes?” said a tallish, young, close lady.

“Oh yes,” I agreed. “I’ve, ah—I didn’t catch your name?”

She moved even closer, smiling dazzling teeth and moist red lips. “Am Misty.”

“Am Raindrops,” said another voice, and another arm came around from the other side. Shorter and slightly plumper.

“Was first!” Misty said crossly. “Need rest now, Golden.”

I put my arms around both of them while I pondered. The mad romp was still proceeding with no sign of end or caution. Now that Misty had mentioned it, I realized that I was indeed staggering with fatigue.

“I do need rest,” I agreed.

“My bower!” Misty said.

Raindrops would likely have argued, but I spotted a kiss on her mouth before she could speak. “Yours next time,” I promised.

“Oh yes,” she said breathlessly, and I went off with my arm around Misty.

Apparently I had a real knack for making friends.

Later I came to know the great ones better, although I could never join in their play as enthusiastically as the seafolk did, and I never quite understood the relationship between them. Many other peoples train animals and use them, as my father rode his horses. Some beasts, like woollies, are used but never trained. But no other people claim to talk with their livestock, as the seafolk do.

The great ones were not confined or tethered. They seemed to gain little from their association with humans except grooming, for the seamen cleaned parasites from their hides. Yet in return they carried the seamen on their backs to hunt fish, they towed boats, they caught seals or retrieved them, and they indulged in those wild watery romps. Indeed, the great ones usually seemed to initiate the play, so I had to assume that they enjoyed the sport as much as the human participants. That raised a question that worried me greatly—who was master and who was pet?

In Heaven I discussed the great ones many times with Saint Kettle. He had been born a seaman and he looked it—a massive, jocular tub of a man, with a coronet of snowy curls around a bald pate. He was also wise and learned, and I pressed him often to tell me how well he thought the seafolk could truly converse with the great ones. He would never quite commit himself.

“Are they intelligent, then?” I asked him once.

“The great ones? Of course they’re intelligent!” Then he sighed and added quietly, “But I’m none too sure about seafolk.”

—2—

THE GROVE FLOATED IN THE MOUTH of a wide bay between two ranges of hills that ran down into the sea to become islands. At about the time I arrived, the trees rooted themselves to avoid being washed ashore. There was some discussion among the seafolk over this, for they felt happier when their home was mobile. They could have cut the longest roots and then asked the great ones to tow the grove back into deeper water, but nothing was decided, and soon there were too many tethers in place to bother with. It was a pleasant location, all agreed, with a good stream of fresh water nearby. The watervines were not quite adequate, and even seafolk like to wash off the salt sometimes.

As he had promised, Pebble taught me to swim, although almost any child was better at it than I ever became. Then he took me hunting and taught me that also, riding on the backs of the great ones.

The procedure was simple. The hunter took net or spear to the water’s edge and sang his name. Only rarely was there no quick response. It was also possible to sing the name of a particular great one, but he would not always come to such a summons, even if he was in the neighborhood. Usually Pebble rode Gorf. I was never sure whether Gorf was his favorite or he was Gorf’s—probably the latter, for I was adopted by a young male named Frith, who came to my voice more often than any of the others did. He was very patient with my beginner’s shortcomings, but I soon learned the clicking sound that represented laughter.

Eventually the great ones persuaded us that the river I sought lay not far off to the south, and it flowed into the ocean, not out of it as the old folk had expected. A raft or a boat was what I needed, everyone agreed. A raft was easier, so a raft it must be. Driftwood tree trunks were not uncommon, and I began gathering them, with Frith’s assistance, and laying them on the beach to dry out.

I learned to hunt, which was a male occupation, although some men did nothing more than trawl a net. With the great ones’ help, one man could easily have fed the whole tribe.

Pebble’s idea of hunting was nothing like that. The harder the chase, the better the taste, in his view. He even claimed to be fond of oysters, which contain nothing but bland slime. Collecting those was a terrifying business involving diving very deep while tied to rocks; therefore oysters were mostly a test of manhood. I hated diving for oysters. I hated being battered black and blue in a mad pursuit of sunfish, or crawling through underwater caves that might contain all sorts of stabbing, munching monsters.

Pebble seemed to be totally without fear. He must have known of my innate cowardice, but he never mentioned it. He would tell me in vivid detail what horror he had planned for me next, demonstrate how an expert like him could survive it, and then just grin, daring me to try. I’m sure my teeth were visibly chattering with terror many times, my knees knocking, but I would always try to bluff my way through somehow, and Pebble would then pretend to look impressed. It was very childish, really.

Worst of all, perhaps, were the snarks. A snark looks something like a marine woollie, padding madly around on the surface. It is indifferent eating, and it comes armed with deadly pincers and stinging tentacles by the hundred. Given the choice, I would not have gone into the same ocean as a snark, but whenever the great ones reported a snark in the neighborhood, Pebble would insist on organizing a snark hunt.

Spears go right though snarks without effect. The only way to catch one is to put a rope around it and tow it to shore. The only way to put a rope around a snark is to leap over it onboard a great one. And the only way to survive getting that close to a snark is to first run the monster to exhaustion. This needed every rider we could enlist. The great ones seemed to enjoy the romp also—why not? The stings did not affect them! Vigorous splashing alarmed the quarry, so the great ones drove it with their roo-like bounding gait, which was terrifying for a beginner who could not swim well. But I must admit, that snark hunt did have a certain exhilaration to it—a dozen or more great ones, all with riders, arching and leaping over the sea, herding the foaming patch of water where the snark thrashed around, plunging in close when it began to tire, seeing who would be the first to dare try the jump and place the rope. That man was the hero of the hunt, of course. Yes, it was insanity and the stings hurt like hell, but I admit I never turned down an invitation to hunt snark.

And all this I owed to Pebble. Endlessly joyful and willing, brave and gentle without limit, he was the first friend I had ever known. The very idea of friendship was alien to a herdman, and Pebble had to start by teaching me that. He never had a mean thought in his life, Pebble. He was my first friend and the best I would ever have. And in the end, I killed him.

Fortunately Violet had warned me that not everyone venerated the Father God of the herdfolk. The seafolk’s deity is the Sea Mother. She is generous and undemanding, asking little of her people. I learned her joyful hymns and tossed small offerings into the water as the seafolk did, and no thunderbolt came to roast my bones. Yet when I was out of earshot of the others, I sang to the Heavenly Father, also—though quietly—just to be sure.

Mathematics was not one of my greater talents, yet I could see that the tribe had fewer children than my father had sired with a mere four women. At first I wondered if the sea was prowled by some marine equivalent of roos, a predator that could carry off youngsters, but then I noticed the absence of pregnancies. The birthrate was at fault, therefore. I assumed that this was due to the fish diet. Certainly I often yearned for red meat.

Company I never had to yearn for. I had only to smile and I would be invited into a bower to rest. Seawomen had very energetic ideas of what resting involved. Even some of the knot-on-the-right wives were not above fluttering eyelashes in my direction. Having unlimited choice available elsewhere, I politely ignored such improper suggestions.

I had innumerable friends, both male and female; I had food and comfort without limit; I had the thrill of hunting and the satisfaction of mastering new skills. What more could a man want?

Well, Sparkle for one thing.

And Heaven for another.

How foolish is youth! In the midst of every comfort and satisfaction a man could possibly desire, my ambition to be an angel still niggled at me like an unreachable itch. I had promised Violet I would meet him in Heaven. I had promised myself! I was still young enough to believe I could make the world a better place, and my conscience scolded me for tarrying when I should be hurrying. Of course, I didn’t know it was my conscience speaking: I thought it was the Father God.

I was a welcome guest at all the feasting places, rewarding my host with the gift of my catch, when I had one, and with my herdfolk songs. The best melodies I knew were hymns that might have offended the Sea Mother, but my knack for inventing doggerel let me put new words to the old tunes. Young and old, the seafolk loved to laugh, and they liked nothing better than hearing some trivial incident of their commonplace lives turned into a satirical ballad, especially if the victim was known to be within earshot. Often the end of my song would be greeted with laughter and applause pouring in through the walls all around. Then I would have to repeat the song, again and again, until the whole tribe had memorized it and was chorusing in complex harmony. The victim usually sang along as heartily as any.

And eventually I would be lured away to a bower to rest.

I have never thought of myself as clever, yet I cannot imagine why I was so stupid as to miss what those young ladies really wanted. My enlightenment came suddenly, at a big feast.

Feasts were commonplace. A big feast was a special event, involving the whole tribe. No normal eating place could hold everyone at the same time, but the copse happened to have a large natural clearing in the middle that served very well, although it was an odd shape. A big feast was held in someone’s honor—and if there was no one who deserved honoring, an excuse could always be found to honor someone anyway. The first I attended had been dedicated to Surge, to celebrate a proposal of marriage from young Sand. All the other unwed maidens were looking very long-faced, for no other boys seemed about to start developing mustaches and related qualifications.

I had congratulated Sand when I heard the news, of course, and asked him jocularly what factors contributed to his decision. He had produced a leer astonishingly like his brother’s and whispered that Surge was going to bear his child—a fact that everyone but me would have already guessed. I just added more congratulations and complimented him on his taste, carefully not mentioning that I had enjoyed surging with Surge a couple of times myself.

Then we had a big feast honoring Wave, and then one for Misty. They were both widows—Misty’s husband Darkly had broken his neck romping with the great ones. That was why she had not wanted to stay and watch the roughhousing, that time she had snatched me away from Raindrops and led me off to rest. I had heard all about it later, while she wept all over my chest, in great need of more comforting.

Nobody had told me why Wave and Misty were being honored. Or Spiral, or Sea Wind, two other widows whose feasts followed. They were just great people, I was informed, and of course I agreed. Especially about Misty.

As least by this time I had managed to account for the missing men. They had not been sent out like herdmen loners, as I had at first suspected. With very few exceptions, they had been victims of accidents. Fin had drowned collecting oysters. Watery had been stung by a lilbugger, and Sing eaten by darts. Such news did nothing to encourage a novice swimmer and sea hunter. When I thought about all those deaths, I saw that a great many of them could have been prevented, had there been help at hand. Having much more wisdom than courage, I never went hunting alone; nor did I let my romps with Frith get out of hand.

And then—long, long overdue—I solved the mystery of the missing children. I was attending yet another big feast, and I was in a sulk. We had been hunting snark. Pebble had tried to jump it too soon, and he had been brutally stung. Pebble, in consequence, was not present. He was in no danger, everyone had assured me cheerfully. The oozing red welts that covered him and the screams he was not entirely able to suppress—they would pass. So Pebble had been left to suffer alone, writhing in lonely agony, and everyone else had gone off to the big feast, dragging me along also, insisting that Pebble did not need me.

I had assumed then that the big feast was going to be in my honor. I had made the next jump, very shortly after Pebble. That was an unheard-of display of recklessness for me—I must have given Frith the wrong signal in my excitement. But I had made the jump and I had not been stung, and so I could reasonably expect to be honored. Why else would I have been dragged bodily to the feast?

But the feast was to honor yet another widow, Thunder. I liked Thunder—we had made oceanfuls of waves together—yet I did not feel much like singing her praises. I was, perhaps, worried about poor Pebble. I was probably miffed because I thought I deserved the feast more than Thunder did. And I was certainly disturbed by Sparkle.

There I was, sitting on moss in the shade, leaning back against a wall of cane, chewing an insipid chunk of snark while Pebble’s wife snuggled closer and closer. Her shoulder was against my shoulder, her thigh against my thigh. She did this every chance she got. Lately her invitations had become quite blatant. Pebble was my best friend, my first friend—I was not going to bed his wife!

The problem was to stop her bedding me. There are limits beyond which a man’s self-control should not be tested.

Her authority over the others had not faded—no one else would come near me while Sparkle was flirting. She was my friend’s wife. Worst of all, though, I was already half-crazy with desire before she even started.

She had rescued me from the rocks, although I could recall little of that. She had been the first one to visit me in Beholds bower. That experience also was fuzzy in my mind, but it had been glorious therapy for me. I had recovered very rapidly after that. She had comforted me when I was frightened by the great ones. I wanted her desperately.

Crazy! So many gorgeous women available, and I was hankering most after one I must not take. Other wives did not affect me like that. Some of them dropped hints, but I found them easy to refuse. But Sparkle…she roused me like storms raise waves.

And she knew it, damn her!

She sighed. “Yes, Golden?”

“You should not be doing this to me.”

“Want to do much more to you.”

“It is not fair to Pebble.”

“Is sick! Cannot love poor Sparkle. Won’t know!”

“Sparkle! This is wrong! Why are behaving like this?”

“Am trying to get baby.”

I choked on a hunk of snark, and it was a moment before I was able to speak again. But by then I had located young father-to-be Sand putting on airs at the far side of the clearing. Surge was by his side. She bulged visibly now.

So did Wave. So did Misty. Almighty Father!

“That’s what this feast is for? Because Thunder thinks I’ve—because she’s expecting?”

“Thinks is expecting,” Sparkle said complacently, while the scratch of her fingernail on my backbone was shooting muscle spasms all the way to my toes.

That was why they had all insisted I come to the feast—typical seafolk humor! I was appalled. How stupid could a herdman be? Not one woman in the grove had been visibly pregnant when I had first come, and now there were… I started to count, and my mind was instantly boggled. No one was close enough to overhear, yet my voice shrank almost to a whisper. “But what’s going to happen if Surge’s baby-has blue eyes?”

Sparkle sniggered. “Is still Surge’s baby. Is still Sand’s baby.”

“Oh, is it? Is it really? And whose baby is Misty going to produce?”

“Darkly’s,” Sparkle said airily.

“But he was dead before I came. Long before!”

Sparkle raised delicate eyebrows almost up to her tight brown curls. “So?”

Patiently she explained that any baby born to a widow was naturally regarded as her late husband’s. Only if she remarried would the real father be recognized. So strongly did the seafolk accept that fiction that Sparkle had no doubt at all that Darkly would be the father of Misty’s baby. Blue eyes and gold hair would not change her mind if she did not wish to have it changed.

The seafolk doted on babies. They adored babies—and their womenfolk were not producing them; hence, the promiscuity that I both despised and enjoyed. Apparently every woman was willing to try every man in the hope that the right combination would work the magic.

And into this desperate but unspeakable situation blunders a virile young herdman, raised on a diet of red meat. Impact!

My explanation was all wrong, of course, but it was to take another angel to correct me.

Sparkle leaned crushing against me and gazed soulfully into my eyes. “Need help, Golden!”

“NO!” I insisted, while sweat trickled down my temples and my heart tried to smash itself to pieces on my ribs. “Pebble is my friend.”

“Wants a son very much, Golden.”

Big black eyes, had Sparkle—eyes to melt a man like butter in sunlight. “Then let him make it himself!” I scrambled to my feet and ran from her before my resolution rotted away completely.

I went straight to Sparkle’s bower, but I went alone. I stayed there, laying cool compresses on Pebble to case his pain. He was very grateful, but I suspected he had been surprised to see me.

The seafolk had been right, though—a couple of sleeps made Pebble as good as new, completely unrepentant. I knew he would be wise to take things easy, but very unlikely to, so I cornered him and begged his help for my raft.

I had a plentiful supply of wood gathered. The problem had been finding spare rope. Rope was made from vines or sealskin, and everyone in the grove had promised to braid me some. Nobody ever finished any, of course, except old Behold. From her, from odd corners, and with what I had made myself, I had enough to start.

So Pebble and I headed for the margin of the copse, each bearing a weighty bundle. I found a certain irony in thinking how glad he should be to help me leave, for I knew that Sparkle would wear down my resistance eventually—I burned whenever I thought of her. And I was determined to be gone before all those golden-haired babies started to appear. Surely the other men would tie my privates to a boulder and drop it in deep water?

And my ambition to be an angel? I could feel it seeping away. If I didn’t leave soon, I never would.

We loaded my supplies into one of the coracles. I sang for Frith, but Gorf came instead, having noticed Pebble. I tossed him the towing hoop and sat down quickly, knowing how fast a boat would leap forward when a great one began pulling.

It leapt, but seaward. I gestured toward the shore. We continued to plunge in the wrong direction, bouncing violently over the swell, with Pebble leaning back and grinning at my annoyance. I knew the procedure, though. I cast off the towing line and we came to a stop, rocking gently. In a moment Gorf tossed the hoop back at me and raised his head over us to gibber angrily.

So we began again. This time we raced twice around the grove at high speed, until I thought my teeth would be shaken from my head or the boat would fall apart. Once more I had to release the line. All this was typical of the great ones’ idea of fun, but at the third attempt Pebble held up my bale of rope so Gorf could see it. His curiosity aroused, Gorf then took us where we wanted to go.

We beached the boat and indulged ourselves by bathing in the creek, removing the salt that always encrusted us, luxuriously drinking our fill. Then we set out along the shore to my treasure of driftwood. We waded through the edge of the waves, for the dry sand would have roasted our feet. The sun’s reflected glare made my head swim. After the shady grove, the beach was a murderous white crucible and the wind as rough as rasp-shell.

Pebble scratched his woolly pate and studied my collection of tree trunks with a puzzled expression. They were arrayed like the rungs of a ladder, the latest addition already a few steps from the water and the earliest a long way off. “Why did move them so far, Golden?”

“I didn’t,” I said. “I think the wind must roll them. It usually blows shoreward, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps is why called ‘driftwood’?” he suggested seriously. “Keeps on drifting?”

I admitted I should have thought of that.

So, in our innocence, we decided that the wood itself must be at fault. Not having thought to bring any sort of foot covering, we could not reach it. Pebble yawned, stretched, and lay down in the lacy edges of the ripples. “Too hot! Need rest.”

Not surprised, I sat down beside him to survey the waves breaking and the great ones lolling offshore, spouting and watching what we were doing.

“Sorry are leaving,” Pebble said, his eyes closed against the glare of the sky. “Want you to stay.”

“I made myself a promise. My family all died, Pebble, because there weren’t enough angels. I promised myself I would get to Heaven so I could learn to help people.”

“Can have a new family. Lots of girls! Thump them all the way through moss! Make big, big waves! Make babies.”

“A man is more than just a baby-making machine!” I protested, in a surprising insight for a herdman.

“Are best hunter after me.” Of course he was joking, but I had never heard Pebble sound so close to serious before.

“If I wrapped out two pagnes around my feet,” I said hastily, “I could roll the logs. How many do you think I’ll need?”

Pebble sighed and sat up. “None.”

“What?”

For once there was no smile in that curly mat of beard. “Can ride great ones now, Golden. Suggested raft before that learning. If have to go against flow of river, much easier to carry you than pull raft!”

He nodded and for once looked quite solemn. “Want you to stay, Golden. Women all like you. Need you! Are not enough men.”

“The women like me,” I admitted. “How about the men?”

“Men like you!” His voice went softer. “Need you also, think.”

Startled, I glanced at him and then quickly away. Did he suspect what Sparkle had been proposing?

“I think I should leave,” I said, weakening.

“Sand will have child soon. Want son, Golden!”

I wanted to scream. I knew my face must be burning hotter than the blistering beach behind us. I racked my brain for something to say.

“Merry-son-of-Pebble!” Pebble said sadly. “Have song all ready.” And then he sang a little name song. It was as banal jingle as could be, but it brought tears to my eyes.

He knew about Sparkle’s invitations. He might even have suggested the idea to her, and in another moment he was going to suggest it to me.

“No!” I shouted. “To black hell with the raft, then! I’m not going to stay here and…and… Oh, damn!”

I jumped to my feet and ran into the surf. I dived through the first breaker and started to swim. Soon Frith surfaced below me, and my legs found his back. I headed for the grove.

I collected two water bottles, a spear, and a hat as fast as I could, but in one of the leafy corridors, Pebble blocked my path.

He spread his feet and put his hands on his hips. In that stance, Pebble was very wide. “Going to collect oysters!” he announced. Even in the dim green shadow, his smile would not have convinced a blind shark.

“Good!” I said, and my smile probably rang no truer than his. “Make sure someone goes with you, though!”

“Very good for manhood.”

Oysters had that reputation. “Maybe,” I said. “But it would be easier to save the shells and fill them with seawater. They’d taste just the same.”

Pebble regarded me sadly. Then he threw his arms around me and hugged me until my ribs creaked.

“Go in care of Great Mother, Golden.”

“And you,” I mumbled. “Give my love to everybody. Kiss all girls for me.”

He let me by, and I ran for the open sea.

I sang for Frith and he came at once. I mounted his back, singing the notes for far journey.

We headed south. Ironically I could also have gone west, for a ride across the whole width of the March Ocean might have been physically possible, although I never heard tell of anyone trying it. Had I done so and survived, then I should have found the west shore well watered at that time and the herdfolk reestablishing their way of life after the great dying. The future of Vernier might have been changed…but I went south.

I waited for Loneliness to find me and start his maniacal laughing and jeering, but he did not come. Perhaps Frith was keeping him away—or maybe he knew that I was not going far.

I felt Frith’s great body tense. Then he issued the brief squawk that meant he was going to submerge. Startled, I sucked in a quick breath and grabbed tight to his fin. Down we went into silent blueness, with me peering anxiously around, wondering what unexpected threat had provoked this. I saw nothing except the vague shapes of the two companions he had invited along, or who had perhaps chosen to come with us. I heard nothing, either—but the great ones did, for they can talk across great distances underwater.

Frith spun around so fast that I was very nearly torn loose. Then he surfaced and went surging back toward the grove at all the speed he dared expose me to, while his comrades bounded around us impatiently. They were singing.

Trying to tell me something.

I had very little skill at understanding the great ones, and this was a very strange song, a single line of melody instead of their usual complex harmonies. It was maddeningly familiar, and so simple a refrain must be a human message.

Then I knew it. It was a name, a human name, transposed into haunting minor keys.

I kicked Frith savagely for more speed. I gripped his fin with all my strength and wept into my shoulder from mingled fear and pain. My arms were almost wrenched from their sockets as he dragged me through the water, streaming behind him like trailing weed. I gasped for breath whenever I had the chance, but the lower he sank in the water, the faster he could travel. Once or twice he slowed slightly, rising so that I could settle onto his back again. It was a form of question: Can you take this? Each time I answered with harder kicks: More speed!

But human hands and shoulders have their limits, and I was being slowly drowned. My grip failed, and I was gone. Frith spun on his tail with a surge of power that seemed to churn the whole ocean; he took me in his mouth. It was neither comfortable nor dignified, but it was faster. Sitting on his tongue, with my legs jammed hard against his palate, I was forced steadily backward through the sea at a pace I had never experienced before. Buffeted by the torrent, crushed by the pressure. I needed all the strength in my ill-used shoulders just to hold my head up and force my chest away from his snout far enough to breathe. I could see nothing but Frith’s great fin and the white wake we were leaving behind us, and I felt every savage beat of his massive tail.

When he spat me out on the moss, I was so battered that Sand and Breakers had to lift me, and hold me up. I looked around the platform, and dread became stark reality. The seafolk in assembly were waiting only for me; Pebble’s body lay by the water’s edge.

“How?” I screamed, “What happened?”

He had gone to collect oysters, they said. No one would go with him, so he had gone alone, still weak from the snark stings.

He had told me, asked me. I could have done that for him, at least. I had refused to impregnate his wife for him, but I could have helped him gather oysters. One sleep s delay would not have hurt. I could have helped him gather oysters.

Quietly wailing a sad hymn to the Great Mother, the seafolk stood in head-hung dejection, loosely grouped by families, each composed of a hunter and those who usually ate at his feasting place. I stumbled through the wash to join Sparkle, for I belonged nowhere else. With her were Jewel and Sun, who had never been married and never would be, but who had been eating at Pebble’s feasting place lately.

The hymn ended and heads rose to watch the sea, speckled now with fins as the great ones surfaced. I had never seen so many nor known that the pod was so large. From time to time one would spout, but otherwise they just seemed to be floating, silent and still. I had seen funerals on the grasslands, when a boy was mauled by a dasher or a babe sickened, but I had never imagined anything like this.

Gorf rose silently from the depths, close by the grove, his great triangular fin like a chariot sail, and one shrewd cold eye watching us, barely above the water. A great one speaks through a spiracle on top of his head, just in front of the third eye. Now Gorf began to sing Pebble’s name. I had heard that often as a summons to come hunt or play, but now it was transformed, a wordless melody converted to a dirge. Gradually the other great ones joined in, harmonizing and embellishing, migrating through strange minor keys in a manner too complex for the human ear to follow, rising to triumph and joy without losing the basic theme or the underpinning of grief, mourning and yet celebrating, dying away at last through desolate fragments of sorrow and pain until only the song of the ocean itself remained.

Then Gorf drifted in right to the platform edge, and Pebble answered the call from the sea, his body across his steed’s wide back for his last journey.

We watched without a sound as Gorf moved slowly away toward the horizon, the rest of the pod closing in around him as escort. When fins and waves were barely distinguishable in the glare and tears, Sparkle began to sing, calling Pebble back again. One by one the rest of the tribe joined in, echoing the harmonies of the great one…but that call was not answered. Slowly the lament faded away into stillness and quiet weeping. Pebble had gone.

Why, when the gods created friendship, did they leave us mortal?

The funeral was over, yet I sensed that there was more to come. All eyes were turning in my direction, but it was the women beside me who were the source of interest. Widows and spinsters must eat somewhere, so now Sparkle and the other two must choose a feasting place. I knew what rights they would be granting in return…and only a married man could have a feasting place.

I had been moved to tears by the singing, like everyone else, but now my fury came howling back, my rage over an unnecessary death. I had killed him. I had accepted appointment as tribal stud, so I should have agreed to service his wife, and then he would not have gone looking for the stupid oysters. Or I could have postponed my departure and assisted him.

But any of those brainless, thoughtless seamen there could have gone with him, too. It was as much their fault as mine—more, in fact! Pebble would have asked them, or at least some of them. He might not have thought of danger, but he loved company. Eyes, Sand, Blossoms, Breakers…one by one I glared at the men, and each dropped his gaze before the silent accusation.

I glanced down at Sparkle, and her red-rimmed eyes were fixed on me.

“Stay now, Golden?” she whispered. “Need you.”

“Need babies, you mean.”

She flinched and then nodded. “And need wise hunter.”

I looked bitterly around the groups again. Young as I was, in a sense I was older than anyone there. Loneliness had done that for me—hunger and thirst and unending screaming loneliness. Not one of those seamen had ever endured anything like my long solitary wandering on the beaches. If they needed me it was not to father babies. They needed me to mother the adults. The seamen were killing themselves off through thoughtless stupidity. Even among the herdfolk, a boy never left camp alone—not even to visit the nearest miniroo warren. Why should I struggle all the way to Heaven in the hope of helping people, when here I had a whole tribe in desperate need of a little common sense and discipline? I could do more good here than in Heaven.

I turned back to Sparkle.

She was no longer off limits, and I began to shiver as my desire flamed up to white heat at the thought.

“Marry me!” I said.

She gasped and shook her head. “Would be wrong!”

“Why? Tell me why!” I stepped closer and gripped her arms.

She stared down at the water. “Must make babies for Pebble. If marry you, then make babies for you.” She looked up at me in despair, then she winced, and I realized I was squeezing too hard.

“Marry me anyway.”

“Marry Thunder?” she said. “Sun? Or Jewel? Can make waves with me, too, then, Golden! Promise.”

“No. I am a herdman—I will not share you.” I did not ask if she loved me. I don’t think the question ever entered my mind. I don’t think I even wondered if I loved her. I craved her fiercely, and I must have her for my own.

I could resist all the others, but for Sparkle I would give up even Heaven.

If she was merely one more of the widows, she would be free to leave my feasting place and transfer to another man’s. I wanted Sparkle more than anyone or anything else I could imagine, but she must be mine alone.

“I will marry you and no one else!” I said, hearing mutters of disapproval. A crowd was gathering around us as the unmarried women moved in. The platform sank lower.

“But Pebble?” Sparkle wailed.

“Pebble is dead. Say you will be my wife, or I am going—and going now!”

She glanced around the angry throng. The whole world seemed to stop, hanging breathless on her decision. But I knew. Only Sparkle among all of them would risk the tribe’s censure—that was why Sparkle was special to me. And suddenly a small smile of triumph escaped at the corner of that seductive mouth… She had known what I would say, had foreseen every word. She raised her chin in defiance and nodded agreement at me. “Will be my husband, Golden?”

Without a word I kissed her until I was giddy with arousal, then hustled her off to her bower to quench my lust. I did not even wait for all the good wishes and congratulations being showered on us. Cheers and wedding songs had broken out. Seafolk cannot mourn for long.

So I killed my best friend through selfishness. Before my tears were dry I stole his wife and her future children and thereby dishonored his memory. I betrayed my promise to Violet. I discarded forever my ambition to become an angel.

From then on my affairs with the other women were no longer merely mutual fun, they were deliberate baby-making.

I laid down rules for the hunters to reduce the dying. They smiled and obeyed—until the next time I wasn’t looking.

I might as well have tried to regiment the great ones.

I became a seaman.

Forgotten and unwanted, my collection of driftwood crawled away across the plain until it disappeared in the heat haze.