Worming her way through the rocks, Squeak had to proceed by feel. Her flippers kept scraping against the stone; there was not enough room to maneuver properly. A wave of claustrophobia came over her when she imagined getting stuck down here.
Moments later she found a nook beneath a slab of tilted stone and worked her way in tail-first. It was cramped, but visible only from the narrow passage she had swum down. Here she opened her mouth, willed her pounding heart to silence, and focused her whole body upon the act of listening.
Stray speech and sonar clicks found their way to her through the chattering current. She imagined her pursuers spreading out through the channel, echolocation beams prying among the rocks, hunting for her. So long as she made no sound, they would have to catch her directly in a beam in order to find her. Meanwhile, she listened. Echolocation pulses reverberated through the debris, bringing her faint jumbled images of broken stone. She ignored these and tried to use the sounds to track her pursuers' movements. She thought she could hear three distinct sources, some closer than others.
"I don't understand why we're bothering," came a voice. Through some trick of resonance, it sounded like it was coming from right beside her. "She's just going to die on her own out here anyway. Is she going to eat bottom lice and wavetails like a muck whale? The Songless will probably get her. She's blind! Helpless! Useless!"
The words barely stung at all. Squeak had been long used to being useless. Always riding her mother's wake like a nurseling, she could neither watch the herds nor tend to the calves. Some orcas specialized in monitoring local wildlife populations and others honed their sonar beams into surgical instruments, but not Squeak. She couldn't even play at stunning fish with echo pulses or engage in the roughhousing games that orcas enjoyed. But she had her mother, who never objected to the great burden that Squeak knew she must impose. She longed now for the comforting pulse of her mother's gills, her heartbeat. . . .
"What are you complaining for, Sideways?" said a second voice. This one came echoing through the jumble of rocks surrounding Squeak's hiding place, indicating its owner was close by. "This is fun. I'm tired of butting rostrums and nipping tails. I want to kill someone." Feast.
Squeak felt sick inside. She knew these males by reputation: third-generation offspring of the most powerful local matriarch, an ancient and fecund whale named Grabjaw. Orcas did not have leaders, but each family held a certain amount of prestige through a combination of force, persuasion, and utility.
"That's right, little fish, we're going to feed on you." The voice was even closer now. Little fish, tasty fish, crunchy fish, it sang.
"Shut it, Nipper." Only faint echoes reached her, but it sounded like this might be Hammerhead.
"I'm just trying to get her to piss herself again, lead us right to her." Laugh.
"Half-calf, why are you so selfish?" Hammerhead called out to her. "If you do not care for your pod, think of your mother. What kind of life can she have, with you trailing her wake every turn of the tide? Bad enough for her that you were born. Come out, and set her free."
No, that's not true, my mother loves me! Squeak screamed inside her head. She had never felt so helpless and wretched.
"This is stupid, I'm going home. Nipper can find a Songless whale to kill if he wants to." Sideways, on the other side of the channel and moving away.
"Fine. Just so long as you're the one who tells Grabjaw that the three of us couldn't catch a blind whale." Dare.
Nipper was getting closer and closer. Scattered echoes of his sonar beam were prying into her cubbyhole. If he didn't see her, soon her laboring heartbeat would give her away. She glimpsed an image of his jaws, caught in a reflection of his own beam.
Suddenly she knew what to do. With a kick of her tail, Squeak sprang from her hiding-place. Nipper was only a few whale-lengths away, his echolocation clicks scrambling the maze of stone with a cacophony of echoes. He stopped short, trying to ascertain her position amidst a swarm of reflected images. But his pulsing sonar signal told her exactly where he was.
Just as her mother had done, Squeak slammed the male with the full force of her charge. A satisfying meaty shock went through her rostrum as she thrust her opponent against the rock behind him. The metallic tang of blood filled the water.
Nipper didn't have time to make a sound, but that collision would have echoed through the channel. Squeak waved her head through the current to get her bearings and then plunged further down the channel. Her only hope was to get out of echolocation range before his brothers got a beam on her. She fled headlong, all the while bracing herself against the impact of an unseen boulder or knoll.
Strangely, the tail-biters seemed to be going in the opposite direction. She heard frantic communication clicks, too faint for her to discern words and growing fainter. From Nipper came no sound at all. That thought brought a mixture of fear, shame, and exultation.
Once out of the mouth of the channel Squeak turned right and hugged the side of the ridge. As the rush of combat faded, it was replaced by fatigue fringed with despair. What had she accomplished? She was no closer to her mother. She could no longer even be sure what direction her mother's call had come from. Why had she ceased calling? Hammerhead's cruel words echoed in her mind.
Back in her old pod she would have voiced her feelings in song. But with the Grabjaws still hunting for her, she dared not make a sound. Still, why not? There was a chance her mother would hear. She was tired of fleeing. Her song would bring either death or solace, and both were preferable to the way she felt now.
Her plaintive cry went out into the dark: Mother, the sea is vast and I long for the comfort of your wake.
She had repeated her song a couple of times and was about to begin another phrase when a reply came from not far off:
A calf calls with the voice of an adult. What is the meaning of this riddle?
That was no orca! That song, deeper than any orca could produce, could only have come from one of the Grandfathers. The Grandfathers were huge, krill-eating whales. They had their own feeding grounds and seldom consorted with orcas. But orcas sometimes sought their counsel-they were long-lived and singers of the Song, repository of all whale wisdom. Squeak had never met one, although she had listened to their voices all her life. Was it possible that this one could help her now? She was afraid to hope.
Grandfather, she sang into the sea, driven from my pod by punishing whales, homeless and motherless am I.
A singer such as you? What was your crime?
None but living. Echolocation eludes me; I am defective.
No reply came so she pleaded: Grandfather, what should I do?
Learn to eat krill.
Forgetting herself, Squeak cried artlessly: That is not helpful! I need to get back to my mother!
A whale swims forward, not backward. And even a defect can be perfect.
Such riddle-talk was typical of the Grandfathers. But Squeak was in no mood for it now. Can't you just give me a straight answer? she moaned.
Our song makes all whales one; to torture orcas is all we ask in return.
All right, she was going to have to play his game. Krill does not suit my palate. Is there nothing else I can do?
Some voices are silenced too soon; others never get the chance to find their song. Yours lies ahead of you, if you will hear it.