“It will come,” said the white otter at last. “It will come when you are stronger. Meanwhile,” he said, laying a paw on Teb’s arm, “you are safe here. And welcome.”
But he was not welcome by everyone, Teb knew that. And he would know it more certainly soon enough.
It was some time after the white otter left that Mitta came to sit with Teb again, her paws busy now weaving grasses into a thin cord, and he remembered her sitting quietly beside him many times when he woke, and always her paws were busy working at something, or playing with the necklace of stones she wore. He saw, when he began to have visitors, that all the otters except Thakkur wore such stones.
The visitors came two and three at a time to look at him and touch him with shy, thrusting paws, rearing and grinning with whiskered smiles and fishy breath, saying, “Hah, human boy,” and “Hah, you are better, human boy.” They would come dripping from the sea, their thick fur all spiky from being wet, and they would come in dry and sleek and groomed, silken and beautiful. But always their paws were busy as they visited with him, playing with the worry stones usually, as if an otter’s paws had not the ability to be still. Mitta sent one small cub out because it made too much fuss by jumping up onto Teb’s sleeping shelf to investigate his cast with busy fingers. “Get out into the day and play with your worry stones, and leave the poor boy alone.”
Otters touched his cheek with cold, damp paws. Young otters nuzzled up to him and brought him limp wildflowers, and in between visitors Teb lay looking at Thakkur’s strange collection of relics from the sea. When Charkky and Mikk came to sit with him, Charkky lifted down the treasures one at a time for him to examine. There were, besides the shells and bones, some rusted tools and odd bits of metal, a hinge, a spike, gold coins and pearls, and a box made of sea-darkened maple and carved with words across its top. He fingered the carved letters but could not make meaning of them.
“I thought all humans could read,” Charkky said.
“I don’t know,” Teb said, confused. “Only that I can’t read this.” He felt so empty, not to know anything about himself, not to know his name or how he had gotten to the marsh where Charkky and Mikk had found him. They told him about the battle, and about the making of the raft and their journey home, but he could not remember anything before that time. He had no idea what the battle was about, though all the otters agreed it had to do with the dark forces, and with a leader called Quazelzeg. He had no idea what he had been doing in that battle.
Strangely, he felt most at ease within himself in the evenings when he was alone in the cave with Thakkur, for the old white otter did not ask difficult questions, but instead told him the tales of the Ottra nation, fables of the sea and of magic creatures, stories that stirred some strange longing in him; as if he had heard such tales before, as if he valued them. Somehow such tales seemed a part of himself, though he had no notion how. Tales of the diving whales that would come to the surface with the sucker marks of giant squid on their black hides from deep-sea battles, tales of seabirds that could travel the entire length of the great sea without ever landing, and of the sea bat that swam deep down on wings as wide as the length of twenty otters. Tales of ghost lights deep in the sea made by the souls of drowned fishermen. Tales of drowned cities that once had stood on solid land; though it was not until much later that Thakkur explained how such a thing could be. Tales of the ghosts that were said to haunt such cities. And tales of the three-headed black hydrus that Thakkur said was so very different from the smaller land hydruses, fiercer, and foreign to this world, having entered Tirror from some other world. Though again, it was not until a later time that Thakkur would tell him how that entry was accomplished, or how deep was the sea hydrus’s evil.
When Teb began to feel stronger, he grew restless, hobbling around the cave, but the clay cast was fragile, and Mitta wouldn’t allow him to go very far out along the ledge. The cast was hot and itchy, too, and he longed to pull it off. Mitta said, “Not yet. I don’t know how long it will take to heal; I only know about otters’ legs. And yours was so very hurt. A few more weeks, and we will cut it off.” But he dreamed of being free of it, and of leaping into the cool sea, free and whole, to dive and float as the otters did, to roll and play their complicated sea games with them. Though Teb had no idea whether he could swim. He could not remember swimming.
He moved his sleeping place to a shelf beside the door, opposite Thakkur’s, where he could look directly down at the pounding waves and feel the sea spray on his face. And in the daytime he watched the otters fishing in the bright, rolling sea, their long sinuous bodies turning underwater, and he imagined how cool and silky the water must feel.
Then one morning early, Charkky and Mikk appeared at the cave door with a long, forked branch.
“It’s a crutch,” Charkky said, and hobbled a few steps to demonstrate. “We padded it with moss. See?”
Teb tried it, and it worked just fine. He hobbled around the cave, grinning.
“And Mitta says you are to come and live in her cave awhile,” said Mikk. “You are growing too restless. You can wander more on the inside of the island.”
He walked to Mitta’s cave on the new crutch, over the rocky rim of the island, flanked by Charkky and Mikk. They paused on the high rim, whipped by the sea wind, and Teb stared down at the inner island with surprise. “It’s hollow.” A bright green valley lay far down in the cupped center of Nightpool, rich with meadow, and with a little lake and a brilliant green marsh and, at the far side of the valley just below the rising black cliff, a long body of water that was an inner sea, moving and churning like the great sea. He could see a black tunnel at the south end through which the sea was flowing in. The inner cliffs, around the meadow, were lined with dwelling caves. “It’s all hidden, the whole valley. No one would ever know.”
Charkky and Mikk grinned at his appreciation.
Below them in the little lake, a dozen otter cubs were playing catch with a shell, tossing it far out, and diving and squealing. At Mitta’s cave, her own three cubs overwhelmed Teb with chittering and hugging, and the smallest climbed right up his good leg, to cling to his neck, tickling his throat with her whiskers.
So it was that Teb moved into Mitta’s cave, with a sleeping shelf by the door, where he could come and go as he liked. From here, with the help of the crutch, he could make his way down to the little valley and wander among the tall bright grasses beside the marsh, watching the water birds fly up and small snakes slip away from him, watching the otters at food gathering.
He missed Thakkur, though, and the long evenings of storytelling. He went back often, but it was not quite the same as listening to Thakkur’s tales curled up under the cover, ready for sleep. And there was no strong pounding of the sea in Mitta’s cave, only a faint echo accompanying the sleepy whimpers of the cubs. Teb began to put himself to sleep by trying out different stories about himself. Was he a fisherman’s son? A blacksmith’s helper? Where had the scars come from? No story he could imagine seemed to stir a memory, even that of a slave, though it would explain the scars. And then one morning, Mitta found the note.
She had laid his bloody tunic and ripped trousers away at the back of her cave and given him a moss wrap to wear. But one morning early the three tumbling cubs found the clothes and pulled them out and began a rough game with them until Mitta returned and snatched them away. As she straightened them, her busy paws found a piece of paper deep in the tunic pocket.
It was wrinkled and torn, and had been wet, so the writing was blurred. He stared at it and knew—he knew—but then it was gone, the knowledge gone. He tried to make out the words.
After a long time, Mitta said, “What does it tell you?”