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?”