Nightpool

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  But he had gone only a few steps when loud splashing made him turn back to stare over the edge, and he saw the hydrus thrashing deep below the surface; white foam spewed up, its dark shadow lurched and twisted, and then the foam turned red.

  It lurched to the surface and black shadows moved below it; one immense head thrashed up out of the waves, then the second, bleeding below the left eye. The third head surfaced in a pool of foaming blood, its throat slashed open.

  The hydrus turned in its own blood, floundering. It moved out across the sea trailing red, and soon it was only a huge black shadow like the shadow of a fast-moving cloud.

  Teb stood staring long after it vanished and its blood had washed away in the sea. A huffing sigh made him turn, and there was Litta, erect on her hind legs, gazing at him with laughing brown eyes.

  In her paw she held the rusty knife. He grabbed her and hugged her, fishy breath and all.

  And when she led him to the cliff, there they all were, five brown heads bobbing, their whiskers dripping as they stared up at him with huge grins. Litta handed him the knife, then scurried down to them.

  Teb followed, and when at last he stood on the narrow beach the otters leaped out of the surf to push against him, laughing. Charkky stood up to touch his face. “Hah, Teb,” he said, grinning. “You escaped. You cut your chin, though.”

  “It’s almost stopped bleeding. I thought the hydrus ate you.”

  “And we hoped it didn’t eat you,” said Charkky.

  “But what happened?” Then Teb saw the leather pack, and the bundle of lilies beside it.

  “Kkelpin grabbed the pack as it was sinking,” Mikk said. “There are caves down there with air pockets. We laid the pack out and found the knives. We’ve never used knives, only sharp shells. The knives saved us. A hydrus doesn’t much like to be hurt, to be bleeding in the sea. Maybe the sharks will finish it off.”

  “And,” Jukka said, “the lilies got lodged on a crevice down below the underwater caves. The bow and arrows, though—”

  “It ate them,” interrupted Litta. “It grabbed them and crunched them down.”

  “Maybe it thought they were eels,” said Hokki, giggling.

  “Maybe it knew they were weapons,” Charkky said, “and didn’t want us to have them.”

  “Does it know that much?” Teb said. But of course the hydrus knew, more than Teb could guess, knew deep things that made him shiver. He looked out seaward, fear catching up with him now, then looked down the coast toward Nightpool. The island itself could not be seen for the jutting of the point at Jade Beach. The otters knew what he was thinking, that he didn’t want to get back in the water, was thinking of his legs dangling below the surface, where anything could grab them.

  “You can walk along the shore over the rocks,” Mikk said.

  “I will walk with you,” said Charkky. “We’ll have to take to the sea when we get beyond Jade Beach, or go over the point; the cliff falls away there steep and slick.”

  Teb tied the pack to his waist and shouldered the lilies, and they started out, Mikk galumphing ahead of him and the other five diving swiftly seaward deep down, then up and down along the surface, playing in the sea as if they had quite forgotten the hydrus.

  “How do they know it won’t come back?” Teb asked.

  “They don’t. But you can’t be afraid all the time. Your chin’s bleeding again; press some seaweed to it.”

  As they traveled, Teb tried to tell himself one of the songs that had come to him so strangely, yet he found he couldn’t. They were all gone suddenly, not one word would come back, though they had all been there before the hydrus. They were the only real memories he had. And they had seemed to him more than memories, too. They had seemed a powerful link to someone else and to what his future held. They had seemed to him a kind of talisman, a prediction, just as Thakkur’s visions were predictions. Now they were gone, the last thread with himself broken.

  He followed Charkky in silence, feeling lost and afraid. He hadn’t very much more to take away. Had the hydrus done this, reached him in the most private, safest place he had? They made their way up the cliff so they could cross the point at Jade Beach rather than going in the water. Just as they reached the cliff top, a wind and darkness swept out of the sky filled with the dusty smell of feathers, and a huge owl came swooping across the top of his head, giant wings beating at him. Teb ducked as the dark bird banked in front of him, staring into his face with fierce yellow eyes; its screaming cry stopped his heart as it hovered over him; an owl as big as an otter and seeming twice that with its wings spread. Its red beak opened cruelly.

  Then it laughed. A harsh, guttural laugh. It landed before him and folded its wings, and stared at him fierce as sin.

  Charkky stood ready to run, but Teb just stared, because something about an owl made him feel comfortable, even though this owl was far from comforting.

  Its stomach feathers were buff, but the rest of it was nearly black, mottled with flecks of rust. Its red beak was sharply curved, and its great ears extended to the sides of its head as if it were wearing a hat. Its voice was gravelly and hissing.

  “Have you seen the black monster in the sea? Hydrus! I am searching for the hydrus. Three heads. Faces like men. I have been tracking it for weeks.”

  “We’ve seen it,” Charkky said, cross from being frightened. ‘What have you to do with such a thing? Certainly you have no better manners than it has, swooping down on a person.”

  The owl grinned and bowed, which only made Charkky scowl harder. “I follow the hydrus to learn its ways. Where it is bound. It moves ahead of the armies of darkness. Quazelzeg is its master. It drowns men by swamping boats, and it loves only darkness.”

  “It attacked us,” Charkky said, studying the owl with curiosity. “We wounded it, and it went away deeper into the sea. Back there.” He pointed. “Just off the last point.”

  The owl snapped its wings open and crouched to leap skyward.

  “Wait,” Charkky cried. “You have something to tell of the hydrus. Thakkur will want to hear it.”

  “Can’t wait. I must follow. I will return if I can, but now I must follow. . . .” He leaped then, with one whish of air and then in silence as he rose on the sea wind, and Teb watched him grow smaller as he sped east toward the open sea.

  And inside Teb’s head the owl’s words echoed: “. . . it loves only darkness. . . . I must follow.” And it was as if those same words echoed in his own spirit and he, too, must, at some time near, follow the hydrus, follow darkness.

  Chapter 13

  It was spring before the owl returned. They did not see the hydrus again, though a watch was kept at all times from the high ridge above Thakkur’s cave. Winter settled in early and fierce, cutting the warm autumn away with sheets of blizzard-cold wind, and the seas grew huge and pounding, so all the otters, even Thakkur, moved out of the seaward caves into those overlooking the inner valley.

  Teb moved into Charkky and Mikk’s cave, bringing his new gull-feather blanket, to the envy of both otters. On the coldest nights they all three slept under it. He supposed he smelled as fishy now as the otters did, though he was still aware of their fishy breath at night. It was nice sleeping close to their warm, silky smoothness, and they were all three cozy and snug even on the stormiest nights. Both Charkky and Mikk had come to like cooked shellfish, and the three of them made their fires on the little beach below the south cliff where the waves rolled by at an angle. Hardly anyone came there. Twice a day they boiled up a succulent meal in the black iron pot. But it was here that Ekkthurian and Gorkk and Urikk appeared suddenly one evening from around the bend of the cliff, their black eyes flashing with fury and their teeth bared.

  “I thought I smelled a stench,” said Ekkthurian. “Fire! It is fire! A vile human habit. And what are you two doing, Charkky and Mikk? One might expect it of a human, but young otters do not play with fire.”

  “We are cooking supper,” said Mikk evenly. “Go away.”

 
Charkky stared at Mikk, amazed. It was not the custom to be rude to your elders. And then, taking heart from Mikk, Charkky showed his teeth to the sour old otter and gave him a low, angry growl.

  “Thakkur said we could cook here,” Teb said. “He said I could make a fire.”

  Ekkthurian scowled at the three of them and began to kick sand into the fire and the cookpot. Teb watched their meal ruined and did nothing. It was not his place, as an outsider, to defy Ekkthurian. He kept his anger in check with great effort, even when the thin otter turned on him with lips drawn back, his eyes slitted and his ears laid flat to his head. “Not only do you make fire, human boy, you bring other evil as well.”

  “What evil?” Teb stood his ground, daring Ekkthurian to bite him.

  “You have brought human weapons to Nightpool. Not only knives, but you assist the otters themselves in making a bow. It is against the ways of the animals to have such things.”

  All three stared. How did Ekkthurian know? Mikk had found a fine piece of oak washed onto the beach, and they had, indeed, been carving out a bow and fashioning shell tips for arrows, the two otters working carefully at this new skill and very pleased with themselves.

  “The bow isn’t hurting you; it might even help you someday,” Mikk said reasonably. “And the fires don’t hurt you, either. Why can’t you leave Teb alone?”

  “He does not belong here. No human belongs here. He has turned Thakkur’s mind. Thakkur had no business allowing him in Nightpool.”

  Teb stared at Ekkthurian, then turned away and emptied his cookpot onto the fire, drowning the flame and ruining their supper. Then he climbed the cliff beside Charkky and Mikk.

  They ate raw food that night. But the next day, at Thakkur’s direction, they built their fire right on the ledge below the cave and cooked their supper there before a ring of curious, arguing otters. And it was then that two factions began to grow, one fanned by Ekkthurian’s fury, the other angered by his interference, until all over the island, otters were arguing.

  Teb supposed Ekkthurian’s little group had a right to be critical if they wished. But did they have a right to try to turn others against him?

  “It will pass,” Mitta said. “Thakkur will deal with it.”

  But it doesn’t take many folk to make misery when they speak with hatred. Teb and Charkky and Mikk and the younger otters kept more and more to themselves, and this did not please Thakkur. He did not want the island divided. Then the owl returned, and for a while the quarrel was forgotten.

  With the coming of spring the colony had moved back into the caves on the outer rim, and though Teb missed Charkky and Mikk, it was nice to have solitude, too. The owl came swooping directly in from the sea one evening, dropping low along the cliff like a great black shadow, to darken the cliffside doorways and startle the otters at supper. His scream brought them out onto the ledge, staring. Teb had been sewing a pair of sharkskin flippers, fitting them to his feet, and he jammed the needle into his finger hard when the first cry came. He ran out to see the red-beaked old fellow flapping and scolding at a band of strapping cubs that were leaping along the ledge after him, huffing and swearing. The owl banked again, saw Teb, and turned back to land on Teb’s shoulder, almost throwing him down the cliff. The young otters were on Teb at once, clambering up his legs to get at it, shouting words Teb didn’t know they knew. Farther along the ledge he could see the white otter emerge.

  “There he is,” shouted the owl. “It’s Thakkur I want to see.” He swept away, and Teb followed, running, and at Thakkur’s cave, the owl flew straight in and landed on a high shelf, his great ears straight out with anger as he stared down at the clambering youngsters who had followed. Thakkur stood looking up at him, his whiskers twitching with amusement.

  The owl glared. “Your young haven’t any manners at all. I didn’t know otters could swear like that.”

  “They can when they think the clan is threatened,” Thakkur said. “You must be Red Unat. I have heard of you. Old Bloody Beak, I’ve heard you called.”

  The owl’s ears twitched. He scowled at Thakkur, then opened his beak in what might be a smile, though it looked more as if he would eat Thakkur. “Old Bloody Beak it is, Thakkur of Nightpool. And I have heard a tale or two about you.”

  Otters had gathered thick in the cave. Charkky pushed close to Teb, his whiskers stiff with interest.

  “Did you find the hydrus?” Thakkur asked. “Did it die from the wounds our otters gave it?”

  “I tracked it by disturbances among the fishes, a great empty swath and the little fish all adither on both sides. I tracked it to Mernmeth, and there was blood on the waters there.”

  “Mernmeth,” Charkky whispered to Teb, “is a drowned city north and east, where a great shallow runs out.”

  “Did it die there?” asked Thakkur.

  “It is still alive. It thrashed in agony, but it lived. I watched and patrolled the coast, very hard work in the icy weather. When it emerged again in dead winter, I followed it.

  “It went north. It has been attacking the harbors along the Benaynne Archipelago, where Quazelzeg’s armies are raiding. It prevents escape by water, and Quazelzeg has taken many slaves and murdered hundreds.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” said Thakkur. “Though it is not unexpected.”

  “If the dark raiders are not stopped,” said Red Unat, “no one will be safe from them. They are not men, and are much more dangerous than humans. Quazelzeg and those closest to him are, in truth, the unliving, dedicated to anything that negates life, that defiles and destroys the strength of life.”

  Teb stood tense. All of this was so very familiar, and yet still the dark emptiness lay in his mind.

  “At some point,” said Red Unat, “the animals must join against Quazelzeg. It is inevitable. The great cats and wolves, and the foxes, perhaps even unicorns, though they have disappeared from this hemisphere into the elfin lands. But mark you, the animals must join forces. Already there is talk of such things.” He settled more comfortably on his perch and fluffed his feathers. Thakkur sat up straighter on his sleeping bench, his broad white tail stretched along it, his front paws together, his whiskers stiff as he stared up at Red Unat.

  “There is a resistance army growing among the humans,” the owl said. “But Quazelzeg is powerful, more powerful than many understand.

  “He took five hundred hostages at Mevidin and is forcing them to serve as soldiers and camp slaves, even the small girls. He has divided his forces into three bands to drive wedges down into the Nasden Confederacy, and he strips the fields of food for his own forces, leaving the cities and villages to starve.”

  Teb listened for a long time, sick at the talk and agitated with his own inner turmoil as memories tried to push out. That night his dreams were filled with wings. With the owl’s swooping wings, and with the fluttering wings of a tiny owl as it flew to his shoulder and whispered some message to him. He also dreamt of the heavy, dark wings of slavering jackals, as the creatures snarled and flapped around his face.

  Then came wings so huge, so bright and glowing, that they were like pearl-tinted clouds descending. He reached out to them laughing, and the dragon looked down at him, her long green eyes lit with some wonderful message. Then fires came in his dreams. The hearth fire in a tapestried room, a cookfire surrounded by soldiers. Fires and wings twisted together, and there were faces. A red-haired man and an old graying man, and the face of a girl, golden and smiling.

  He woke.

  And he remembered.

  Dawn had barely come, the sky and sea deep gray. He lay looking at the pale lines of waves, remembering it all, his father’s murder before his eyes in the hall, his mother’s drowning, his own enslavement, and Blaggen and the stinking jackals. His journey tied to the horse like a sack of meal, his escape with Garit and Pakkna. Nison-Serth and the foxes, the dear foxes.

  The cage, and the dragon tearing at his chains, pulling them free, and searing them from his legs with her hot breath. He remembered
running and dodging between racing horsemen, being snatched up by a horseman on a white mount, then falling. . . .

  Then nothing, until he woke bobbing on the sea, soaking from the waves, the pain in his leg terrible. And Charkky’s and Mikk’s wet, concerned frowns.

  He sat thinking for a long time, and then went along the cliff to Thakkur’s cave. He found the white otter making a meal of periwinkles and sea urchin roe that one of the cubs had brought him. He sat down quietly.

  The white otter’s dark eyes looked him over. Teb looked back, filled with news. And with questions.

  Thakkur finished the roe and rose to toss the shells into the sea; then he turned again to Teb. “You remember,” he said simply. “I see it in your face. You remember.” His dark eyes were filled with kindness and with wisdom.

  “Yes, I remember. I dreamt, then woke remembering. So strange. How could I have forgotten it all? Even my sister?” The cool sea wind touched him as it circled Thakkur’s cave. He stared at Thakkur’s dark, caring eyes. “I am Tebriel, son of the murdered King of Auric. My father was killed by Sivich of the dark raiders. My mother drowned in the Bay of Dubla.”

  They talked for a long time. Teb told Thakkur all that had happened on the journey to Baylentha, and much that happened before. He told a great deal about his mother, and once he felt tears start, but he choked them back. He told about the little owl carrying messages to Camery. And that Sivich intended to use Camery for breeding. Thakkur listened. But he offered no answers.