Dave Duncan - West of January

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.