So everyone responded.
In the aftermath of the drum-talk, Song arose, filling the reverberating air of Forest’s valleys. The main tributaries—the little River-sisters—churned with industry above and below, as every tribal member or relative or guest gave proper greeting to the mass of swimmingKin roiling upRiver. This Running was early—earlier, the old ones said, than in memory. Did it matter? Perhaps it was even a gift, Grandmother’s acknowledgement that all the allied tribes, from duskLands to dawn, were gathered to honour River’s bounty. Naisgwyr’uq sat upon the front entry to several tributaries and hatching grounds, so food and livelihood came swimming—for standingKin to the winged ones, to the four- and two-leggeds—and all gleaning a shining harvest, singing after their own fashion. The bloodfins would be heavy with toothsome eggs, or hoping to claim those eggs as their own, ready to fight for the chance.
More, certainly, than even all the gathered tribes could take and use; they would net what they needed and still leave plenty to spawn farther up.
Inhya’s voice rose and fell, one with her chosen People’s, fitting—and carrying—accompaniment to the drums echoing against the cliffs. She didn’t stop singing as she strode the shore, overseeing the nets as they were dragged from storage by eager ahlóssa and adults alike. Her words were not only joy, but long-honoured instruction; everyone sang with her as the nets were deployed. Some were handheld dippers of only a handspan. Others were long, flawlessly woven. All were carried to the various upstream waterfalls.
Sarinak’s powerful voice boomed along the opposite side, a drum of directions carrying even above River’s voice. Amidst directing the dip nets, Inhya caught sight of Tokela, who’d reappeared in response to the drum message, Madoc in tow.
Something had to be done about that, and soon. Tokela might exist beneath the fiction of being too young to wander; Madoc was too young, in every fashion. Ahlóssa and ośkih didn’t make the best of cohorts—their paths were too diverse. And for all the things Tokela did well, he did just as many in a fashion Inhya would not have her youngest emulate.
A sight of beauty: all gathered, elders to ahlóssa, stripped down to dive and slosh River’s children, setting nets and ensuring they spanned Her with grace, untangled. Anahli and another oških—Čayku, wasn’t it?—played nets from bank into River. A mere stone’s throw downstream, a sopping Madoc laughed with the other ahlóssa, even Kuli, whom Madoc professed—too frequently, Inhya thought with a grin—to loathe. Stronger swimmers were out in the deep water. The wyrhling in particular seemed one with River—of course, he would, wouldn’t he?—but still working alongside his former People, ensuring the nets didn’t snag on rocks and were played out deep enough. Aylaniś and Palatan exchanged snatches of banter with him from the shore, but it didn’t stop their helping with the nets. Tokela also swam amongst the deep waters, quiet and efficient; known as one of the best swimmers they had, he was reliable in this at least.
They would speak about where he’d been, and perhaps a few other things. But not thisSun. ThisSun, there was a living to be made.
THE DRUMS echoed his heart, pounding fierce-glad with the work. Or so Tokela thought.
He didn’t realise his excitement had another cause. Didn’t realise that he was looking until he saw him. Or, more accurately, saw them.
His granddam had once said it: All paths lead to the one you truly intend, whether you pay attention or not…
Našobok let out a yelp of laughter, sending Tokela’s heart further a-thrum and his stomach lurching: recognition, and something else he didn’t ken. Tokela cocked his head to espy Kuli’s dam and sire on the far bank. Aylaniś and Palatan hauled nets with little finesse but much enthusiasm. Even dripping and stripped of much of her finery, Aylaniś too made Tokela’s stomach clench; a remembrance of graceful authority that merely made her more accessible, more… lovely. Palatan, on the other hand, seemed less Alekšu and more the trickster his tribe revered; he’d tangled a foot in the netting. A mishap any ahlóssa wouldn’t make, but the mistake was, no doubt, what had prompted that familiar yelp of laughter.
A tiny ahlóssa threw a net tail Tokela’s way; he snatched it midair then dove with it across the tributary and to a waiting elder. The old fem had hunkered down as much from laughter as to take the net. She tilted her head towards the antics upstream, chuckled “Horsetalkers!” as she took the net tail from Tokela. It made a prime opportunity to swim closer, not only to unsnag the net’s drag, but also remove a low-drooping branch from it—and Tokela’s line of sight.
The two horsetalkers might be ungainly with the nets, but their wyrhling companion was not. He’d tied his long hair back, a wet tail that hung between bare, dark shoulders. The latter quivered with laughter as Našobok played out the tangled net. Carefully, ostensibly so Palatan didn’t end up dragged into River, though in the next breath Našobok tightened it, shook it with mock threat. Aylaniś yipped warning, and Palatan threw his assailant a look half panic and all promise: If you do I’ll end you!
Našobok wrapped the net around one sinewy, broad-knuckled hand and tugged again. His eyebrows arched their own promise; his teeth gleamed. Aylaniś splashed at him. Našobok merely wrapped the net once more about his hand. Palatan tossed him a gesture Tokela had seen amongst the Riverwalkers, then hauled back. Leaner, smaller, yet those bronze-wet arms were corded taut from the bow. Našobok lurched forwards, landing face-first with a huge splash.
Aylaniś doubled over, stumbling with laughter.
Others were getting into the spirit of it, shouting encouragement to both sides of the playful struggle. Palatan’s own laughter yipped upward as Našobok rose from the shallow, climbing the net upward. Tens of summerings of net-hauling made a match for a duskLands bowarm… and Palatan hadn’t let go. He went sailing.
Cheers from up and down the
