The pod is stuffed with krill, herring, and squid. Perhaps they won’t starve. They must eat enough to swim back to warm waters where, far from sharp-toothed killers, babies are born and grow fat on mother’s milk. If the pod keeps filling their nets like tonight, next year the river deltas will greet many young ones.

Djola’s song is intriguing. The pod approaches the boat, cautious but curious. They sound out an image of land creatures, tall tree trunks, and cloth waves rippling in the wind. Djola’s song is a short burst. The Behemoths try to make sense of his strong voice mimicking their songs. He adds new rhythms and melodies—a delight, a mystery. Two Behemoths circle under his boat and leap into the air, waving pectoral fins. Djola waves too, singing till he lays down on the deck.

A boat with singers is a good prospect. Some boat creatures are monsters, ramming hulls together and burning each other. They ambush sleeping Behemoths or those nursing young ones. Yet, these boats swim together, friends. Such a fleet might scare off the black-and-white killers who hunt weak or half-grown Behemoths. Surfing in the wake of a music boat is always fun. Singers twist the air with strings, blow hard shells, and beat dry, dead skin; they fling themselves around the decks.

The Behemoths hope to hear more music or play with the boat creature if he dives in the water. When the boats drop anchor, the Behemoths might even risk closing an eye to sleep. A grand day.

17

Calling Fire

Behemoths finished their song. Orca and Vandana took a woozy Djola down to his bunk, which was covered in drawings for Xhalan Xhala: a thousand thousand roads intersecting—the maybes and maybe nots of Smokeland. After pulling fire, he had to smoke-walk to the crossroads of crossroads, get there and back at the speed of thought—a mapmaker’s spell. He knocked the scrolls away.

Difficult to map what he could barely imagine, even with Anawanama craft. Orca and Vandana hovered. Wine and garlic on their breath made him gag. His right eye burned, his left hand ached, from botching Xhalan Xhala. Djola curled against the bulkhead. He wanted to be shadows and ash and feel nothing.

Vandana poked him. “You practice Xhalan Xhala where I won’t see. Foolish.”

“Better to rehearse in the night,” Djola explained. “No distractions.”

Vandana lit lanterns. “Ignorant man huddles alone in dark. Brilliant man reflects light from his friends.”

“I don’t need more wise words.” Djola smacked a barrel of books. He wanted to toss them into the sea.

“Every dawn, something is smoke.” Orca fingered a singed stronghold-map. “He turned a barrel of pitch to ash.”

“Xhalan Xhala should go beyond flames and soot to…” Djola sputtered.

“To what?” Orca whispered and massaged Djola’s cramped shoulder muscles.

“You rehearse a dangerous spell you don’t understand?” Vandana scowled.

“Understanding comes from doing,” Djola shouted.