For one thing, there were the four silbercows who’d escaped from the massacre, who’d seen her, and chastised her for not helping. They’d told all the other silbercows about her, calling her that name they insisted on using, Keeper. Then silbercows had come in droves to stare at her and say “Keeper” at her. Some had touched her. Some had even tried to talk to her, which had been the scariest thing of all and had made her vibrate and cry and feel so dizzy that she saw stars. And they kept pressing in, asking her to do things, “Keeper” things she didn’t understand, like play with whales or sing. It was terrible. Nothing felt more lonely than being surrounded by silbercows who thought she was somebody else, instead of who she really was, someone they could see if they just looked, a large but ordinary creature with a round body, thirteen tentacles, and twenty-three eyes, who loved her treasures and wanted to be left alone.

One day, while they were all pressing in, a song of sadness burst out of the creature. It was the first song she could ever remember singing, beautiful and wordless, all about who she was. It started as a screech and a buzz, then a rumble, then a jagged explosion of sensation that felt really good to her, really true and brave. The silbercows leaped back in alarm. Then all of them except for the original four sped away. She kept singing. It felt so right.

When she stopped, the four silbercows stared at her with enormous eyes, alert and tense, as if bracing for her next song. I’m done, she said, which seemed to help them relax. Then, in a conversation amongst themselves, they decided that she couldn’t be the Keeper after all. Silbercows didn’t speak in words, more in images and feelings, but the creature understood from their conversation that the Keeper was famous for having a mesmerizing singing voice. Her singing voice, in contrast, made them feel like they were going to turn inside out and explode.