On that day, the creature began to push one of her tentacles—not the ringed tentacle—into the sand beneath her body. With all her strength, she pushed down, drilling a deep, thin tunnel in the ocean floor. She drove her tentacle into the ground as deep as it could go, surprised by how hard it was inside the earth, how cold. At the bottom of her tunnel, with her tentacle fully extended, she scraped out a little well.

Then, ever so carefully, she pulled her tentacle back out again. She picked up the scary egg treasure. She lowered it through the tunnel and placed it into the well.

Then, her tentacle plugging the tunnel, she pulled the ring.

—

The pain was terrible.

The pain was so terrible that when the silbercows arrived, flying toward her with big, alarmed eyes, she told them that she thought she might be dying.

What did you do? they asked her. We heard the big noise. We felt the ocean shake. You don’t look like you’re dying. What did you do?

I buried the treasure in the ground beneath me, she told them, and pulled the ring.

The silbercows were boggled by this. They stared at her, blinking, then they stared at one another and talked amongst themselves. They told her that she was a hero.

I’m not, she said, crying from the pain in the place where a horrible poisonous fire had burned away her tentacle. She was really quite sure she was dying. She didn’t want to live.

Maybe you’re the Keeper after all, they said.

No! she said, unable to bear this. Not that again! I was just lonely! And then she began to cry. Her crying turned into a song of loneliness, sadness, and loss, because she’d lost her tentacle. She’d hurt herself, to make her home safe for the silbercows, and now they were misunderstanding her again. She sang louder and louder. Her singing turned into a wail.

The silbercows didn’t leave. They stayed with her while she sang and wailed, watching her quietly, waiting. They flinched sometimes at the noises she made, but they didn’t leave.

When she was done, they carefully examined her tentacle with their noses, which were soft. It wasn’t a tentacle anymore, really, they told her. It was a black, burnt nub.

Will it ever stop burning? she asked.

We don’t know, they said.

I’m uneven now, she said. My body is uneven.

Yes, they said, touching her gently, touching their noses to her nub. We’re uneven too.

Do your wounds still hurt?

Much less, they said.

Am I dying?

We think you’re going to live.

The creature found that she was relieved to hear this. She thought that she would like to live at least long enough to see if her wound could ever hurt less.