Ramata led Adam and Spot through the twists and turns of Tiskabloo, past row after row of faded blue, coral housing complexes and corner-shop business selling food and supplies made from kelp, rock, bone, and coral. Adam and Spot had no trouble following Ramata’s lead, because they knew that without the water-folk they would be absolutely lost in the winding, disorienting city. The byways and side streets of Tiskaloo went not only forwards and backwards but also up and down. Once you got into the city, you really were into the city.
After some time the three stopped at a coral wall that was half-blue and half-pink. “To our left is Tiskabloo. To our right, Pinkaloo,” Ramata told them.
“Which way do we go?”
Ramata looked up, laughed, then kicked their great tail once to shoot up and over the side of the split-colored wall. Spot looked at Adam and grinned, too. “See you on the other side.” Then Spot swam over the wall.
Adam looked back the way they’d come. Even if he wanted to head back, he’d be without Ramata’s lead and would never make it anywhere. Likely some Tiskaloon would help him get to Frear but Frear already said he couldn’t help Adam find land or even get home. Adam had to find land or, if not land, some answers to what had happened. The only way get either was to swim over the wall and follow Ramata.
Adam’s legs delivered a powerful thrust and his body surged up the wall, u-turning just above it before racing down the outer side. Ramata and Spot waited.
“What took so you long?” Ramata asked.
“I had to think about whether I was making the right choice.”
Ramata nodded, then headed off, away from the city. “Doesn’t seem like much of a choice to me,” Adam heard Ramata say from up ahead.
Spot said, “My school says, ‘There is always a choice to act or not act; both a decision to make.’”
“I’m tired of choosing, Spot. I just want things to be the way they were, that’s all.”
“That’s everything, Adam. Everything. Once a thing changes, rarely does it return to the way it was before. Everything is headed towards a maybe, Adam. And you’re headed towards something that no longer exists.”
Spot objected. “If you can find a Turtle and if you can get a Turtle to talk a Turtle might be able to help, Adam — but all this is pure speculation.”
Throughout this banter, Adam said nothing. Spot and Ramata went back and forth arguing over the likelihood of finding a Turtle, getting a Turtle to talk, and the odds that a Turtle would know anything definite about land above Ocean. Finally, Adam had heard enough.
“Will you two be quiet please?
Ramata and Spot stopped mid-argument and looked at him.
“Ramata, do you really know where to find a Turtle?”
Spot answered in her stead, “Adam, a Turtle is about as hard to find as land. Don’t be–”
“This Turtle isn’t a myth and I do know where to go!”
“Adam, my school says, ‘Sometimes a myth of hope is better than the hurt of truth,’ but I think we’ll just be wasting time to go off on this mad hunt.”
“What will we be doing if we stay here, Spot?” Adam asked.
Spot was silent.
“Exactly – wasting time. Ramata, what do we need to do?”
“Well, there’s a long swim ahead of us so the sooner we leave the better.”
“Spot, you’ll come with us, won’t you?”
Spot hesitated, then shrugged his fins. “Of course, I will,” Spot said. “I’ve kept watch over you so far. I can’t stop now.”
“Then we must leave,” Ramata urged. “Frear will be back soon to check on you and unless you feel like explaining our plans to him–”
“He doesn’t seem to think there’s any chance of land,” Adam said.
“Well, he may be right, Adam,” said Ramata. “But that’s what we’re going to find out. C’mon!”
The blue winds blow the black moon past a newly dying sun
And the finer lights of daynight show the ruining’s begun
You’ve witnessed with your feeble eyes grand sights not meant to see
And you’ve conjured with your meager minds frights from which to flee
No, it ain’t too hard to read the signs that say our time is through
And it ain’t too sad to say goodbye to what was me ‘n you
For that blue wind blew a black moon over yonder dying sun
Oh those blue winds and those black moons, good Lord, what have we done?
I expect it will soon become yours, too.
Mr. George Raymond is some kind of seraphic amalgamation of Jack Handey and Jesus.
The landholders didn't get what they were looking for.
Eyes burned by an apathetic hate.
Wounded skins their favorite shield.
Cold bodies made the best ground for falling snow to cover.
They have always relished winter.
Uprising against us against a good idea against us against a big deal against us against the cosmos against us
Warm bodies temper frosted glass.
Capital is not your fault.
Speaking silence is.