moment comes. Poundgrayly eases the shelter of his soul for a single moment, and I ride the moment into memory, find screamdeep’s darkest day, and it takes me completely, without will. Once again I become screamdeep, and ride a quiet wave toward the violence of death.
Fishsinger—
I—
Screamdeep—
I am here. Swimming.
Poundgrayly is with me, following above and behind. A bright wide shell of friendship’s constancy arches from his euyom soul, arches out with a wish to cover my own—just as his body’s hard green shell protects wrinkled flesh and would cover mine if souls could have their way with flesh, skin and rigid bone.
Our destination nears, and we share waking dreams of “eye shells” in the rumored bed at a sandy place.
“Nothing is simple,” I say with the formal fringe of my soul.
“Explain,” poundgrayly answers, the fringe too abrupt for understanding.
“The bed is near an island, one place where reefs or rocks assure ioe presence, or some other dark jaws of our choice.”
“Perhaps. It is said the bed lies in an inlet.”
“Certainly between two masses of rock or coral crags—the perfect opportunity for jaws. Certainly we will find ourselves digging in sand surrounded by caves.”
I am joking, offering the bright fins of a smiling soul. Nothing is ever certain, and poundgrayly in his wisdom would be the first to announce it.
“Do ready your soul, though,” I say. “Get your ioe lies in shape.”
All ioe are darkly stupid. Their souls feel only large shadows or the brightest of lights, so the lies we throw at them never fail to protect us. And though most euyom are clumsy with lies—finding learned images too hazy for perfect molding, too slippery for easy handling—poundgrayly is an experienced soul, and perhaps he is somewhat talented. We have managed to learn from each other since the day our depths first touched.
But in the end, quickness and precision of the soul are the only certain way for protection.
The yau are beginning to thin out.
“One pause,” I say and stop swimming. I uproot a long yau stem from its lone rock base at the sandy bottom.
Poundgrayly knows what I wish to do. The idea came from him, as do many ideas for hands—even though they are not for his kind of limbs: flat, scaly, useful only for swimming.
We swim on and I strip the stem of its leaves, then tie it in close knots to form a basket for any shells we find.
The sandy place we seek appears now to our souls: the murmuring of the large shells buried there. And now to face’s eyes: the shallow bright water warm in its nearness to a beach’s hot dryness.
I reach the place first and begin digging in its softness. Poundgrayly will wait to see what my hands are able to find.
The first shells I find set my soul to yellow chattering, serve only to make me want the discovery of more. Fishsinger must have enough shell meat that his stomach’s cure is sure.
Here: four shells next to each other!
I place them in the basket, and decide to choose eye’s way: I wait for the murk of disturbed sand to clear. The soul by itself could see well enough, but imprecision of direction is always frustrating—face’s eyes are precise.
Three more here.
Even two there—
What? Where?
My soul is struck by sudden formless tumble of darkest red.
(Lift your face’s eyes!)
My eyes touch nothing.
But my soul finds the familiar red forms of ioe.
I clench the basket tightly, as my soul clenches the proper lie, the perfect form, the raging colors of the deceit—ready to throw it at the ioe.
Poundgrayly nods quietly with a pale softness, and together we throw out our lies, which blend as one, and the ioe are fooled.
The image for the pack of six ioe charging: Two wounded female ioe here—do not approach!
It is the most common lie, one that brings roaring fear to simpler souls: the female of the ioe kind, twice the size of any ioe male, five times as fierce when wounded, fearing.... So a pack of ioe will attack a pair of giant oio in mating before it would dare approach two raging females of its own dark taloned kind.
So my eyes touch the inevitable: the ioe slow their rush, their own black webbed talons pawing frantically to stop them, their skin-taut heads thrown back on sinewy necks in simple assurance that their bodies will follow.
We keep our lies steady in their form, their jagged rhythm—which would have been tiring in my body’s youth, would have darkened my soul in those days...and to most euyom it would be impossible. But the two of us manage it easily, and find its familiarity even amusing.
Keeping up my half of the lie, I begin swimming back toward the shelter of yau in deeper water. The basket full of shells hangs from my arm, and poundgrayly swims in front of me.
What?
More dark red—
Where? (There!) Others here!
The second pack is nearly upon me. Poundgrayly throws out a quick new lie. Image to the second pack’s souls: a giant thrashing oio with plated flesh, dangerous tail.
The new lie strikes the second pack. They try to slow, but their bodies tumble on toward me.
(Throw out your own!)
I tighten, surround myself with one precise ioe lie. The second pack tries harder to slow. But the image to the first pack’s souls has changed: Confusing things, unclear threats—one wounded female disappears, appears a thrashing giant, remains one female—where the threat? Fear is dim—
The first pack rushes on, almost to me.
(Escape in body!)
No, death will be good.
(Body! Escape!)
I turn to swim, catch one leg and tail in the basket I dropped, flail out with arms.
My body thrashes, the basket entangled. My lie is dropped, dissolves.
(No!)
Two packs of ioe in one small area? Improbable....
(No, throw out a lie!)
And their timing of attack? Improbable too....
(Throw a lie!)
Both packs together did sense our presence, forgot their hatred of each other—
