A Lost Boy

Ceto's early days had been a struggle. He didn't move correctly and needed constant tending to ensure that the both took breath and ate. Had he been born into a gam with only younger mothers, he might have been lost. But it happened at the time that he was born that there were a number of females past the age of birthing who assisted the younger mothers.

"Oh, that one is work," Gerontia, the eldest of the gam, had said to her sisters after taking a shift with the infant male, "Can't do much for himself."

"And such a strange one too," said Asher, a younger matron, "Have you seen his color."

"Yes," said Gerontia in a whisper, "But let that be - there's not been one like this for all my time."

"Why," said Asher, "What is there in it?"

"Never mind that," said Gerontia, "You'll come to know in time. It doesn't mean the thing for certain. It's just not a welcome thing considering all the other challenges with this boy."

Neither remark had been made with any rancor or bitterness. Gerontia and Asher had both raised children of their own and helped with many others. Their words were more in the tone of a sculptor presented with an odd piece of marble.

"What can we do," said Asher, "But to help him live. That is the only thing to do."

And live he did. When a few months had passed, he began to show signs of both independence and stubbornness - he slapped his keeper more than once.

"Did you see that one hit me," said Asher when her time was changing, "Slapped me with that little flank of his."

"Good," Gerontia replied, "Good. Got some fight in him. He'll need it."

"He can't go straight though," said Asher with less humor, "He pulls to one side."

"I know," said the older female, "Not sure how to stop that."

To help him, and to encourage him, they took it in turns to reign him in on his driving side. This made things slow and tedious and required more of the gam to assist.

Grayer Departs

They'd been some days on the move through the barren waters when Ceto felt land grow closer. The edge of the groundswell was still miles off, but even from that distance he felt the great wall of it hemming him in. It's a feeling that no bull relishes. He tried to ignore it.

"Perhaps we'll head into deeper waters soon," he thought hopefully and labored on beside his aunt.

"Is it dangerous being this close," he asked when he could not stand the silence any longer.

He'd expected her to react angrily, and to tell him that he was a fool - that this was one of those adult things that a child fears foolishly, but he was wrong.

"Keep moving," she said flatly, "These are not nice places."

"Why," he asked with a little fear, "Are there Killers here?"

"Just mind your direction and don't stray," she said without answering, "If we're fortunate, we'll go unnoticed. It may be that these grounds have changed too and there is less to fear than I think."

"What do you remember," Ceto asked.

"The smell of death is still heavy here," she said, partly in a dazed voice, "There were many who died in these crossings when I was a girl."

"Why did..." he began to ask, but there was no need - Grayer went on.

"These are still the only ways down to the lower ices and the summer grounds of old. Those are still good places to fish and grow fat and strong. Just a little to our east are cross currents that would confuse our paths and make this trip impossible. There are seasons when they drift even further east, and we need to swim in the shallows."

"What do you remember," he asked again, "hoping partly that she would not tell."