The tulkun came on the full moon.
Kaelen was practicing his swimming—badly—when the water around him began to vibrate. A deep, resonant hum that he felt in his bones, his teeth, his soul. Around him, the Metkayina stopped what they were doing and turned toward the open ocean.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Listen," his teacher whispered.
The hum grew louder. And then, breaking the surface less than a hundred meters away, a creature rose.
It was enormous—larger than any animal Kaelen had ever seen. Its body was sleek and whale-like, but its face was almost intelligent, almost human, with eyes that held centuries of wisdom. Patterns moved across its skin, shifting and flowing like living art.
"A tulkun," his teacher breathed. "A visitor."
The creature sang. The sound was beautiful, heartbreaking, full of joy and sorrow and something Kaelen couldn't name. Around him, the Metkayina sang back—not with words, but with sounds, with feelings, with their whole selves.
Kaelen felt something stir in his chest. A connection. A recognition.
Eyva is here too, he realized. In the water. In the creatures. Everywhere.
He sang. Badly, off-key, with a voice that had never been trained for music. But he sang.
And the tulkun turned its great eye toward him and seemed to smile.