The Deep - Rivers Solomon Page 0,41

capable of it after seeing them in the flesh.

This truth, that two-legs were cruel and unusual, was the most important lesson of the History, and the third historian vowed to protect her people from them.

“Basha!”

We awake from the remembering as they call our name, head aching and body overly alert, overly sensitive.

“We need your great knowledge, Basha,” said Omju.

We don’t care for Omju at all, who always comes to us with his silly questions, but is also always so certain of his way. He presents himself as knowledgeable, as the keeper of traditions. He is the closest person wajinru have to a leader or queen. His made-up council agrees with whatever he wants.

We do not answer his questions. We barely acknowledge that he is speaking to us at all. Mostly we do this because it makes him reconsider his self-importance. Smiling, we turn and swim toward—something.

Restless energy builds up in us, wanting to explode. Our amaba used to call this spoiling for a fight. And it’s true, we always were, always still are. We don’t know what to do with quietness, with peace. Life in the deep has never suited us.

Amaba says we came out gnawing and biting. Chewed our own cord away. But it never filled us. We never wanted milk. Only meat.

We didn’t get along with others, finding their conversations slow and inane. Our mind moved so quickly while the world passed by slowly.

When we found out we’d be taking on the History, we were glad. For once, there was something that could keep up with our racing thoughts. When the previous historian transferred the rememberings to us, we sparked alive with the feel of the past rushing into us, making sure no part of us was ever empty again.

Where the History saddened others, we felt only a glorious, burning anger. We liked the challenge of it. It suited us. Anger was our favorite emotion. We were at home in it. It gave us purpose.

As we swim into the dark city, we attune ourselves to the chatterings of others. They want to know what could’ve caused such a thing, the deaths of a small group of wajinru children. We feel fears and anxieties rustle against our skin. Their confusion skims our scales. What mighty beast could bring down three wajinru children so deep in the ocean? We are the apex predators of the entire sea.

Clueless wajinru gossip as they wander the waters. They would know the answer to this question if they lived beyond the bubble of wajinru cities, if they listened to the things we had to say more than just when it was convenient. We cannot understand a people that would willingly choose to cut itself off from its history, no matter what pain it entails. Pain is energy. It lights us. This is the most basic premise of our life. Hunger makes us eat. Tiredness causes us to sleep. Pain makes us avenge.

We are not wajinru if being wajinru means distancing ourselves from pain. We embrace pain, seek it out.

We make a path through the water, people splitting their parties to accommodate us. They fear us. This reaction doesn’t bother us. We aren’t to be trifled with. It is good that they recognize this.

After several strokes, we see a muted orange light. It’s Ephras holding a bioluminescent cretuk, and we swim toward him. An explosion had burned Ephras badly enough that he has difficulty feeling around anymore. What happened to him was the same thing that had happened to the children, though he’d been spared death. Still, he needs the aid of the light to properly see without being able to sense words and objects against his skin.

“You came,” says Ephras.

“Of course.”

Ephras gestures for us to follow him, then begins swimming toward his den a mile outside the city. He has to move slowly and carefully, unable to navigate without the aid of the light.

“I thought perhaps the council might be holding you up, keeping you away,” says Ephras.

“The council has no hold over me,” we say.

“You should pretend to tolerate them more. You don’t want them as enemies,” says Ephras, but it isn’t really advice, more a general observation.

“If they ever decide to make themselves into a problem, I’ll address it at that time. Until then, I won’t worry about it,” we say, happy to follow Ephras wherever he leads us. He is the only living thing in the world for whom that statement is true.

The water grows quieter and stiller as we move