CHAPTER 19


Skipper Yeola had never known herself to worry over vermin, not least one she had never met. Yet no sign had been seen of their inbound visitor, the mysterious ferret known as Yallen.

The normal patrols sent along the River Lonna had returned with no reports of a sail on the horizon, and after 3 days, Yeola was surprised that even an inexperienced sailor would not have found themselves already on the upriver journey towards Parley.

Her concern had even led her to light the beacon for Otis. It would cost her, certainly, but the message the owl had previously delivered from Noonmouth had not suggested that the ferret should be considered a threat, and in fact should be seen as a friend. Trepidations aside, Skipper Yeola thought it only right that she, as a tribal leader, express some duty of care over those who travelled through the country.

The beacon had been lit on the central stilted island in the middle of the Parley Pool, and as evening encroached on the watery copse she wondered whether it would be best to turn in. This was the exhaustion talking. Otis may travel at all times, but as an owl, it was only fair to presume he would be most likely to show up during the night.

The beacon was on a stilted platform just to the south of the council's own, and the flame burned softly as it chewed through the charcoal and puffed out a stream of smoke which floated skyward. Yeola was perched on the edge of the platform which held her council's table and chairs, staring at the hypnotic flicker of the embers.

Footpaws could be heard tapping on the deck towards her. Yeola's head flicked around anxiously to see who was encroaching on her solitude.

Chief Clammer of the Keelkin Clan and Chair of the Council plopped himself down beside Skipper Yeola, his own legs hanging off the edge of the platform.

'Skipper,' he greeted her. Yeola nodded back, dumbly returning the greeting.

'Evenin'.'

The pair sat in silence watching the beacon. It wasn't awkward – there was something blissful about sharing the moment together. The sun had dipped off towards the west, and the light streamed through the trees of Tallwoods and up the River Moss. It hit the moving waters of the plunge pool, shimmering with dancing sparkles of orange and red.

'Perhaps the ferret got lost?'

Clammer's suggestion kickstarted the conversation.

'Otis told us he were a well-versed traveller,' Yeola retorted. 'I find it hard to believe he struggled to follow the coastline, partic'ly in calm seas.'

Clammer hummed in agreement. 'Maybe he stopped somewhere, and decided to keep going on foot?'

Yeola shook her head. 'There ain't nothin' worth stoppin' for.'

Another hum of agreement from Clammer. 'Maybe he changed his mind and headed back to Noonmouth?'

This earned him a severe glance from the Skipper. 'I appreciate what yore trying to do, Clammer, but I'm just doin' what I should be doin'.'

'Practising due diligence?' offered Clammer.

'Aye.'

'Is that what 'appened with Tagan too?'

It was provocative, and Clammer knew it. Yeola shifted from tribal leader to annoyed female in a flash, directing suppressed fury the way of her clan chief through gritted teeth.

'What did you say?'

Clammer held up his paws defensively. 'I didn't go pryin', I found out from one of me otters,' he told her, 'you can't carry on with one of the tribal chieftains and not expect everybeast to know 'xactly what's going on.'

'What goes on in my personal life ain't none of yore business,' Yeola wagged her finger under Clammer's nose.

'From what I hear, it ain't part of yore personal life anymore.'

The pair had always clashed, but Yeola was shocked by the indifference Clammer was showing her. Their relationship had always been that of equals, and two dominant personalities could lend itself to turbulence, but she had always thought that Clammer at least respected her – a view that was quickly disappearing.

'If y'know what's good for you, you'll shut up.'

'I ain't taking any lectures from you,' Clammer dismissed her. 'This is why you want the change to the marriage laws. This is why you want to change the schools. And this is why you hated Magla.'

'Hated Magla?' Yeola almost shouted back, but suppressed her voice. 'Y'don't know what yore talking about! Yore just a bitter, snake of an otter.'

'A snake? Me? I'm not the outsider trying to change everythin'!'

'And what was Magla? An outsider who conformed?'

'Yes!'

'And conformity is the only behaviour you'll accept?'

'That is not what I said,' it was Clammer's turn to point the finger now, right between Yeola's eyes. The Skipper slapped it hard aside.

'Yes it is!' she cried, now not caring who heard. 'Yore a mean old otter, who's bitter because he never married, never had cubs… never been loved!'

That shut him up. Clammer's eyes narrowed, his frown deepened, and the piercing slits through which he judged Yeola glinted in the disappearing sunlight.

'That ain't true,' he growled. 'I have loved… and been loved.'

'Righ',' Yeola rolled her eyes. She didn't really care. She was just glad that her argument had awarded her control of the conversation.

'But it wasn't right,' Clammer continued, his voice hard and staccato with anger. 'Who I loved, and who loved me… that weren't what was right. An' fer good reason. I had to bury my feelings deep down Yeola because there were something wrong with what I felt, and who I felt 'em for… and that's what you've got to do. What I did could never lead to offspring, but y'know what Yeola? Your feelings can if you direct them t'ward the right beast, so don't tell me I'm bitter, because yore just na?ve and stupid.'

'Bitter. Old. Otter.'

'Na?ve and stupid.'

'Well we're good company then.'

They snapped their heads back to the glowing firelight as it grew across the stacks of wood on the beacon. It was fast becoming the only luminescence in the immediate vicinity – the torches around the council table hadn't been lit, but the banks around the pool were already being illuminated by the squares and circles of light permeating from the homes of the otter clans.

Yeola and Clammer stayed exactly where they were, but forced the frustration from their heads and calmed down. Clammer managed it first, having spent a lifetime dealing with suppression, and spoke with contrition.

'I'm sorry, Yeola,' he said. 'Skipper.'

Clammer rarely used the salutation, so him doing so was a big concession. It helped Yeola speed up her own apology.

'I'm sorry too.'

'No yore not.'

Yeola threw up her paws. 'So yore allowed to be sorry but I ain't!?'

'Neither of us means it,' Clammer muttered resignedly. 'It's just… what to say.'

The Skipper was ready to argue back, but she heard the sadness in Clammer's voice and decided against inflaming the situation again. But by reigning in her rebuke, she found she had nothing else to say. Instead, Clammer carried the conversation.

'Things don't change, Yeola. They've always been this way, and they always will. You just have to accept them. 'Tis how we've held on to the good. 'Tis how we keep peace. Yore asking us to upend our society, fer what? Personal goals? That ain't a sign of good leadership.'

'Injustice is difficult to see until you can experience it personally,' Yeola argued. 'Aye, my fight may have come from a personal place, but fightin' for it has never been about me. It's about all of us. It's about rightful, good, change. And I'd rather live in a brutal world of honesty, than a paradise of lies.'

'That's… noble,' started Clammer, 'but foolish and futile.'

They slunk back into silence, both believing that to break it would likely cause their argument to devolve into something much more fractious.

Just within the limits of their eyeline, the smoke lifting out of the beacon pit scattered for just a moment. Yeola and Clammer sought out the source of the disturbance, and as they were doing so, a resounding thud shattered the peace from behind them. Realising what must have just landed on the council table, the otters jumped up to greet their visitor.

The tawny owl called Otis tucked in his broad, white and brown feathered wings into his sides. His species was not that big in relation to otters, and once his pinions were snugly put away, standing on the table, his eyeline roughly matched those of his hosts.

His big, black eyes stared at Yeola and Clammer, assessing them, before relaxing, indicated by a tweaking of his beak.

''Ullo,' he chirped. 'Whassup?'

'Hello Otis,' Yeola welcomed him. 'How've you been?'

'In the last two days?' Otis responded quizzically, bemused by the question, but then answering sarcastically. 'Yeah, absolutely loads has happened.'

'Oh yeah?' Yeola said with mock sincerity. 'Tell me about it?'

Realising he was being teased, Otis blinked once – and the size of his eyes amplifying the sardonicism behind it. 'I said… whassup?'

'Last time you were here, you carried a message from Noonmouth 'bout a ferret, one called Yallen,' Yeola explained, 'but he still ain't arrived. There haven't been any more messages from Noonmouth?'

'Nope, nowt,' Otis shook his head.

'And you haven't noticed anythin' down the northeast coastline?' Yeola asked.

'Nope.'

'Nothin' on the rivers?'

'Nope.'

'Across Tallwoods? The Strigidans? Blueflower Meadows?'

'Nope.'

One second of thinking was all it took for Yeola to remember to whom it was she was speaking – and asked the obvious question she had earlier missed. 'Have you been looking out over any of those areas?'

'Nope.'

The Skipper of Otters rolled her eyes. 'Otis, I'm a little worried about this Yallen fella,' she explained. 'He should've got here by now, and considerin' he hasn't, I'd like to know where he is. Could you take a sweep of the surroundin' countryside and find out where he's got to?'

'When you say "surroundin' countryside", what 'xactly does that mean?'

Otis was a stickler for precision. This was the problem with a tawny owl who knew his own value – his ego could block out the sun. It also meant that he never expounded on his answers, and he would nitpick the most mundane parts of any question or statement. If you asked him to find a stick in the wood, he would expect measurements and colour.

'Imagine a rough square from 'ere in the south, to Noonmouth in the north, and from the eastern foothills of the Strigidan Mountain to three miles out to sea, from west to east. That's your search area. Start from Parley, and wind your way in a criss-cross pattern across the area. 'Ow's that?'

Otis did not blink. One might think he was expressing his usual brand of confusion, but practised negotiators would tell you he was processing the information – some had described it like his "eyes changing colour". After a few seconds, Otis blinked and nodded.

'I can prob'ly cover that in a coupla days. It'll cost youse.'

'Three hampers o' fish, and a box of worms.'

Otis ruffled his feathers. 'Five hampers, two boxes.'

'Three hampers, two boxes.'

'How many boxes can I get if I don't get the 'ampers?'

'Two boxes is all I got.'

Otis cocked his head. 'Deal.'

With negotiations concluded, the tawny owl spread out his wings, and with them unfurled gave a courteous bow to his business partner. He then flapped a few times, brushing the wings forward and down so he lifted off the table away from Yeola and Clammer. Once he was high enough, Otis heaved out one more powerful lift, then swooped away into the night.

Alone again, the two otters faced each other. Standing up, Clammer's full height towered over Yeola.

'I'm glad it's over between you and Tagan,' he said firmly and unsympathetically. 'That weren't a healthy relationship and you know it. Now be a responsible leader and find somebeast who suits you.'

Clammer's size could be quite intimidating, and when he was standing so close to Yeola, it could feel stifling, and almost like he was trying to leverage the height differential in his argumentation. To counter this the Skipper took a few steps away from the Clan Chief.

'Y'ain't the Skipper, I am,' she said passionately. Yeola balanced on the edge of the platform and bent down, ready for a dive, and as she lunged into it, ended the conversation.

'The only beast who decides what's best for me, is me.'