Summary: The lutrid people have lived along the seacoasts and rivers of Terra for aeons. Their history, shrouded in myth, is a cherished treasure passed from generation to generation. Tonight is the night of the Beginning ceremony, little Ora will take his place among his people, and time moves on with the steady rhythm of the pounding waves.
(C) 2005, Nathan Ryan

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The gleam in little Ora's eyes was unmistakable. I knew what he was looking forward to, even before today's banquet. Sure, he ate hungrily enough when the femme folk brought the meal to the serving table, but I could tell. The food had been perfect. Nearly perfect, I remind myself. It was a good year for carrots and potatoes. The bass that Gren and I had fished up had all be broiled, baked, or barbecued with skill. Their heads still sat on the table, waiting to be returned to the waters from whence they came. If only we were all so fortunate.

The waning half moon was easing his was to his zenith, devouring the stars in his path until they emerged unharmed on the other side of the night's brightest wanderer. "Pamaja, does the moon go home every night? 'Cause he always comes from the east."

I couldn't help but smile at my grandson's innocent question. Four years old is perhaps a bit too young to understand how the moon circles Terra, how Terra is in constant movement – spinning and circling the sun like an unbalanced top. But the moon does return to the same place in the sky every day. "Yes Ora," I answered, "It does go home every night."

My eyes wandered to our friends and neighbors who had gathered with us at this hill above the beach. Though the ocean breeze chilled me, my lutrid pelt kept me plenty warm. The polite, quiet conversation of my neighbors and rhythmic churning of the beach lulled me into water peace. I could already see that this inner calm had settled onto the others as well. Even little Ora was placid, though fully awake and aware. My vision drifted back up to the moon. Its position was right. It was time. Once more I glanced to the ocean with a sigh. You remember, old friend. Now we must.

Near the fire I saw Gren was already settling himself down behind the hand-drums. Our eyes met for a brief moment. He smiled sadly. Though he'd practiced the hand-drums for all his life, this was the first year he'd be playing them at the Beginning ceremony. That had always been his Paja Jara's privilege. But Jara died eight months ago. Gren would be our drummer now until the day he swims to the end of his stream and dies.

The soft rhythmic beat of his drum wakes me from my memories of that great male who was his Paja. Already I hear the conversations of the others dying off. I make my way to the fireside even as all the others do. It's always struck me as strange how we elders preside over what we call the Beginning ceremony. It always seems we are so near our own end when it comes time to remember the start. Still, I repress that thought. Now is the time to begin. My tenor voice carries lightly over the drums and waves.

"And the island spoke," I said, starting the story that had been inculcated in my mind since childhood – as it had been for all of us. We adults all knew the take by rote. In a few short years, Ora would also. "And she said to the sea, 'I am lonesome.'

"The sea answered and said, 'Am I not enough for you? Have I not always been with you? Why do you wish for more?'

"And the island spoke and she said to the sea, 'I want children.'

"The sea answered and said, 'Am I not here for you? Have I not caressed your shores? Why do you wish for more?'

"And the island spoke and he said to the sea, 'I will have them.'

"The sea sighed. Never had he seen discontent and he didn't like it. So he caressed the shores of the island until two forms were carved out of the sand. And the sea filled their veins and the air filled their lungs, and they opened their eyes.

"'Where am I?' asked the first. 'What am I?' asked the second.

"So the sea answered them. 'You are in paradise. You are a gift for the land. You are children of the land and sea.' Then the island named her children. She called them lutrid. The lutrids walked through the green land. They ate from the roots and fruits. They swam through the sweet waters of the sea (for the sea was not yet salty). They ate of the fish and the shellfish."

I paused, letting the pace of the story fall into the proper lull. My listeners would need this moment to ponder paradise. The firewood popped softly in the darkness, a random dissonance for the rhythmic roar of the nearby ocean waves and Gren's ceremonial drumbeat.

It was time to continue. "Then one day the first lutrids spoke to their mother, the island. They said, 'We are not satisfied.'

"So the island answered and said, 'Am I not enough for you? Have I not always been with you? Why do you wish for more?'

"But the lutrids didn't listen. They turned to the sea and said, "We want something better.'

"So the sea answered and said, 'Am I not here for you? Have I not caressed your fur? Why do you wish for more?'

"And the lutrids spoke, and they said to their mother island and father sea, 'We will find it.'

"And so the lutrids dove into the sweet sea. They slipped through the soft waters and rainbow corrals, past fish that flew through the waters and those that flew through the air. When they grew tired, they would rest. When they would rest, they could hear the island cry for them. But they knew not the sound of tears, for they had never known sadness.

"Further and further they swam, searching for what was better than paradise. They saw many things. They saw dolphins large enough to swallow them whole. They saw squid that could block out the sun with their ink. They saw sea monsters that ate other sea monsters. For the first time they were afraid, but they could not go back. Faster and faster they swam in their fear. At least, when they could swim no farther, they came upon land. They crawled up upon the rocky shore and slept. When they slept, they could hear the sea cry for them, but they knew not the sound of tears, for they had never known sadness.

"The sun fell and the sun rose. A new day dawned. When the lutrids awoke and looked around, they saw that the land they had come to was rocky and harsh. The trees had little fruit. The tubers were scanty. The shellfish were small. 'This is not better than paradise,' said the one lutrid. 'This place is less than perfect,' said the other. So they decided to swim back home.

"When they stepped into the ocean, they found themselves lighter than before. 'Something is wrong,' said the one. They dove into the waters and began to swim, but the tears from the sea had turned the ocean salty. The waters did not smell right. They could not find their way home. They continued to swim for years, but did not find paradise. In time, they found their way back to the new land that they had found before. They dragged themselves up onto the rocks and they cried. Now they knew the sound their mother island and father sea had made when they left. Now they knew sadness."

In time with my last word, Gren's drumbeat ceased. There we stood in the salty sea breeze, fifteen descendants of the first lutrids – the ones who had forsaken our home. "No one has ever found our home since then. It is said the island would permit no more children for herself and that she still cries." My eyes swept over these friends and relatives, neighbors all. "We will never go home again. But let's show kindness by returning what is left of our meal to the sea from whence it came."

Without another word, we all rose. Ora's mother took him by the paw and lifted him up, carrying him with the group to the beach. Two of our number walked to the table and collected the remains of our meal – charred fish heads, bone, and fin. With downturned heads they began to carry these things back to the waves.

If only our ancestors had known the content that is now inheritance of every lutrid, things would have been so different. I may not have believed the stories of our past when I was younger, but I had come to. Seeing how they helped my people be content, self-sufficient, and kind is all I needed to be sure of the story's validity. I watch carefully as the fishy remains are placed in a basket, sealed shut, and then waded out past the waves. The tides ebb will take it away into the sea – will take it home.

I nodded slightly and whispered a prayer.