dismissive wave in Ethan's direction. "He's just a puppy. He ain't up ta the deal. We been watching him for a while now, and we had our hopes, but Coyote's done come sooner than ever we thought. So now, Johnny, I'm asking ya one more time. What are we ta do now? How can we stop Coyote? Where can we turn?"
There was a pause, during which Johnny Speakwater emitted a series of fizzings and burps and irritable teakettle whistlings. The letter-scroll trembled in the ferishers' hands. From somewhere nearby came the disrespectful cackling of a crow. Then there was a deep splorp from inside Johnny Speakwater, and a jet of clear, shining water shot from between the lips of his shell. It lanced across the foot or so of air that separated the clam and the letter-scroll, and hit with a loud, thick splat against a letter that looked something like a curly U with a cross in the center of it.
"Ah!" cried all the ferishers. Cinquefoil scratched the U-and-cross into the sand.
One letter at a time, slowly, with deadly accuracy, Johnny Speakwater spat out his prophecy. As each wad of thick clam saliva hit the parchment, the letter affected was copied into the sand by Cinquefoil, and then wiped clean. The clam spat more quickly as he went along and then, when he had hawked up about forty-five blasts, he stopped. A faint, clammy sigh escaped him, and then his shell creaked shut again. Ferishers gathered around the inscription, many of them murmuring the words. Then one by one they turned to look at Ethan with renewed interest.
"What does it say?" Ethan said. "Why are you all looking at me?"
Ringfinger Brown went over to take a look at the prophecy in the sand. He rubbed at the bald place on the back of his gray head, then held out his hand to Cinquefoil. The chief handed him the stick, and the old scout scratched two fresh sentences under the strange ferisher marks.
"That about right?" he asked the chief.
Cinquefoil nodded.
"What did I tell you, then," Ringfinger said. "What did I say ?"
Ethan leaned forward to see how the old man had translated the words of the oracular clam.
FELD IS THE WANTED ONE
FELD HAS THE STUFF HE NEEDS
When he read these words, Ethan felt a strange warmth fill his belly. He was the wanted one—the champion. He had the stuff. He turned back to look at Johnny Speakwater, flush with gratitude toward the clam for having such faith in him when no one else did. What he saw, when he turned, made him cry out in horror.
" The crow! " he said. "He has Johnny!"
In all the excitement over the words of the prophecy, the prophet had been forgotten.
"It ain't a crow," Cinquefoil said. "It's a raven. I'd lay even money it's Coyote himself."
When their backs were turned, the great black bird must have swooped down from the trees. Now it was lurching his way skyward with the clam clutched in both talons. Its wings beat fitfully against the air. It was a huge and powerful bird, but the enormous clam was giving it problems. It dipped and staggered and listed to one side. Ethan could hear the clam whistling and burbling in desperation as it was carried away.
Something came over Ethan then. Perhaps he was feeling charged from the vote of confidence Johnny Speakwater had given him. Or perhaps he was just angered, as any of us would be, by seeing an outrage perpetrated on an innocent clam. He had seen birds on the Fauna Channel making meals out of bivalves. He had a vision of Johnny Speakwater being dropped from the sky onto some rocks, the great stony shell shattered and lying in shards. He saw the sharp yellow beak of the raven ripping into the featureless, soft grayish-pink flesh that was all Johnny Speakwater had for a body. In any case he took off down the beach, after the raven, shouting, "Hey! You come back here! Hey!"
The raven was not making good time under all that weight. The nearer he got to the robber bird, the angrier Ethan got. Now he was just underneath the struggling pair of wings, right at the edge of the
There was a pause, during which Johnny Speakwater emitted a series of fizzings and burps and irritable teakettle whistlings. The letter-scroll trembled in the ferishers' hands. From somewhere nearby came the disrespectful cackling of a crow. Then there was a deep splorp from inside Johnny Speakwater, and a jet of clear, shining water shot from between the lips of his shell. It lanced across the foot or so of air that separated the clam and the letter-scroll, and hit with a loud, thick splat against a letter that looked something like a curly U with a cross in the center of it.
"Ah!" cried all the ferishers. Cinquefoil scratched the U-and-cross into the sand.
One letter at a time, slowly, with deadly accuracy, Johnny Speakwater spat out his prophecy. As each wad of thick clam saliva hit the parchment, the letter affected was copied into the sand by Cinquefoil, and then wiped clean. The clam spat more quickly as he went along and then, when he had hawked up about forty-five blasts, he stopped. A faint, clammy sigh escaped him, and then his shell creaked shut again. Ferishers gathered around the inscription, many of them murmuring the words. Then one by one they turned to look at Ethan with renewed interest.
"What does it say?" Ethan said. "Why are you all looking at me?"
Ringfinger Brown went over to take a look at the prophecy in the sand. He rubbed at the bald place on the back of his gray head, then held out his hand to Cinquefoil. The chief handed him the stick, and the old scout scratched two fresh sentences under the strange ferisher marks.
"That about right?" he asked the chief.
Cinquefoil nodded.
"What did I tell you, then," Ringfinger said. "What did I say ?"
Ethan leaned forward to see how the old man had translated the words of the oracular clam.
FELD IS THE WANTED ONE
FELD HAS THE STUFF HE NEEDS
When he read these words, Ethan felt a strange warmth fill his belly. He was the wanted one—the champion. He had the stuff. He turned back to look at Johnny Speakwater, flush with gratitude toward the clam for having such faith in him when no one else did. What he saw, when he turned, made him cry out in horror.
" The crow! " he said. "He has Johnny!"
In all the excitement over the words of the prophecy, the prophet had been forgotten.
"It ain't a crow," Cinquefoil said. "It's a raven. I'd lay even money it's Coyote himself."
When their backs were turned, the great black bird must have swooped down from the trees. Now it was lurching his way skyward with the clam clutched in both talons. Its wings beat fitfully against the air. It was a huge and powerful bird, but the enormous clam was giving it problems. It dipped and staggered and listed to one side. Ethan could hear the clam whistling and burbling in desperation as it was carried away.
Something came over Ethan then. Perhaps he was feeling charged from the vote of confidence Johnny Speakwater had given him. Or perhaps he was just angered, as any of us would be, by seeing an outrage perpetrated on an innocent clam. He had seen birds on the Fauna Channel making meals out of bivalves. He had a vision of Johnny Speakwater being dropped from the sky onto some rocks, the great stony shell shattered and lying in shards. He saw the sharp yellow beak of the raven ripping into the featureless, soft grayish-pink flesh that was all Johnny Speakwater had for a body. In any case he took off down the beach, after the raven, shouting, "Hey! You come back here! Hey!"
The raven was not making good time under all that weight. The nearer he got to the robber bird, the angrier Ethan got. Now he was just underneath the struggling pair of wings, right at the edge of the
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