Rivo and the Song That Knew the Way

Rivo the tiger cub had one favourite song.

It was not a very long song. It was not a very fancy song. It was just four quiet notes — low, low, high, low — that he hummed under his breath while he padded along the sandy paths of Crestholm Reef, where every home was a different shell.

He hummed it at breakfast, when the morning tide came in all pink and fizzy. He hummed it at bath time, when the water smelled of sea-salt and warm stone. He hummed it walking to bed, when the lantern-fish began to glow in their little glass jars above the doorways. Low, low, high, low. Always exactly the same four notes.

One evening, Rivo's neighbour Possel — an old hermit crab who lived in a swirly purple conch — leaned out of her front window as he passed.

"You again with that song," said Possel. She did not say it unkindly. She was just noticing.

"Do you know it?" Rivo asked.

Possel tipped her head. "I know it goes low, low, high, low," she said. "I don't know where it goes after that."

Rivo blinked. He had never wondered where it went after that. He only ever hummed the first four notes and then started again.

He walked on, thinking about it.

The path curved past the big moon-clam where Whellin lived. Whellin was a young eel with a very long, very serious face, who spent his evenings rearranging smooth pebbles into careful rows. He looked up when he heard Rivo humming.

"That sound," said Whellin. "I feel like it needs something after the last note."

"What sort of something?" Rivo asked.

Whellin was quiet for a moment. "Something that goes up," he said, a little uncertain. "But softer."

Rivo tried it. Low, low, high, low — then a very soft, very gentle note, a little higher than all the others.

He stood very still on the path.

It felt exactly right.

He felt a little surprised. He felt a little like he was standing somewhere he had never stood before, even though it was the same sandy path he walked every single night.

He said thank you to Whellin, who nodded and went back to his pebbles.

The path wound past the tall spiral home of old Senna the starfish, who was already asleep on her porch, her five arms spread wide like she was hugging the evening. Rivo walked quietly so he would not wake her.

He hummed his song all the way to his own door — a large rosy scallop shell, hinged at the top, that creaked in a friendly way when he pushed it open.

He sat down just inside, on his little mat, and hummed the whole song one more time.

Low, low, high, low, and then the soft note at the end.

Outside, the lantern-fish glowed. The tide made its slow, shushing sound. Somewhere up the path, Possel's conch shell was dark and quiet.

Rivo hummed the song again, just to make sure it was still there.

It was.