The Coming of Whales
By Debbie Robertson
July 15, 2023
July 15, 2023
This is a story of a village by the sea.
The shopkeepers in the village smile when they say “Good morning!” and the children of the village play long after sundown on the village square.
The people of the village are fit and happy. They tend their gardens and they dance at celebrations. And if someone is ever in need, everyone lends a helping hand.
It is that kind of village.
But it has not always been that way.
The story I tell you is true.
But before you hear this story, you must hear about something strange and marvelous—as all marvelous things are also strange.
It is the story of the three whale islands, dark and somber in the pale blue sea.
And before that story, it is the story of the village, the way it was long ago.
But, like all stories, the three stories are really one, and so we begin.
There was once a village by the sea.
Quiet and quaint, it had flowerboxes in all its windows and church bells that rang every hour without fail.
Its people were fishermen, and they took from the sea what they needed, never more, and they all lived well that way.
When a child was sick, when a motor was broken, when a roof needed mending, everyone knew and everyone helped.
In other places, the world swirled and roiled, and anger found its way in strange forms and patterns, but here, in the village by the sea, life was quiet and good.
Then, one day, a stranger came to the village. His smile was wet and his manner brusque.
"Fishing good here?" he asked, and the fishermen nodded and showed him their nets.
"I'll give you a hundred dollars for your catch," he said.
The fishermen's eyes grew wide. Never had a price been put to their work, for they worked for each other, their families and such.
But a hundred dollars.
Eager hands made the exchange, the rough, calloused hands of the fishermen and the soft, pink hands of the stranger.
He packed the silver of fish into brown burlap lined boxes while the fishermen whistled as they wended their way home with a different silver jangling in their pockets.
The next day the stranger came again.
And the next.
And the next.
And each time it was the same: a hundred dollars for a net full of fish. Each catch, a hundred dollars.
So, bit by bit, things began to change.
The fishermen started working longer. When the village bells rang at five o'clock, the fishermen were in their boats already, hoping for a day of two or even three catches to give the stranger.
Their families ate beans for dinner.
But the silver that jangled in the fishermen's pockets soon filled the jars in the kitchens of their houses. Their wives dreamed of new dresses from the city, their children of toys they'd heard of but never seen, and they themselves of vacations away from the sea.
The flower boxes went untended, and the children stopped playing in the village square.
But then, odd things began to happen.
One morning, Mr. Macready found his boat motor filled with water.
And then Mr. Sampson found his fishing nets slashed in two.
And Mr. Worthing found a bar of soap spoiling the water in his hold.
And no one's eyes dared meet another's, and no one offered to help.
And still the stranger came.
One night, there was a violent storm. Lightning tore at the sky. Thunder boomed, and no one slept. The sea raged at the fishing boats tied up in the harbor, and in the morning, a thick fog shrouded the village.
As the villagers crept out of their houses, they eyed each other warily and made their way to the harbor to determine if their boats had made it through the storm.
They peered through the fog at the sea.
At the entrance to the harbor, there were three shapes, large and looming. Three shapes, dark and round. The villagers were sore afraid.
And, as the sun brought daylight to the village, so did it bring dimension to the three shapes.
They arched from the water like the backs of giant whales, each facing west, and the daylight did nothing to stop the frenzied beating of the villagers' hearts.
But that day, the fishermen chugged out in their boats as usual.
But that day, no fish came to their nets.
And at sunset, when the stranger appeared, they had nothing to give to him, and no silver in their pockets as they made their way home.
That night, the fog returned.
The next day, the whale islands were the first to appear out of the mist of gray.
And that day, the fishermen went out as usual.
But once more, they caught nothing.
The stranger did not smile this time.
It was the same the next day and the next.
And finally, the stranger came no more.
With no fish to catch, there was no reason for a village by the sea.
One by one, the fishermen and their families left the village. One by one, the houses became empty.
The whale islands stood in the harbor, but the village bells rang no more.
Then one evening, a young man in his wanderings happened upon the village. He was a man who had the habit of walking alone. His eyes were the color of the sea, and his hair a golden sunset.
As he entered the village, a small bird in a bramble of roses greeted him merrily, but he had no answer. Never, in the last seven years had he spoken a word.
There had been a war, a war that had taken his parents. He had been a boy of twelve, utterly alone.
So he had left the world of people, and he had begun just to walk, for this he loved. The hills, the fields, took nothing from him, and the butterflies and birds had so many stories to tell.
Making his way through the village, he stopped when he came to the harbor. Deserted boats groaned in their moors.
But out there, at the entrance to the harbor, silhouetted by the reddening sun, there were three shapes, large and looming. The three whale islands, dark and round. Three somber shadows, mesmerizing and mysterious. Three entrancing, enchanting, enticing figures, captivating him, compelling him, calling his name.
Unhitching a small wooden boat from its moorings, he rowed swiftly to the first of the islands. Exploring its surface, he found it totally devoid of vegetation, its surface smooth, strangely smooth. It seemed to roll under his feet, rocking, rocking. And in its rocking, it spoke once more: a lullaby caressing his heart.
He decided to stay the night.
As the first stars twinkled in the twilight, the fog feathered out along the shore, then a scarf of gray spread along the shoulders of the horizon, spreading, spreading, spreading, until the islands, too, were shrouded in gray.
The boy could not sleep, so strange were the feelings he encountered.
All night long, the island rocked him gently. All around him, a song whispered in his ears, a harmony of notes and melodies, of the whale islands and the sea, a music, unearthly, a music singing into his soul.
His ears were filled with wonder; his mind full to a truth unknown.
Finally, at dawn, he slept.
Morning awakened bright and golden. And to the young man, it brought a new purpose. Morning brought him words he had to tell.
Rowing swiftly back to the village, he then set off to return to the world of people once more. Purpose brought a sense of urgency. So important was the story he must share.
For many days he walked, the message of the whale islands tumbling about in his head. The song they had sung to him brought him the words he would use to tell his tale.
And so he came to the place where the fishermen and their families had settled. At the edge of a great city they lived, but not well, and not happy.
As he beckoned them to listen, they gathered ‘round.
“You must return to the village. You must bring your families and you must fish once more.
“The shapes in the harbor are great whales, from far, far away. Your village they had sought as a refuge, for their world had been swirling and roiling too fast, and cruelty was upon the waters. They had heard that life in your village was quiet and good, that the oceans you fished were gentle and bounteous. Traveling long and long, they finally came to your village by the sea.
“But when they arrived, the village was not what they had heard. Something had happened. The silver of the sea had been replaced by the silver in men's pockets. But after so long a journey, they could not return. They decided to act.
“The night of lightning and thunder was the first of the warnings. Then the fog and the nets that came up empty. 'Twas all of a plan to change your hearts. But then you left, and their plan went with you.
“What they want is to live in peace, to have harmony with each other, with the sea and with man. That is way that they had been once, and that is the way they wish to be now.
“So they went me to tell you of their promise: Return to the village. Put flowers back in the window boxes. Let the bells ring loud and clear. Let shopkeepers smile when the say ‘Good morning.’ Let children play long and long on the village square. And fish what you need, never more. And be happy, as happy as a people can be.”
And so it was.
The villagers returned to their village by the sea.
And when Mrs. Macready's boy was sick, all the neighbors brought soup and homemade remedies.
And when Mr. Sampson's motor needed fixing, every fisherman had an idea about what to do.
And when Mr. Worthy needed a new roof, everyone pitched in to help.
And the people were happy.
The waves lap gently on the boats in the harbor.
The sun sets in pinks and oranges and rises with the same gentle hush.
And the whale islands wait.
For the time, they are safe.
But they wait.
Until the rest of the world listens, too.
The shopkeepers in the village smile when they say “Good morning!” and the children of the village play long after sundown on the village square.
The people of the village are fit and happy. They tend their gardens and they dance at celebrations. And if someone is ever in need, everyone lends a helping hand.
It is that kind of village.
But it has not always been that way.
The story I tell you is true.
But before you hear this story, you must hear about something strange and marvelous—as all marvelous things are also strange.
It is the story of the three whale islands, dark and somber in the pale blue sea.
And before that story, it is the story of the village, the way it was long ago.
But, like all stories, the three stories are really one, and so we begin.
There was once a village by the sea.
Quiet and quaint, it had flowerboxes in all its windows and church bells that rang every hour without fail.
Its people were fishermen, and they took from the sea what they needed, never more, and they all lived well that way.
When a child was sick, when a motor was broken, when a roof needed mending, everyone knew and everyone helped.
In other places, the world swirled and roiled, and anger found its way in strange forms and patterns, but here, in the village by the sea, life was quiet and good.
Then, one day, a stranger came to the village. His smile was wet and his manner brusque.
"Fishing good here?" he asked, and the fishermen nodded and showed him their nets.
"I'll give you a hundred dollars for your catch," he said.
The fishermen's eyes grew wide. Never had a price been put to their work, for they worked for each other, their families and such.
But a hundred dollars.
Eager hands made the exchange, the rough, calloused hands of the fishermen and the soft, pink hands of the stranger.
He packed the silver of fish into brown burlap lined boxes while the fishermen whistled as they wended their way home with a different silver jangling in their pockets.
The next day the stranger came again.
And the next.
And the next.
And each time it was the same: a hundred dollars for a net full of fish. Each catch, a hundred dollars.
So, bit by bit, things began to change.
The fishermen started working longer. When the village bells rang at five o'clock, the fishermen were in their boats already, hoping for a day of two or even three catches to give the stranger.
Their families ate beans for dinner.
But the silver that jangled in the fishermen's pockets soon filled the jars in the kitchens of their houses. Their wives dreamed of new dresses from the city, their children of toys they'd heard of but never seen, and they themselves of vacations away from the sea.
The flower boxes went untended, and the children stopped playing in the village square.
But then, odd things began to happen.
One morning, Mr. Macready found his boat motor filled with water.
And then Mr. Sampson found his fishing nets slashed in two.
And Mr. Worthing found a bar of soap spoiling the water in his hold.
And no one's eyes dared meet another's, and no one offered to help.
And still the stranger came.
One night, there was a violent storm. Lightning tore at the sky. Thunder boomed, and no one slept. The sea raged at the fishing boats tied up in the harbor, and in the morning, a thick fog shrouded the village.
As the villagers crept out of their houses, they eyed each other warily and made their way to the harbor to determine if their boats had made it through the storm.
They peered through the fog at the sea.
At the entrance to the harbor, there were three shapes, large and looming. Three shapes, dark and round. The villagers were sore afraid.
And, as the sun brought daylight to the village, so did it bring dimension to the three shapes.
They arched from the water like the backs of giant whales, each facing west, and the daylight did nothing to stop the frenzied beating of the villagers' hearts.
But that day, the fishermen chugged out in their boats as usual.
But that day, no fish came to their nets.
And at sunset, when the stranger appeared, they had nothing to give to him, and no silver in their pockets as they made their way home.
That night, the fog returned.
The next day, the whale islands were the first to appear out of the mist of gray.
And that day, the fishermen went out as usual.
But once more, they caught nothing.
The stranger did not smile this time.
It was the same the next day and the next.
And finally, the stranger came no more.
With no fish to catch, there was no reason for a village by the sea.
One by one, the fishermen and their families left the village. One by one, the houses became empty.
The whale islands stood in the harbor, but the village bells rang no more.
Then one evening, a young man in his wanderings happened upon the village. He was a man who had the habit of walking alone. His eyes were the color of the sea, and his hair a golden sunset.
As he entered the village, a small bird in a bramble of roses greeted him merrily, but he had no answer. Never, in the last seven years had he spoken a word.
There had been a war, a war that had taken his parents. He had been a boy of twelve, utterly alone.
So he had left the world of people, and he had begun just to walk, for this he loved. The hills, the fields, took nothing from him, and the butterflies and birds had so many stories to tell.
Making his way through the village, he stopped when he came to the harbor. Deserted boats groaned in their moors.
But out there, at the entrance to the harbor, silhouetted by the reddening sun, there were three shapes, large and looming. The three whale islands, dark and round. Three somber shadows, mesmerizing and mysterious. Three entrancing, enchanting, enticing figures, captivating him, compelling him, calling his name.
Unhitching a small wooden boat from its moorings, he rowed swiftly to the first of the islands. Exploring its surface, he found it totally devoid of vegetation, its surface smooth, strangely smooth. It seemed to roll under his feet, rocking, rocking. And in its rocking, it spoke once more: a lullaby caressing his heart.
He decided to stay the night.
As the first stars twinkled in the twilight, the fog feathered out along the shore, then a scarf of gray spread along the shoulders of the horizon, spreading, spreading, spreading, until the islands, too, were shrouded in gray.
The boy could not sleep, so strange were the feelings he encountered.
All night long, the island rocked him gently. All around him, a song whispered in his ears, a harmony of notes and melodies, of the whale islands and the sea, a music, unearthly, a music singing into his soul.
His ears were filled with wonder; his mind full to a truth unknown.
Finally, at dawn, he slept.
Morning awakened bright and golden. And to the young man, it brought a new purpose. Morning brought him words he had to tell.
Rowing swiftly back to the village, he then set off to return to the world of people once more. Purpose brought a sense of urgency. So important was the story he must share.
For many days he walked, the message of the whale islands tumbling about in his head. The song they had sung to him brought him the words he would use to tell his tale.
And so he came to the place where the fishermen and their families had settled. At the edge of a great city they lived, but not well, and not happy.
As he beckoned them to listen, they gathered ‘round.
“You must return to the village. You must bring your families and you must fish once more.
“The shapes in the harbor are great whales, from far, far away. Your village they had sought as a refuge, for their world had been swirling and roiling too fast, and cruelty was upon the waters. They had heard that life in your village was quiet and good, that the oceans you fished were gentle and bounteous. Traveling long and long, they finally came to your village by the sea.
“But when they arrived, the village was not what they had heard. Something had happened. The silver of the sea had been replaced by the silver in men's pockets. But after so long a journey, they could not return. They decided to act.
“The night of lightning and thunder was the first of the warnings. Then the fog and the nets that came up empty. 'Twas all of a plan to change your hearts. But then you left, and their plan went with you.
“What they want is to live in peace, to have harmony with each other, with the sea and with man. That is way that they had been once, and that is the way they wish to be now.
“So they went me to tell you of their promise: Return to the village. Put flowers back in the window boxes. Let the bells ring loud and clear. Let shopkeepers smile when the say ‘Good morning.’ Let children play long and long on the village square. And fish what you need, never more. And be happy, as happy as a people can be.”
And so it was.
The villagers returned to their village by the sea.
And when Mrs. Macready's boy was sick, all the neighbors brought soup and homemade remedies.
And when Mr. Sampson's motor needed fixing, every fisherman had an idea about what to do.
And when Mr. Worthy needed a new roof, everyone pitched in to help.
And the people were happy.
The waves lap gently on the boats in the harbor.
The sun sets in pinks and oranges and rises with the same gentle hush.
And the whale islands wait.
For the time, they are safe.
But they wait.
Until the rest of the world listens, too.
Debbie Robertson divides her year between the United States and France, loving the summer and winter skyline sunrises of Houston, Texas and reveling in the spring and fall mountain sunsets in the Alpes de Haute Provence. Her works have appeared most recently in Toute la Vallée, a French journal. She has written plays and “operas” for children’s theatre, and parallel text (English-French) short stories. Other publishers include the Houston Chronicle, Good Apple, and Libraries Unlimited.
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