Foraging

‘All waters of the sea together flow
But I, alone, am here with none beside
To watch with me the ebbing of the tide
Nor hear the seabird’s mournful cry ….’

‘A song for Seiglid!’ cried Idranil, as he leapt from the water. ‘Come, you misery. Wake up and join us, we must eat.’ He shook his dripping body, causing the flying drops to spatter Seiglid where he lay on the rock. ‘My nan has a bowl full to the brim and she’ll be distressed if we don’t eat it all. Come on, move, you stone, you solid lump!’
His well-aimed toe shifted Seiglid, who jumped up to find with relief that he could laugh and roar with the best. They ran awkwardly down the rock, wide feet sliding, arms held out for balance.
Feeding is a random thing among the folk but usually follows the tide’s ebb, when the beach has been gleaned and the bowls are full; full of limpets and winkles, of tiny crabs and edible weed. First the little ones are fed, their elders popping the choicest morsels into their groping mouths. Then the oldest grandsires hold out their cupped hands to be filled. The women of the folk eat as best they can, always on the move, with a special care for young mothers with their babies still at their breasts. The sires, the fathers of the sea folk, rarely join this communal feast. They find their food alone, out in the wild waters, although sometimes one would step forward proudly to take the good things offered by his womenfolk. The youngsters, the unproven useless boys, had to take their chances. When there was plenty it was lavished upon them with yearning love for their vulnerable youth, but if there was little to spare they were beaten off and forced to forage for themselves, so they could learn to survive when the testing time of venture came.
Led by Idranil they edged around the group, grinning, a cupped hand held out in hope, and sure enough the bowls were laden and they could have their fill. The afternoon sun warmed the sheltered beach and the folk rested and talked. Young maidens spread out their hair with combs of white bone, little maids at their sides waited to be groomed too. Babies were rocked in old nans’ arms or were crooned over by loving sisters as they lay sleeping in warm nests in the sand. The lazy youths stretched their limbs and their eyes slid often to their heroes.
As the shadows lengthened the tide emptied out of the cove once more and the women wandered away to search the glistening rocks again. Idranil, with Gladrid, lay in the water’s ripple and sway, playing with the little ones who rolled and dived into the curling waves at their feet. One old nan lay on the swell, a baby in her arms, pinching his nose shut whenever the waves broke over them both, laughing at his sneezing splutter, echoing with him the broken wave sounds.
‘Tsh-tsh then, tsh-tshsh, my little one.’ And she sang one of the many lullabies of the folk, her voice warm with love. Babies on the beach were held and surrounded constantly with love; comfy arms cuddled them, gentle fingers stroked them, there were no harsh words: the sea would be their master soon enough.
After a second mealtime, in the long level light of evening, the folk began to settle to sleep. Scratching and yawning, shuffling out familiar sleeping troughs in the soft sand, they muttered the warnings, the old safeguards to keep death, the longest shadow, away.
‘Morning bright to my sight come in flight, end this night.’ Idranil rattled the words away as he always did, shifting and stretching in the comfort of the cave, tumbled among his companions. Ever since they had left their mothers’ sides they had slept like this, limbs tangled together, drawing warmth. Young men of the same year of borning, they waited, some sleepless, for their days of venture.