“What are we going to do?” Stanager had moved to stand close to the herdsman—though not so close as before.
“As I said, I do not know.” Ehomba brooded on the matter. “The answer is here. There is always an answer, or there could not be a problem. But I confess I do not see it. Not yet.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. A reassuring hand, devoid of secondary meaning. “Look hard then, herdsman. I will look elsewhere, and between us it can be hoped that a solution will be discovered.” Turning, she headed toward the main deck.
Left to himself, Ehomba contemplated fish and weed, sea and sky. Somehow the Grömsketter had to be pushed or pulled out of the valley and back onto the surface of the ocean proper. If it could not be done by wind or muscle power, then some other way must be found. His eyes fell to where the water lapped gently against the sturdy side of the ship.
If only Simna was right and I could talk to fish, he thought. But those fish he could speak with had little to say, fish not being noted even at their most amenable as being among the most voluble of conversationalists. Yet again it struck him forcefully what a wonderful place the valley would be to live, if only there was a little bit of land.
Of course, in the absence of land there were other things with which the appropriately equipped might endeavor to make a living. There was an abundance of fish, and calm conditions, and seaweeds in abundance.
A fragment of an old tale of Meruba’s popped into his head. He struggled to remember the details, to envision all of it, but it hovered frustratingly just out of reach, skipping and skittering away from his most strenuous efforts at recall.