The True Confessions of a Nine-Tailed Fox

Chapter 156: In Which the Foxling Attempts to Impress Flying Fish Village

If Den hadn't – gone gallivanting – off, coulda – ridden on his back, I panted.

The muscles in my wings were on fire. If we had to fly any longer, they were going to cramp up into two tight knots and I was going to fall out of the air.

I don't know about that, Stripey replied, not concerned for me at all. Can you hold on to his scales with your little claws? The wind might blow you right off.

Then he could have carried me in his claws. It's not like he needs them to fly.

Stripey beat his great wings once and glided, while I focused on keeping mine moving.

I see them! His exclamation jolted me out of my misery.

The village was a collection of dark rooftops that seemed oddly low compared to the skyline. In fact, a mob of agitated, gesticulating people towered over them. At their center, Den coiled protectively around Floridiana and Dusty.

Sigh. So much for a majestic, processional entrance.

Stripey and I flew over the heads of the villagers and landed on Den's coils. From this angle, I could see Bobo bunched up next to a white-haired old human woman. The village elder was sitting cross-legged on the grass, dipping a hog-bristle brush into a bowl of black paint. Her "paper" was a long, narrow mat woven from strips of dried leaves. Ignoring the material, the dimensions were the same as those of rice paper for a calligraphy scroll.

What's going on? I asked the crowd at large.

"Ssshe's writing a messsage for us!" Bobo said cheerfully, moving her head along with the brush strokes.

Pushing forward against Den's coils, Floridiana explained, "Their dialect is so different that we're having trouble understanding one another."

"They seem to be very concerned about keeping us away from the ocean," observed Den. "I think she's about to tell us why."

Personally, I thought the reason was painfully obvious and needed no explanation. You mean, besides you invading the fief of the Dragon King of the Western Sea and causing a diplomatic incident?

"Nope, it has to do with the flying fish," said Dusty, poking his nose over Den's coils. "We can't figure out what, though."

The flying fish? I tipped my head all the way to the side so I could read the elder's handwriting upside down. She used the formal, proper grammar that almost no one bothered with these days: "Honored, most welcome guests, we beseech you to keep your distance from the ocean during flying fish season."

Not useful. That much Floridiana and the others had already figured out.

Floridiana read the next lines out loud: "Only fishermen are permitted to be on the beach or in the water while they hold their annual battle with the flying fish spirits. It is unlucky to anger the spirits, for they might choose to drive their school to other villages next year."

We cocked our heads at one another as the villagers murmured among themselves, comparing her pronunciation to theirs.

Why do you need to battle the flying fish spirits? Why do they drive their school here? I asked the elder, using the same formal, proper grammar that she had.

The villagers' heads all jerked up, and they broke into grins.

"Oh, thank goodness, an interpreter! We were going to run out of scrolls if we had to write everything out. You can't imagine how long they take to weave!" blurted out one of the younger men. Although his accent was thick, it was close enough to the way we'd spoken in my childhood mountains that I could understand him.