When her island sank, Arihi thought she would sink with it. Oh, it had taken time. Made of stone, covered by moss and lichen, Arihi’s home was as long and as wide as she was tall, and barely above the waves on its best days. It was only recently, however, that the island was utterly submerged, never again to break the surface. The water had been rising for so long now, and it had become inevitable that her home would be eventually lost.  And still, it hurt.  Especially now, when she could not stretch her toes and touch stone and breathe the air all at once. She treaded water with slow ease, her chest tightening, her mind reeling, and Arihi thought she was sad. Probably. The feeling was foreign enough that she could not name it confidently, but she thought too she might cry, which she had done once before.  A part of her had always thought she’d die if her island was ever destroyed. Yet when she held a hand to her face and saw it lime-green–still normal, still okay–Arihi conceded not for the first time she would not die without her island. Exhaustion might take her eventually, which gave her time to work out whether or not she would save herself.  For the waves were so high, and her home was lost, and Arihi could not understand why. There was much she didn’t understand. Like, why the air was sometimes cold and sometimes hot, or why the stars became harder and harder to see with each passing day. Or why there had been that terrible red and gold bloom across the horizon some moons ago. Arihi knew it hadn’t been a sunrise, for the moon was still high when it happened, and the color had seemed so angry, the world so quiet after… A nudge. Something beneath her, something sliding against her heel. Then there was a nibble–something bit at her toes–and Arihi wondered if the big and the little fishes, the toothed and toothless, were getting revenge on her after all these years.  Then there was a force, a pushing up and out of water beneath her, and the nibbling and nudging vanished, and something massive and powerful and gentle rose and rose and lifted her upon its back to the surface with the great, rushing roar of displaced water, so Arihi did not tread for the first time in many new moons.  Rather, she lay on her stomach, her shell-strewn hair clattering about, her face pressed against something taut and rubbery and smooth. She could feel muscles moving beneath her fingertips, could smell brine and salt, and smiled despite herself.  A whale.  “Hello,” Arihi said. The body of the whale rumbled; a tuft of water spouted from the hole on its head, and Arihi understood it. “Hello,” it said back. “Have I met you before?” “Many times.” A warm feeling bloomed in Arihi’s heart. An old friend then. She did not ask for its name, of course, since whales had nothing of the sort, but instead said, “it’s good to see you again,” and fell silent.  Arihi had met many a whale over her years, though less and less as of late. They were usually friendly, if not blunt. They were proud too, of their heritage and longevity. Often they brought her word of places far away; news of great islands many, many times larger than her own, with life upon them. They spoke of this life often, of things that flew and things that walked–even things that swam when such was not natural to them, which apparently was impressive.  More than anything, they spoke of man.  She looked like man, they told her. They stood upright like she did, and spoke in that same odd way she did, with her mouth and not her body.  There were times Arihi had pondered if she _was_ man. Often, she pondered this question aloud with the whales. Always, they insisted she was not. Whenever she tried to pry why that was so, they never answered straight.  Arihi had always wanted to see this other life, man and otherwise, but never before had she been able to leave her island. For she had loved it and it had loved her, until it was too far gone beneath the waves to provide her footing any longer. With it gone, Arihi felt the sudden clarity only the promise of adventure provides. And so, pressing her face against the whale’s back and delighting in its warmth, Arihi whispered, “where are you going, friend?” “I do not know.” A wanderer. Some whales liked to do that. Arihi had never understood the urge to simply _exist_, to always be moving–not until now, at least. For now she knew, if there was no place to call home, what choice did one have, if not wander? “Might you take me somewhere?” Arihi asked.  The whale did not answer at first. It glided along the water, some of which seeped over its back and caressed Arihi’s skin.  “That depends where,” the whale finally said. “Why?” The whale didn’t answer this, so Arihi continued with her request. “You know of those great islands your kind have told me of? The ones with flying and walking and all manner of life? I would like to see one of them.” Its reply was quick. “No.” Arihi blinked. “No?” Her mouth worked wordless questions, before she asked again, “why not?” The whale rumbled, and Arihi thought it was a sigh. “Because you cannot. I’m sorry. You might have liked them once, but they are too dangerous now.” “Because of man?” “Because of what man left behind.” “Oh.” A realization struck her, and Arihi frowned. “Is man… gone?” “In great and terrible fire, yes.” The whale hesitated. “I hardly understand it myself. The Great Levellers were here one day, and gone the next. What remains is sickness–should any life slink too close to these islands, they die. I have not seen their stone islands of noise and smoke, nor have I seen birds or any other creatures that walk. It puts me ill at ease. I will not take you there.” Arihi wasn’t sure how to feel about this. She settled for insistent. “When did you last see these islands?” “Some time ago. I cannot say for sure.” “Is it possible that the great islands are no longer sick?” And before the whale could answer, she continued. “Or is it possible we could help them? I cared for my island deeply. I kept it healthy, and clean, and safe, for as long as I could. I could do the same for the great islands.” “You cannot.” Arihi’s brows furrowed. “I… cannot?” Up the whale’s tail went–Arihi heard it break the water behind her, felt it slap back down. They propelled forwards on the wide ocean, an empty horizon as far as any eye could see–utterly alone.  “There are things that can never be as they once were,” the whale said. Up again came the tail, and down it again it went. “The great islands are lost, same as your own. The very seas are sick, and perhaps not far behind the land. All there is to do, is what we can.” For the first time in as long as she could remember, Arihi was lost. “What should I do?” she asked. “I cannot say.” “Where should I go?” she tried. “Where you want.” “I do not know where that might be.” A pause. “Then come with me,” the whale said. “I have not heard another cry of my kind in… some time. Your presence would be appreciated.” “And wander?” Arihi asked. The thought was somehow soothing and oddly funny all at once. “For how long?” “As long as you need.” Arihi pondered this for a little while. She flipped on her back and stared up at the sky. The sun was out. The sky was blue. There were clouds. She closed her eyes, and felt anew the warmth of the whale, the cold of the water. She thought of her little island sunk beneath the waves, now of the ocean.  “If we find a new home,” Arihi asked slowly, “will you stay there with me?” “... Yes.” Hesitation. Arihi didn’t think anything of it. She had never known a whale to lie. And this whale was her friend.  “Okay,” Arihi said. “You are sure?” “Not at all.” And Arihi grinned, and hoped the whale could tell. The whale did not respond.  The propelled onwards. Alone, in the vast and empty ocean.