Lead The Way

"A nice, friendly story about animals" my babes asked me to tell her while tucking her into bed

It was up in the mid wave of the Russian Grove that the Narwhal pack, led by the alpha male Bruce, was cruising one fine winter day. Bruce, the 15-foot 12-year-old leader of the crew with a 6-foot-two tusk, was guiding the pack along the waters of the frozen ice, each one contentedly enjoy the waters caressing their outer blubber layers. This was their home, one they'd come to learn and love through years of migration, exploration, and natural instincts telling them this was their domain in which to remain. And remain they typically did, except for the occasional season trip to venture other waters because Mother N. said so. Along with Bruce was a younger chap named Willie, the next male "in line" to led the pack once Bruce met his end, however that was to be. Willie, the 8-year-old prince, was slighter smaller than his superior Bruce, coming in at 12 1/2 feet with a tusk measuring around 4-foot-five. Those, at least, were the measurements produced by the "scientists" and explorers brave enough to venture near the mystifying juggernauts of the waters. Of course, these two-legged folks only made their presence in certain times and places. They knew better than attempt long duration's inside the realm where they did not, naturally, belong. Visitors and guests would always be just that. The waters were not their natural home. All members of the animal kingdom knew that. 

With Bruce, Willie, and the other males and females gliding calmly along the waters, they felt a stirring in the waters. Their waters. Out of nowhere really. It wasn't all too typical for their waters to be "stirred" by unusual motions that didn't come from everything they were used to feeling.

"What is that?" Billie asked. No one knew other. "What is that?" "What is that?" murmured the other members of the Bottled crew. Their motions, and instant swerving motions of their tusks indicating a state of implied panic.

"I'm not sure," Bruce filled the crew with direct uncertainty. "Not usual for these parts. Keep close everyone." He, Willie, and the others bunched up their gliding motions to prepare for whatever this new endeavor manifested.

Along the ways of the same shoreline area of the Grove, another Narwhal pack ventured into unknown waters of its own. Marco, the 10-year-old leader, measured in around 10 feet with a 8-foot long tusk. Not the most brute of enforcing leaders, he made up for it with stealthy motions while engaging in any sort of physical supremacy for territory, a meal, so forth. Marco was joined by Nabine and Neal, his related friends and the other successors to the Gavino pack. 

"You know where you're going, boss?" Neal said, through their whistles internal sound system. 

"No, not especially," Marco replied. "But that's all part of the journey, right? That's what we do." Sudden, swift jerking motions from the others meant an agreement of Marco's understanding of not knowing. "Come on," he whistled through the echoing vibrations of his skull. "Let's keep on our route. Sooner or later, we'll run into something or someone and figure things out from there." So, they followed their entrusted leader.

No more than a few swimming notions later did they come across the one thing they, more or less, were expecting to find: another pack of Narwhals. This wasn't necessarily a chance encounter. Nor was it a friendly one. This was a by-chance passing of two Narwhals pack's, pods as some may have called them, in the wild.

"Whom we do have here?" Bruce whistled out. 

"I'm Marco," the leader professed, through his clicks. "I have with me Neal and Nabine." He swiveled his tusk in either direction, indicating to whom he was referring. "This is my pack." They were constantly swimming around one another while engaging in their clicks. "And you are?" 

"I'm Bruce," the slightly older, alpha male clicked, its vibrations rippling through the nearby currents. "I have here Willie and the rest of my crew." He motioned over to Willie. "Mighty fine day out in these waters, huh? How is it you've come by these parts?" 

"Indeed it is. Indeed it is a fine day up here. We're just making our way around the voyages, scouting new territories. We happened to be around the Grove parts and decided to see if it was claimed or not."

"Is that so?" Bruce clicked out. There was a slightly attentive, perhaps a little nervy, tension in the way the click burst into the ripples. "Well, as you can plainly see, we are here. This is our usual territorial grounds. Just so happens that caught us strolling through."

"Well, sounds dandy," Marco acknowledged. "Seeing as how we're on our ways, is there any chance you or your fellow herd folk would be willing to show us where we can grab a meal? Supplies are in short hand these days, you know."

"As it so happens, we know of a usual place to spot for food," Bruce began. He was feeling a little impatient, especially for this newcomers around his. "Sure. But we aren't so eager to help out uninvited passerby'rs. Nothing personal. We don't mind an occasional cleaning up a meal. We just prefer finding our fill first. So, if you don't mind, please be on your way so we can continue our usual ways."

"We've come a long way," Marco insisted. "And we need to find a meal. How about if we jostle for territorial rights? Winner takes the area. Loser seeks new grounds. If not for a meal, for old times sake?" 

Bruce knew, as well as any Narwhal did, that territorial disputes were like the Fung Shao martial arts ways of honor and valor: you did not back down from a fight so as to maintain your honorable place in your realm, or face public humiliation from which there was no recovering. He had no problem facing this presumptive challenger. He needed something of a battle-like practice anyway, to show his pod he was indeed the alpha buck they knew him to be.

"Deal," Bruce whistled out. He maintained his peace, knowing anger or aggression would only heighten his nerves and render him unable to focus as he should, especially in his home waters.

"A few paces back, then we'll jostle," Marco insisted. He had no intention of losing this challenge. His beady eyes were full of promise, something everyone knew to be on alert for. "I'm aware of the technique," Bruce clicked back. He seemed unfazed. Another simple task to be done in my routine of tasks, he thought. But what must be done.

They picked up their motions and spun into places. With acknowledged looks, they started spinning currents. Marco seemed the faster one, brushing upwards of 20-30 miles per hour, or so any veteran marine biologist would note after witnessing the duel live and recording the event. Bruce eventually reached a respectable 18 or so miles per hour. He was clearly not interested in a speedy and forceful impact. He knew if his energy was expended in that alone, it would only drain him for the real fight would ensue. And these were fights that had to be won. Nature didn't favor sides. Just instincts.

They hurled closer. 15, 10, 5 yards. Then, with a swift and sideways motion of tactics, they locked their tusks in the waters and clashed. Wham! Their skulls bounced off each other for the briefest of moments. It was then that their tusks were like swords, stuck and rampant with clicking vibrations, jostling for position. Each tried to outdo the other with a nick, twist, turn or thrust of exerted force that could only be described as power. It went on like that for a few moments thereafter. Bruce was the stronger of the two, with his size and girth. He maintained control on his adversary, minding his surroundings and knowing how to control his long frame to balance his long spear. Marco, being the younger, faster and slightly less experienced, was simply trying to out maneuver his larger foe. He tried twisting this way, then that. He attempted to out-position Bruce in ways his brain conjured Bruce may not have known, possibly for not having ventured farther beyond his known territorial grounds.

Either way, Marco was the feistier of the two, without question. This was expected, though. The younger stud attempting to throw older guy off his throne. It was a classic approach, or so the other Narwhals swimming nearby garnered, from the constant swishing of the waves and such. 

They could also see Marco tiring as a result. Yes, he had determination and employed some use of his tusk to his, apparent, advantage. However, his energy in attempting to outdo Bruce, who was doing all he could in his brute self to maintain his shots and jolts, were coming to nothing. The joust would be over within moments, as David Attenborough of Discover Planet would have made narrative comment. 

Marco's last attempts were to constantly land pokes and jabs into Bruce's blubbery outer skin. It would have taken many such attempts, given that a Narwhals blubber coat was especially thick, simply for living in such northern conditions. So many meant excessive use of force and energy, without much concrete results to show for it. In other words, Neal and Nabine, Willie and the others could see that with each swinging motion, Marco was growing increasingly worn out. Bruce was exerting his force only when necessary. Marco lunged his tusk in one last attempt to penetrate a spot in Bruce's blubber his spec believed was drawing some blood, some type of puncture. However, this was countered with a sideways, twisting motion of Bruce's body and tough, pressing jab of his tusk to Marco's already deflated self. 

Marco decided that was it. If he wanted to continue searching for food and expect to live beyond this quarrel he knew he wouldn't win, he would have to surrender. And he did.

"Okay, okay," Marco clicked out, in half-Morse code like beats. He was obviously spent. "Bruce, old man, sir figure of the Grove. I humbly acknowledge you to be the better Narwhal."

Everyone looked at him in surprised suspense. This couldn't be happening, not to Marco. But it was. There was no lie in Marco's motions. "The territory is yours."

Bruce maintained his bruised, but capable, physique. "A fair and gracious Narwhal has become my adversary determined to lay claim to my territorial waters. But, this has not been his day. No hard feelings, son. It was a good fight. But this one did not belong to you."

"Shall we go?" Marco clicked.

Everyone knew the matter of finding a meal was still in question. Bruce knew that even if he did "send them away", it could possibly be quite a while before they found their next meal and would travel far to do so. He also knew his waters had some supply nearby.

"No," Bruce whistled calmly. "I propose that we join crews together and find ways to claim a meal as one Narwhal pod. The more of us searching together the better. These waters, bleak or rich as they may be, may not always guarantee food. We must work together for our cause."

"You may stay, all of you," Bruce clicked in declaration. "And help us find our meal."

"Lead the way, almighty Bruce," Marco whistled in acknowledgement. 

There was a wave of acknowledged unison and peace between the two traveling groups. They made their clicking introductions and continued to roam, together. It wasn't but a day or two later they stumbled across some of their chocolates, their indulgences: Greenland halibut, polar and Arctic cod, cuttlefish, shrimp and armhook squid. They swam towards their prey, some of which was dead, others still living, until it was within close range. They then sucked it in with considerable force into their mouths. That was the only way they knew how to do things. 

They continued to roam once everyone was thought to be filled with satisfaction. They formed a diamond like pod, no doubt cruising through their waters with a unified, satisfied sensation that could only be described as "together."