The Seven Songs by T. A. Barron

But I heard nothing except the endless sighing of the sea.
    In time I came to a rocky peninsula that jutted seaward, vanishing into the curling mist. As I stood there, wondering whether to search among the wet rocks, an orange crab ran across the toe of my boot. The crab paused, raising its little eyes as if it were examining me. Then it skittered onto the peninsula and disappeared.
    For some reason I felt drawn to this little creature that, like me, wandered this shore alone. Without thinking, I followed it onto the peninsula. Mist enveloped me. I moved carefully across the rocks, trying not to slip. Although the crab seemed to have vanished, I soon spotted another spiral shell. It lay on a flat slab coated with green algae. Even larger than the one Bumbelwy had destroyed, this shell was almost as big as my own head. It glowed with a deep blue luster, despite the unusual shadow that seemed to quiver on its surface. Certain that the shadow was only a trick of the rolling mist, I approached.
    With each step I took toward it, the shell seemed more lovely. Gleaming white lines framed its graceful curves. I felt strangely drawn to it, captivated by its radiant hues.
    Only the wisest shell . . .
    At that moment, a powerful wave surged out of the mist, crashing over the peninsula. Struck by the spray, I felt the sting of salt on my scarred cheeks. The wave receded, pulling the spiral shell off the rock. Before I could grab it, the shell splashed into the water and disappeared in a swirl of mist.
    Cursing, I turned back to the flat rock. Although the shell had vanished, the strange shadow still quivered on the algae. I almost reached down to take a closer look, then hesitated. I was not sure why. Just then the orange crab emerged from beneath a nearby rock. It skittered sideways over the peninsula, passing under a ledge before emerging from the other side. As it skirted the rim of a tide pool, it plunged into a tangle of driftwood.
    Having lost any interest in following the crab, I turned away. My gaze fell on another tide pool, clear and still. From the bottom, something glistened among the fronds of kelp. Bending lower, I saw only a rather plain shell, brown with a large blue spot, nestled among some purple sea urchins. Still, it aroused my curiosity. Careful to avoid the sea urchins’ sharp spines, I reached into the cold water and pulled out the shell.
    Unremarkable as it appeared, the shell fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. Almost as if it belonged there. I hefted it, gauging its weight. It felt much heavier than I would have guessed for something so compact.
    I brought it to my ear. Nothing. Yet there was something remarkable about this shell. My voice uncertain, I asked, “Are you the wisest shell?”
    To my astonishment, I heard a spitting, crackling voice. “You are a fool, boy.”
    “What?” I shook my head. “Did you call me a fool?”
    “A stupid fool,” spat the shell.
    My cheeks grew hot, but I held my temper. “And who are you?”
    “Not the wisest shell, by any means.” The shell seemed to smack its lips. “But I am no fool.”
    I felt tempted to hurl it into the waves. Yet my determination to bring back my mother remained stronger than my anger. “Then tell me where I can find the wisest shell.”
    The brown shell laughed, dripping water in my ear. “Try someplace where wood and water meet, foolish boy.”
    Puzzled, I turned the shell over in my hand. “The nearest trees are on the other side of the dunes. There isn’t any wood by the water.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Absolutely sure.”
    “Spoken like a fool.”
    Reluctantly, I scanned the peninsula. At length, I noticed the scraps of driftwood where the crab had disappeared. Rotting seaweed draped over the wood like tattered rags. I wagged my head in disbelief. “You don’t mean that sorry little pile over there.”
    “Spoken like a fool,” repeated the shell.
    Not at all sure I was doing the right thing, I dropped the brown shell into