The goddess Bird was nearing her destination when the Star of the Shoal began to remember itself. The past was dangerous, so the star would allow itself to remember only what was useful for its survival.

More was needed now. Having recalled just enough to re-form a consciousness, the Star of the Shoal looked inward, where shimmering, fishlike nodes came together in a whirligig of silver—scales and shards of light. Sea-minnows they were, and also souls, souls of the dead who made up the star. Magical deepnames flared within some of the minnows, and others were magicless, but all were bonded together—soul to soul, deepname to deepname. Those without magic were held by magic extended from others, forming a collective which was the Star of the Shoal.

Eleven other stars clung to the streaming tail of the goddess, and they were so different. There were no souls inside that the Star of the Shoal could discern. Only deepnames, brighter and stronger at the core and wispier and longer at the outer tendrils. People are needed to give birth to deepnames, but only the magic survived.

But what about those without magic? Were they abandoned?

The Star of the Shoal shuddered with the repulsive strangeness of it, examining itself once more, tracking each soul-minnow and every bond just to make sure of its people. Some were missing, indeed, but most were accounted for, each soul a part of a generation extending in a horizontal plane and connecting vertically to generations below and above.

All dead, something deep within it suggested.

Death has no meaning within the collective of the Bonded Shoal, something else within it supplied. Bodies are always temporary.

Shhh, whispered another voice. This one was soft and at the same time wise, and it carried in it a melody which was immaterial and endless like the void. This voice sang, Attend now.

Bird was descending.

Through the outer layers of the sky the goddess plunged, her tail streaming behind her. The air around her was multicolored, a melody wrapping around her like an embrace that guided her gently down toward the newly formed world.

Not much could be seen from above but for the parting of clouds, and the clear skies below. The rainbow of music surrounding Bird dissolved into the air. Some moments later, music rose from a place of sand, to greet the descending Bird and the stars she was bringing.

A dozen people swayed and sang and played instruments, reveling in the dance of the goddess, the great Birdcoming. And oh, how she danced, her tail as wide as the sky and as narrow as shards, swirling and diving and circling through the air above the desert and its dancers. One by one, the people there lifted their hands toward Bird, and one by one, the stars fell from her tail, each singing or humming softly in anticipation of being caught.

The Star of the Shoal edged farther away from its jubilant fellows, and began to discourse with itself.

These dancing guardians are untrustworthy, said something within it.

These are nameway and dreamway. We’ve had such neighbors before, echoed another.

They won’t understand us, let alone safeguard us.

They will trick us and trap us. Betray us, just like before.

Look, said another. A wistful voice, strong and young. There’s a serious one—here he is. And indeed, below, the Star of the Shoal noticed a person who stood apart from the others. He held no musical instruments, and neither did he dance, but looking at him, the Star of the Shoal perceived more than heard a powerful voice, a song the color of red, that beckoned and guided it.

Come to me.

This man was strong in the body, but bodies were unimportant. His soul, though, would be a powerful anchor; he could form many bonds with others, and never loosen his grip. The name of this man was Ladder.

We should fall into his hands, said a voice within the Star of the Shoal. He will catch us and hold us, even though he is nameway.

He knows what it is like to be orphaned, another voice said.

We won’t let ourselves fall into any one hand, said another, an ancient-sounding voice. We are the collective. We are the Bonded Shoal.

Another one like it echoed, The Shoal shall have no masters, no teachers, no leaders, no guides. The Shoal shall have no keepers, no guards. No jailers.

The Shoal will not fall in again with the nameway and dreamway.

The Shoal will survive alone, or else it is not to survive, added another.

The wistful voice said, The Shoal has no masters, but we are already carried by Bird. We are already delivered by someone.

All the more reason to fall on our own, and as fast as we can, echoed many. So we can be free.

The Star of the Shoal attended to the many soul-minnows within it. Seventy generations in a fluid, undulating, layered collective. Each soul was now examined, accounted for, counted.

Those who wish to fall into these hands are outnumbered, said the Star of the Shoal to itself. We fall alone, as quickly as we can. We fall into a body of water.

Seventy generations of soul-minnows now looked down to the ground, and began calculating their path. The Star of the Shoal started to buzz, shimmering silver in Bird’s vision, confusing the goddess until her dance became more erratic. Her tail elongated beyond the horizon, swinging and swaying over the whole of the land.

Now, ancient and young voices spoke in the Shoal. Now, now, now, now.

Below, on the ground, the starkeeper known as Ladder raised his hands and called for the Star of the Shoal to come to him, but it streaked through the sky, falling and falling and falling into the cold expanses of the unnamed northern sea.

Into the icy water it plunged, dissolving for a moment, each soul shining in the darkness like a small, silvery sea-minnow. Then, in another moment, the shoal reformed. The bonds between souls, darkened by impact, flared into light once again.

The seawater was deep, and within it the Star of the Shoal now floated, attending to itself.

We can stay here, below, said the ancient voices. Nobody will see us. We will continue our existence.

We must rise, and graze the surface. Some of us must take bodies and live.

If we take bodies, said other voices, they will need to be fed and clothed and kept. We will need resources, and those can be lost or taken away. It is better to be underwave.

The Star of the Shoal remembered some more of what was useful for it to remember. Carried by Bird as she passed through the void that lies between the worlds, it said, we lost many souls on the outer layers. Much as we rotated and reformed to protect all within the collective, some were exposed more than others, and perished. The damage extends deep and wide, into at least seven generations from the outermost layers, and this now needs to be repaired, regrown. Even without this damage, the Shoal cannot continue to survive for long without the nourishment of the living. Some of us must acquire bodies and live, so that they die and become ancestors.

The soul-minnows attended to the voice of the Shoal.

The lower layers of the Bonded Shoal now sank deeper, reaching the bottom of the northern sea. Slowly, over many years, the soul-minnows moved pebbles and began to push them toward the surface. In a hundred years, a small island rose. In the next hundred years, another.

Seven isles were pushed to the surface this way, and were allowed to grow thick with moss. This land could now be, perhaps, habitable by those who wished to take bodies.

Dead, something within the Star of the Shoal said. All dead.

Then live again for a short while, encouraged the Star of the Shoal. Fulfill your duty to the collective. Rise and multiply.

Heeding the voice of their star, seven minnows detached from the sunken Shoal and swam toward the surface, each choosing an isle for itself. When they emerged onto the land, they had the looks of people—silvery-skinned and lustrous, with round fish eyes on the sides of the face. They were all named strong, all with multiple deepnames. Some of these deepnames connected to the Shoal of ancestors below. And now the seven extended their unattached deepnames toward each other, bonding themselves into a new generation.

“We are siltway,” sang one of them from an isle, a rounded, short person with a lilting and powerful voice. “I form a storyline, and call it Song.”

“We are siltway,” spoke a firm, strong voice from another isle. “I too form a storyline, and call it Stone.”