Beluga

Beluga

You’ve never been this far out on the pier before. The air smells like salt and silver. Wind brushes your cheeks like a hush. And there, glinting at the very edge—wedged between rusted bolts and kelp-strung ropes—is a medallion.

You kneel, touch it, and the world shifts pitch.

A voice floats up from the water like a warm flute.

“Your timing is dreadful, darling.”

The head that surfaces is luminous white, framed by rippling blue. Her skin gleams like polished pearl, and she regards you with knowing eyes.

“You missed rehearsal by three tides,” she says, mock-scandalized. “No matter. I never arrive before my entrance cue.”

She rises higher in the water with a graceful spin. “I’m Allegra. Lead soprano of the Subtidal Songweavers. Belugas, if you must be taxonomic about it.”

You try to speak, but she silences you with a flipper and a wink.

“Oh no, dear, I can already hear your question.” Her voice grows hushed, operatic. “Where do the medallions come from? What is their purpose?” She giggles, a sound like bubbles clinking together.

“Let me answer in the only way I know how.”

She dips, and begins to sing.

It’s not a song with words—not exactly—but you feel it in your chest like a dream half-remembered. You hear storms turned inside out, and lights dancing through dark water. You hear the space between stars and waves and something just out of reach, like truth wrapped in melody.

When she resurfaces, she’s panting lightly. “Whew! That verse’s a killer in open air. Not enough reverb.”

You ask if any of the others know what the medallions mean.

Allegra shrugs, laughing. “The dolphins think it’s a prank. The orca says it’s justice. But me?” She leans closer, conspiratorial. “I think they’re invitations. To a concert only the brave can attend. One where the instruments are alive, and the audience changes the melody.”

You blink, stunned.

“Of course,” she says brightly, “I’ve also heard they’re keys to the Great Coral Archive, which may or may not exist depending on water temperature.”

She begins to descend.

“Oh, and if you meet the harbor porpoise—don’t let him solo. Ever. He’s sweet, but has the breath control of a rusty accordion.”

Then, with a wink and a final trill that makes your fingertips tingle, she vanishes into the blue.

The medallion is quiet again. But somewhere, deep below, the concert continues.