Shiver on the Sky

by David Haywood Young

  * * *

  To Owen’s surprise, he enjoyed the afternoon. Martina sautéed the trout and served it with wild rice and steamed broccoli. After lunch, Andrea and Aaron spent most of the afternoon swimming, taking occasional breaks to come check on the others. Martina, too, spent about half the time in the water.

  The Hermit held court on the forward deck, lounging in the sun with Shadow and telling stories to whoever came near. Owen sprawled next to him, heckling as the mood took him. A couple of seagulls seemed to recognize a good thing and stuck around, keeping an eye on Shadow and the humans but never going far. The Hermit idly fed them leftovers and bread crumbs between his tales.

  Owen jumped into the water briefly at one point, cheerfully grabbed Aaron’s head and shoved it under the surface. A few moments later he realized that, with the water more than ten feet deep and leverage nearly nonexistent, Aaron’s agility and vigor in the water made wrestling with him a closer contest than he’d expected.

  Owen admitted defeat (or at least he lost interest) a few minutes later, climbing back on the boat to rejoin the Hermit. Aaron swam slowly away, taunting him, then spotted a seagull sitting on the water and dove, trying to surprise it from beneath.

  Dinner was more trout, grilled with asparagus and served with linguine and a lemon-garlic sauce. The Hermit did the cooking, allowing Martina to participate only to the extent of setting the table.

  When they finished eating, everybody went to the forward deck and sat or sprawled where they could rest and enjoy the view. Sunset painted half the sky with oranges, reds and yellows. City lights burned in the distance, growing brighter as the deep blue of the sky slowly faded to black. Owen felt at home, more at peace here than he’d been since finding Leon’s body. He wished Shawna could be there, and remembered all the times she had, and looked away from the others as tears began to form. He wiped them away. Still not time for that, damnit.

  He turned back to the group. “Andrea, Aaron…I had a thought a little while ago. I was wondering if it was possible to approach this whole thing from the other end.” He sat up straighter, catching Martina’s eye. She regarded him gravely. Probably she’d seen the tears. He shoved the thought away and continued. “Can you actually talk to the sharks? Or if not you, then your people? Under the water, I mean.”

  Andrea shook her head. “No. I don’t know if sharks can talk at all. We’ve never been able to communicate with them.”

  “Is there any way? Could you talk to them up here?”

  “Sure,” Aaron said. “We could use the phone.”

  Owen looked at him.

  Aaron shrugged. “It’s as good as anything. But if you’re thinking there might be some sort of negotiation, some sort of treaty or something, it doesn’t work like that. Us being porpoises down below wouldn’t mean much to them. Up here, we’re all human.”

  “So,” Martina said, “if they don’t have a reason to talk to us, they won’t.” She frowned at Owen. “I agree with you, though. There ought to be some way to approach this that takes advantage of what we know.”

  “There is,” the Hermit said. Seeing he had everyone’s attention, he nodded. “Let me see if I have my facts straight.” He pointed at Aaron. “When we talked about this the other day, you said the hammerheads have done this before?”

  Aaron nodded slowly. “It’s…it’s something we know.” He turned to Owen. “You remember I told you things were different down below?”

  “Sure.” He could have guessed that.

  “Well, it’s true. Up here we walk and talk and basically act like normal people, because we are. But down below…we’re porpoises. We don’t think the same way. A lot of what we know is passed on by a kind of song, and some of the longer songs aren’t really ours anyway.”

  He threw up his hands. “What I’m trying to say is that we mostly get by on feel, and we can pass on our feelings in the songs. So I know the hammerheads’ getting upset like this has happened before, but I can’t give you dates or times or specifics that mean anything up here.”

  There had to be something, though. “So what can you tell us?” Owen asked.

  “They have these dominance struggles, and this time it’s probably all about what happened to this Junior guy. He’s gone, so his father’s position is weaker, and they’re maneuvering. Pretty soon they’ll settle it, though. They don’t hold a grudge, you know, they just kind of take care of business and move on.”

  “There you go,” the Hermit said. “That’s what we know. Somehow this will all get resolved, and soon. But it’ll probably be bloody. The trick is for us to be careful, so we’re still standing when it’s over.”

  Martina raised her hand. ”‘Scuse me, folks. That might be true.” The Hermit scowled, and she shook her head. “Okay, say it’s true. But this resolution they come to might involve Owen ending up dead, or in prison. And we’re all connected to him and Shawna one way or another, so none of us are really safe.”

  Owen nodded. Especially with all of them out here with him like this. He touched her hand. “Martina…maybe you and the others should just go back tonight. You’d probably be okay. If you had to, you could tell them everything. George and I can go somewhere else.” He ignored the Hermit’s smirk. “There’s no reason for everybody to be taking this kind of risk.”

  Aaron jumped up. “Not gonna happen, Tremaine.” He looked at the Hermit. “I’m ready to crash. Okay if Andrea and I take the same bunks as before?”

  The Hermit waved him inside. “Sure, kid. I’ll get you in the morning, or if anything happens.”

  “Thanks.” Aaron looked at Owen coolly. “I told you, I’m sticking with you. See you in the morning.” He went inside. Andrea followed, saying nothing.

  Owen was confused. “What was—”

  “It was loyalty,” Martina said.

  “Oh.” But…“I just mentioned it might be better if the rest of you got out of the way of whatever’s happening.”

  “And it might not! What if going home just makes it easier for them to get at us? What they did to Shawna was awful, Owen, but it was also too freaking clever. Setting you up like that wasn’t the act of a damn shark, swimming around in the ocean and too stupid to talk to anybody. It was calculated to frame you, and frame you so well it wouldn’t matter what you said or did afterwards. If you’d gotten picked up by the FBI, you’d have been guilty in their minds. Just plain guilty. There’s probably more evidence scattered around by now to help convict you of killing Leon and Junior, too. And why the hell do you think the cops let you walk out of there today?”

  She was unstoppable. He’d never seen her like this. “Because they didn’t think I did it?”

  “Right! But they’d still take you in, that’s their job. Unless they thought something might happen to you afterwards. You had a thought earlier about talking to the sharks? Well, my thought was that we’d better all make damn sure you don’t end up being caught by the FBI!”

  Owen opened his mouth, but the Hermit cut him off. “She’s right, boy.” He uncapped another beer. “At least the basic principle is sound. None of us can assume we’re safe. We need to stick together.”

  Martina stood. “I think Aaron had the right idea. I’m going to bed.”

  Owen looked at her. She was right, and he should have figured it out for himself. “Martina . . .”

  She gripped the rail and sent her words over the Bay. “Owen, it’s not your fault. You didn’t cause any of this, so don’t apologize. Just let it go.” She looked back at him, smiling a little, and wiped at an eye. “Sorry to get so emotional. I’m okay, really, and you’ve been great. But I need to get some sleep.” She walked away.

  “Forward cabin’s free,” the Hermit called. She waved over her shoulder as she went inside.

  Owen stretched out his leg and kicked the Hermit’s knee. “You want to yell at me too?”

  “Heh. No. I wouldn’t worry about the drama, kid. My guess is Martina’s right, a night’s sleep and everything’ll make more se
nse in the morning.”

  “I hope so.” Owen gazed over the water toward the Corpus Christi lights. Shadow came over and put his head on Owen’s leg. Owen rested his hand on Shadow’s back. “How much do you know about this business with porpoises, George? I mean, I like Andrea and Aaron, but I’m not sure how to react to them. Aaron in particular seems like a neat kid, but I keep wondering if I should see them as the beginning of an invasion or something.”

  The Hermit nodded, then got up and walked aft. “Hold on a second. Be right back.”

  Owen watched him go. He finished his beer and stared morosely at the water, rubbing Shadow’s ears. How had he gotten into this situation? He’d been trying to live quietly, and all it had bought him was ignorance. He tossed the beer bottle into a trash bag. If he’d stayed at CyberLook, he would know what was going on, and his life might actually be simpler now.

  But damnit, a man should be able to separate himself from a thing like that. Maybe the solution was to remove himself geographically. He could go to Houston, or someplace in Florida. He’d always wanted to see Alaska, as far as that went.

  But…Corpus was home. It wasn’t a resort town, it wasn’t an industrial town, and in spite of all claims and dreams to the contrary it wasn’t an important port. It wasn’t New York, or even Austin. Nobody would look at you with respect because you said you lived in Corpus, or demand news of recent events. But Owen would rather be here than anywhere else he could think of.

  Some people sneered at the Texas Gulf Coast. In Owen’s opinion, those people simply didn’t like being out on the water. They might talk about cliffs in Oregon, or surf in California, or whatever. But the Corpus Christi Bay connected to the Laguna Madre, with access to almost limitless stretches of (nearly always) calm water, inlets, and wildlife to the south. North was more populated, but some people liked that. And the Gulf of Mexico surged just past the barrier islands. From there a man could get to the Atlantic Ocean, and from there he could go anywhere. If he had a reason.

  The Hermit returned with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, the sign of a serious conversation to come. He poured for both of them and handed Owen a glass. “To Shawna,” he said. “A very nice lady who got in over her head through no fault of her own.”

  Owen drank. Normally he found the Hermit’s customary single-malt Bushmills to be the smoothest of whiskeys, but tonight it caught in his throat. “George…I really don’t know what to do.”

  “Nor do any of us,” the Hermit assured him. “It’s just that normally we’re too distracted to notice our own confusion. Certainty is a sign of stupidity or dementia, boy. You’re sane and brighter than most, so at times like this you’re doomed to wonder, and to consider all the great questions.” He sipped his whiskey. “But it passes, you know. You go back to your life, to moving from one day to the next, still without knowing why but without noticing it too much either.”

  Owen poured more whiskey. “I guess. Though I’m not sure I find the thought encouraging.” He looked at the Hermit curiously. “So what are you questioning right now?”

  “Ah.” The Hermit sighed and settled back, waving a hand. “It’s not really a question, because it can’t have an answer to go with it. But when your lady Shawna was here, we got to talking quite a bit. Some about her religion, which I have to say struck me as hogwash, though I’ll say it gently, she being so recently deceased.”

  Owen smiled to himself. The Hermit was arguing with Shawna in absentia, a sure sign of respect from him. “And the rest?”

  “Well, it’s these porpoises and how they live. You remember hearing the lad talk about how they communicate differently under the water, using songs? And some of the songs weren’t really theirs? Well, Shawna talked with Andrea quite a lot, and she told me something of that too. They have what they call ‘Cousins’ who sing deeper songs to them, with a memory stretching back farther than porpoises find themselves obliged to recall. These ‘Cousins’ are the ones helping them find their way out of the sea.”

  Owen leaned back and let the Hermit’s words wash over him, as he’d done since he was a boy.

  “That has to be whales, Owen.” The Hermit poured more whiskey for both of them, nodding in approval at the emptying bottle. “Whales,” he repeated. “Singing their songs in the depths of the oceans, with the porpoises and dolphins surfing on the edges of them.” He blinked. “I would dearly love to hear and understand the whales, boy. But I fear my mind isn’t built for it, and so that’s a place I’ll never go in this life, however long it stretches and whatever strangenesses it may encompass. I’m grieving for the lady Shawna, Owen, and also for my own limitations.”

  Owen shook his head and stared into his whiskey. He opened his mouth to answer, but stopped as he heard someone come out on deck.

  Martina made her way forward, stumbling slightly in the dark. “The others are asleep,” she said. “But I was lying there listening, and straining to make out what you said over Aaron’s snores, and I finally realized I’d rather be out here.”

  “Well, pull up a pew,” the Hermit said. Owen was surprised and amused to hear a note of embarrassment in his voice. “We’re all preaching tonight.”

  She sat next to Owen and produced a glass for the Hermit to fill. “Go ahead and preach. Don’t mind me, I’ll jump in when the spirits move me.”

  Heh. Owen reached out and covered her hand with his. “Glad you came back out,” he said softly.

  The Hermit snorted. “Talk, boy. You had something to say.”

  “Yeah, I did. As I said, I really like the two people who are sleeping in there. But I’m worried about what their plans are.” He paused, thinking. “Or not so much their plans, but…maybe the other porpoises, or maybe these whales George wants to talk to. Why are they coming out on land? Why haven’t they done it before? And should we do something about it?” Both Martina and the Hermit were staring at him. “These two are a lot like front-line soldiers. Nobody tells them the truth about anything. So I don’t know what to believe.” He spread his hands. “I’m just wondering if they pose some sort of threat, because I sure don’t understand them.”

  “Yeah,” the Hermit agreed, “that’s the obvious question. But if I’m right about their history, I’d say that’s the least of our concerns.”

  “History?” Martina asked.

  “That’s another thing Shawna and I were talking about. Apparently there’s some kind of oral tradition, or song, or memory…whatever we call it, the porpoises believe they once walked on land more often. I’ve been doing some reading, and I think I know what happened.”

  Of course he’d think so. Owen grinned at him. “Speak, O Wise One.”

  Martina shushed him, smiling. “I really would like to hear this.”

  The Hermit scowled at Owen suspiciously. “Hmp. All right. If you can keep him quiet.” He turned to face Martina, ostentatiously excluding Owen, who leaned back to pet his dog and watch the stars, still grinning faintly.

  “Up till about a hundred and fifty years ago, there was a strange people living in this area. They were called the Karankawa, or Kronks for short.”

  Owen glanced at him. “I’ve heard of them. Cannibals, weren’t they?”

  “So it’s said. But we all come from cannibal stock if you look back far enough, boy. The Karankawa probably ate the hearts of brave enemies to gain their courage and so on, the same as nearly all the other tribes. And anyway, you were raised Catholic, and you’re living in a city named Corpus Christi. Body of Christ. Ever been to Mass? If you can’t find the ritual cannibalism enshrined in your religion and culture, Owen me lad, let me know and I’ll spell it out for you.”

  Owen sat up, raising his hands. “Okay, okay. I’m not going to get into religion with you again.” He shrugged at Martina. “We’ve been going back and forth on that topic for years.” He turned back to the Hermit. “Go on, this is interesting. What about the Kronks?”

  “There’s some question whether they should be considered a single tribe at all, beca
use they seem to have consisted of small roving bands.” He held up a finger. “Porpoises and dolphins don’t seem to have much in the way of organization. They live and function in small groups we call ‘pods.‘” He raised a second finger. “The Karankawa were tall, over six feet even two hundred years ago. Andrea and Aaron are unusually tall.” He started to raise a third finger, but shrugged and dropped his hand instead. “You see where I’m going with this. The Karankawa spoke a strange language full of clicking noises. The porpoises say many died ‘above the sky,‘ which means here, and the Karankawa were all killed or driven away in the nineteenth century.”

  “Killed?” Martina asked.

  “Sure. Apparently they smelled bad from rubbing animal fat over their bodies to keep off mosquitoes and such, they had little interest in Christianity, they wore almost no clothing, and they never did really get a handle on the idea of private property.”

  Owen nodded. “It sounds like a hundred other Native American stories. So how’d this one come out?”

  ”‘Bout like you’d expect. At one point Jean Lafitte, the pirate as some called him, had a base on Galveston Island. He got along well with the Kronks, until some of his men kidnapped one of their women. The Karankawa, who had never appeared to be organized before this, attacked in the hundreds—and died the same way. Cannon will do that. One battle probably wiped out half their strength.”

  “The Coastal Bend area got more settled, and around the time Texas got its independence from Mexico a couple of expeditions came out, one of them led by Stephen F. Austin with over ninety men, and pretty much killed them off. Some escaped down to Mexico, but they didn’t change their ways and got into trouble there too. They’re considered to have been extinct since 1860.”

  “But they’re not,” Martina said, glancing toward the interior of the boat.

  “No, I don’t think so. Not exactly, anyway. You know, there’s probably more to this story than ever got into the history books. Somebody back then might have seen something…unusual…and panicked. Maybe the white settlers thought they had a good reason for what they did. But this particular tribe wasn’t so easy to destroy after all. They’re no longer the Karankawa, precisely, but I think they’re still around. Though if they had any kind of human-style culture up here on land, it’d be mostly lost now.”

  “But . . .” Martina leaned forward. “Isn’t this a worse time than ever for them to return? I mean, if scientists got hold of them they’d never let go.”

  “Scientists, huh?” the Hermit snorted. “For them we need more whiskey.” He poured into their glasses, though Martina’s was still half full. “Let me tell you something, Martina. I think they’re right to come back now, whatever their reasons are. Two hundred years ago, people believed in miracles. Their religion embraced them, and their priests were always willing to condemn some poor son of a bitch who got caught trying to use the magic everybody was taught to believe in. But now?”

  He sighed. “I spent too long at the University to have any faith in science or scientists. They’re an odd tribe themselves, you know. They have a very rigid, hierarchical social structure. Theoretically their job is to question, but we’re not the right sort of animal for that—at least not most of the time. In reality their questions are only allowed within certain narrow limits.”

  He drank more whiskey. “Excuse me while I rant for a bit. They dismiss results not predicted by whatever theory is currently in fashion as failed experiments. Then they draw conclusions from the data they’ve chosen to see, bending any truth left in it only a little, and assume the whole thing is a valid exercise. Because they already know how it’s supposed to turn out, you see. Meanwhile, other scientists use their conclusions as if they were infallible, and stretch the truth a bit themselves when they add their own. They generally mean well, but they end up building castles in the air, with theories pretty far removed from reality. No real-world experience is going to shake their belief structure.”

  He laughed sourly. “The worst part—though not for our friends sleeping in yonder bunks—is that I’ve exaggerated, and it doesn’t matter. There are some good minds out there. In fact, some of them can still see what’s in front of their faces. Some are intellectually honest. But they’ll still dismiss stories about Andrea and Aaron, regardless of the source, unless they see them change right in front of their eyes. And then what happens? Why, they keep their mouths shut—or they lose their jobs.” He shook his head. “No, scientists are no threat.”

  “What about the average person?” Martina asked.

  “I don’t know,” the Hermit said. “What about him? What about you? You know something now. Why don’t you go tell people about it?” He was silent for a moment, looking toward the city lights. When he spoke again, his voice sounded hoarse. “Science is the new religion, and it has no room for the uncanny. The common man knows better than to believe in the supernatural. So he’ll convince himself there’s what he calls a ‘rational’ explanation for anything he sees, and dismiss all reports of anything that doesn’t fit the pattern he expects. Because his religion has no room for magic anymore.”

  “Okay,” Owen said. That had been interesting, but Martina’s frown was just getting deeper. “We passed my original concern a while back. From what you’ve said about their history, and from what I’ve seen, I’m not going to worry about any danger from the porpoises. And these two are friends, anyway.”

  Martina still looked troubled, but agreed. “They’re good people.”

  “So, lady and gentleman,” the Hermit said, “let us dispense with all this talk of races and religions and histories soaked in blood. Let’s dedicate the rest of the evening to remembering Shawna, and Leon, and even Junior Bentley, for Shawna spoke well of him and in this strange world we inhabit perhaps even a cold-blooded shark may grow to be a man worth knowing.”

  Owen nodded and raised his glass. “To all those who couldn’t be here with us tonight.”

  They talked and drank until well past midnight. Later, Owen slept dreamlessly.

  ***