Paloma felt a faint touch of pressure on her knees, a slight surge that lifted her pirogue an inch, no more, and let it settle again. It might have been the wake of a distant boat, but there were no boats in the distance; it might have been the wave from a breaching animal, but no animal had breached hereby; it might have been the weakening signature of a long-distance seismic wave, but that she would see travel on the surface and lift Jo’s boat, too.
Only her boat had moved, which meant that whatever was happening to cause the change in the water pressure was happening directly beneath her.
She cocked her head over the side of the pirogue and back-paddled so she would have a better angle on the water below. All the water looked black, which didn’t strike her as peculiar until she realized that the water farther away was its normal blue.
Then she knew immediately what had fooled her eyes, and she smiled to herself. The manta had returned. It was lying a few feet below the surface, and the black carpet of its back was so close that it seemed to extend to the horizon.
Then, silently, she reprimanded herself, for there was no reason to believe it was the same manta ray. There were many manta rays around seamounts, and she had chanced to paddle her boat into the vicinity where one was cruising, and it had probably noticed the shadow her pirogue had cast and had moved over to take cool shelter in it. Rays that came to the surface in the heat of the day often took refuge beneath a ship or a dock, for direct sunlight quickly became uncomfortable. It was a simple, instinctive, animal thing to do, and for Paloma to attribute more or different sensibilities to so primitive an animal she knew to be folly.
But she wanted to be positive nonetheless, so she pitched her anchor overboard and let the line pay free from the pirogue, then held her mask to her face and bent over and put the faceplate on the water.
It could not be the same manta. There was no wound, no sore, no shredded flesh. Yet there was something strange about the area around the left horn. It looked dented or nicked, as if there had been an injury some time ago. Could there be two enormous mantas on the same seamount with an injury in the same place? She could not believe it possible, so she decided to go down and look.
The fishermen still had their backs to her, were still setting their net, so they did not notice when Paloma slipped over the side and took a few deep breaths and disappeared.
When the net was set a moment later, however, one of them turned around and nudged Jo to show him the empty pirogue. All Jo said was, “Give me the glass.”
As soon as Paloma was underwater she knew it was the same manta, no question. But the wound looked ancient. The flesh had grown together—probably, Paloma thought with pride, because I packed it so tightly and took off the ragged pieces. All that remained were scars, and an indentation behind the horn, and a crease where the ropes had gouged deep into the flesh. There was no blood, no seepage, and as Paloma stroked the animal she saw that the abused flesh had even begun to regenerate the protective mucus that covered the rest of the body.
The manta lay perfectly quiet as Paloma’s hands explored the injured horn, and against all her knowledge and all of Jobim’s reasoned arguments she began to believe that the manta had returned, like a child revisiting a doctor, to show Paloma how successful her treatment had been. She knew it was stupid and impossible and not worthy of someone who respected the sea, but she believed it nevertheless.
Her body triggered the first familiar alarms to send her to the surface, and she resented them and dismissed them and pretended she was a fish, until the second set of alarms forced her to leave the manta. She looked down as she ascended, hoping the manta would remain until she could return, and because she did not look up she did not see that Jo had moved his boat. It now lay beside her pirogue, almost touching it.
She had taken a couple of breaths and cleared her mask before she felt the presence of the other boat and looked up and saw Jo standing in the bow of the motorboat, holding his harpoon.
“Bring him up,” Jo said sharply.
“What?”
“Bring the devilfish up.”
“What are you talking about? I can’t bring him up.”
“Yes you can. Do what you do and bring him up.”
“I can’t! But even if I could, why?”
“He has to weigh two tons. Good money.”
“Money? For a manta?”
“A silver coin for every hundredweight. Cat food.”
Paloma thought he was simply teasing her, insulting her for the amusement of his mates. “How would you get it home?”
“Tow it. You’ll see.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Bring it up!” Jo said. “Now!” He raised the harpoon over his head, threatening not Paloma so much, nor the manta ray, as in a gesture of defiance.
Paloma could feel, in her legs, movement in the water below. She looked down through her mask and saw that the manta was flexing its wings—not moving yet but about to. She felt a spasm of fear, for the manta could be about to come up on its own, and if it surfaced anywhere near Jo’s boat—as sometimes they did out of playfulness or curiosity—Jo would surely plunge his harpoon into the animal and nothing she could do would help it.
The dart on the end of the harpoon was hinged: Moving forward, during the throw and as it sank into flesh, it would lie flush with the shaft of the harpoon itself. But when the harpooner set it, by pulling the shaft away and tugging on the rope, the dart would spring open into a horizontal, and where it had gained a smooth entry it would find no exit at all. The harder the rope was pulled, the firmer the dart was set.
The manta would never know what had happened.
It would have come to the surface unaware of danger and would have felt sudden, searing pain and would try to flee. Jo would give it line, would let it run, holding the rope just taut enough to keep the dart set and hurt the manta and tire it as it pulled the boat after it. Gradually, Jo would increase the pressure, hoping to make the manta bleed, which would tire it further, knowing that now every time the manta sounded deep the pain would be worse and so it would tend to stay near the surface.
After a while, the manta would stop its struggle and would lie exhausted on the surface, exploding in a brief flurry of panic only when the boat drew near. Little by little, Jo would pull in the line, and let it out again if the manta struggled, and pull it in again until finally the manta had no more fight. Then Jo would draw the boat right to the manta and would either beat it on the head with a club until he found its brain and stunned it so its gills could be slit and it would bleed to death, or he would find a way to tie a rope around the animal so it could be dragged backward through the water until it drowned.
If the manta came up on its own, it would be dead before this day was done.
Quickly Paloma hyperventilated, and Jo, thinking she was obeying him, instructed Manolo to hold his legs and steady him so that when the giant rose to the surface his throw would be true.
Paloma dived to the manta. It had raised its wings, and she could see the motion begin that would sweep the wings down again and drive the animal up, for it was angled upward, its head higher than its tail. She went directly to the horn on the right side, wrapping her arms around it and pressing down hard, willing even to cause it pain if that would make it roll down and away and free from people.
The animal stopped its rise and gently bent its head down and to the right, in perfect response to Paloma’s hands. Together they began a graceful roll to the bottom.
Paloma felt something quick and sudden in the water, and she turned her head and saw Jo’s harpoon hanging by its rope a foot from her head. Cast in fury and frustration, powered by the arm of one enraged, it had been driven six or eight feet into the water.
The thought flashed through her mind that a stronger arm might have struck her with the harpoon, and that thought was followed by the knowledge that a truly strong man would never have flung the harpoon.
The harpoon hung for a second, then was retrieved.<
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Paloma released her grip on the horn. The manta eased out of its roll and leveled off at a depth of perhaps a dozen feet. Still moving away from the boats, it started to rise. Paloma would have to breathe soon, so she did not try to stop the manta’s ascent. If it rose to within a couple of feet of the surface, she could drop off there and dash up and gulp air and hope to return to the manta before it began a new loop toward the deep. She wanted to guide it as far away from the boats as she could, and then she would drop off for good and know that it was safe, for with his net down Jo could not haul his anchor and start his engine and give chase.
Paloma had one hand on the manta’s upper lip and one on its wing, and her legs and feet flew free as the manta banked and dipped and soared, changing direction on apparent whim but coming closer and closer to the surface. Paloma had no idea where she was, but she felt sure that the animal had changed course so many times that it must have traveled far from the boats.
Then, as the surface swept closer and changed from a blue veil to the shimmering luster of wet glass, she saw the looming figure of Jo, standing in the bow of his boat, harpoon poised above his head.
The manta had brought Paloma back to where it had found her. It had let her guide it on a wide, eccentric circle, had changed direction at random, for in the memory of its brain there must be stored a signal that told it how to return her to where she belonged.
She lurched forward, tried to grab a horn and push it down and drive the manta under again, but it was too late. The manta broke through the surface, not in a jump but like a turtle coming up for air. And it kept flying, moving its wings just beneath the surface, carrying Paloma on its back, carrying her straight at the boats.
Looking over the hunch of the wing, along the horns, Paloma saw Jo as he for the first time saw that Paloma was riding on the back of the beast. His hands jerked and his eyes widened and he let out an involuntary shriek of surprise and took an involuntary step backward, forgetting that his legs were gripped by Manolo. He started to fall, determined to throw the harpoon, flung out his arms, let go the harpoon and sprawled on his back in the boat.
The harpoon arced up into the air, askew, and Paloma saw it strike the water butt-first and heard Jo howl in pain and rage, before the manta once more dipped its horns, as Paloma took a breath and together they dived beneath the surface of the sea.
They went under the boat. Paloma did not try to guide the manta, for she wanted it to go away on its own, and she would not try to turn it unless it seemed to be heading for the boats. She thought of dropping off, but sensed that it would come back for her, wherever she was.
The manta was going deep, almost straight down. Ahead of its wings Paloma saw two streaks, and she realized that they were not shafts of sunlight but the lines that connected Jo’s boat to the net. The manta passed between the lines and continued straight down, toward what Paloma could now see as a misty hump near the top of the seamount—the net itself, surrounding a clot of hundreds, thousands of frantic fish.
If the manta did not see the net and turn, it would foul in the net and wound itself again, and perhaps foul Paloma in it as well, and if she became tangled she would surely drown. She tried to turn the manta, but it would not turn. It was flying as hard and as fast as it could, directly at the net.
It was in the last fraction of a second that Paloma knew that the manta did see the net, did know where it was going, knew what it was doing. The immense ball of trapped animals loomed out of the dusty fog, and just before chaos Paloma’s mind took note of how vivid were the eyes of the desperate fish.
With a last thrust of its great wings the manta plunged forward into the net.
On the surface, in the boat, the fishermen stood ready for the manta to surface again. They scanned the sea, searching for telltale bubbles or swirls. In the bow, Indio had his hand on the anchor line, prepared to pull the anchor up; in the stern, Manolo’s hand was on the starter cord of the motor. They could release their net and buoy it and leave it briefly if they had to, and they would if they were to harpoon the manta.
Amidships, Jo held the harpoon high.
“Holy Mother! Where are they?”
“She can’t stay down this long.”
“How do you know that?”
“Nobody can.”
“What d’you mean by that?”
“I don’t know. I just …”
“If you don’t know, keep your mouth shut.” Jo was annoyed at the awe in their voices. “She has big lungs, that’s all.”
“And she rides the devilfish into the deep. That’s all. A lot you know.”
“I said shut up!”
The talk took no more than a second or two, and during it Indio noticed that the anchor line was drawing taut, and by the time the talk was done the others had seen that the lines connected to the deep net were stretched and throwing droplets of water as the rope fibers trembled.
“Jesus!” Jo shouted, the only coherent word he was able to utter, and from then on there were only screams and shouts and cries for help.
The manta had driven on, into the middle of the mass of fish, until Paloma was engulfed in jacks. They were under her arms, down her back, between her legs, flapping through her trailing hair. They squirmed and gulped and defecated and shivered. The water roiled and clouded, but it made no difference because she could not have seen more than two inches in front of her even in clear water: All was fish.
Somewhere in the attic of her brain, alarms began to sound, but another sentry in her head told her there was no point trying to obey the alarms: She could never make it from here to the surface in time.
The manta flew on, pumping its massive wings up and down, its horn protruding through the net, its head pressing against it. The net held, and strained, and the manta slowed for a moment.
Above, on the surface, the panicked fishermen felt their boat begin to move. The anchor had been pulled off the bottom and was dragging, and anchor and boat were being hauled through the water by the unseen creature that drove the net forward and down. And because the force was downward, the boat tipped and began to ship water; the fishermen didn’t know what to do but bail, frantically.
Then the net burst. The manta had simply overpowered it. It burst first in the center, and the fish squirted out the hole like grease from a tube. But the manta did not squirt out; it flew on and pulled the connecting lines even tighter until, one by one, the fibers popped. One line snapped first, whipped the net around free at one end, releasing the manta to start for the surface with Paloma on its back and destroying the equilibrium of pull which was the only thing that had kept the boat steady above.
The change was not felt immediately, for the lines were long and it took time for the pressure to travel. But when the change came, it struck suddenly and without prelude. The bow of the boat, from which the first line had snapped, jumped out of the water and spun. Indio, who had been kneeling on a thwart, found himself kneeling on air as the boat shot out from under him. Then he fell onto his back in the water and sank until his violent thrashing returned him to the surface.
Seeing the bow fly up, Manolo had reached to steady himself on the motor, but the stern had sunk and the motor he reached for wasn’t there. He pitched overboard and somersaulted underwater and came up sputtering as the boat yawed away from him.
Jo was now alone in the boat, kneeling on knees bruised and bleeding, watching the sea with horrified eyes, wondering what next would erupt from the unknown below.
The manta flew for the surface, its wings pushing maelstroms that spun fish and blew sand and roiled water.
Paloma gripped lip and wing, but as the distant sunlight rushed toward her she knew she would not make it. All her alarms were in full cry—the pounding was thunderous in her head, the pain excruciating in her chest, her eyes seeing the light of safety as a pinpoint that expanded and contracted, expanded and contracted, as consciousness slipped from her.
The manta flew straight up, not this time to angle and
glide but to fly free in the air.
Air was only a few yards away, now a few feet, a split-second in the flight time of the great animal rushing for the sun, when the switch went off and Paloma’s brain shut down and she lost consciousness. All her muscles relaxed, including those in the fingers that held her grip on the manta ray, so she slid away as the broad plain of black back exploded from the water and launched itself high into the air.
It rose above the cringing Jo, higher and higher until it blocked the sun and cast a black shadow on the boat. Water flew from it all around and caught the light and shone in a corona that lit the edges of the ray, and Jo knew he was being besieged by a creature from hell. His lips moved in reflex prayer, his throat uttered guttural whimpers, and he threw his hands over his head to ward off doom.
The manta reached the height of its flight and for a moment hung in majesty against the brilliant sky. Then the heavier head and shoulders began to fall, leaving the tail where it was, and the giant embarked upon a graceful slow-motion back flip.
Jo saw it coming, and he screamed in fear of death, and fell overboard.
He splashed and sank, and even through several feet of water he could not block out the noise, the terminal, shattering crash as tons of cartilage and sinew came down upon the boat and disintegrated it.
The transom with the motor attached broke off and sank of its own weight. The rest of the hull, struck suddenly by such mighty force, splintered, and the splinters fluttered into the sky and rained down on Jo and on Paloma, who was floating on her back by her pirogue a dozen yards away.
The manta did not stop, was not stunned. It forced beneath the surface what few pieces of the boat remained and continued its roll down, backward, and away, then righted itself and shuddered and cruised slowly toward the sunlight again.
What woke Paloma was the lapping sound of the waves from the manta’s splash against the wood of her pirogue. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, and she grabbed her pirogue for safety. Before her and to the sides the sea was empty. Behind her, down-tide to the west, she could see nothing because of the blinding reflection of the sunlight on the water. She heard sounds that could have been voices, but they meant nothing to her; perhaps they were sounds fashioned by instruments in her own addled brain.
The Girl of the Sea of Cortez: A Novel Page 19
