The Reef

by Mark Charan Newton

  Becq said, ‘Can I have it back, please, it’s not finished yet.’

  ‘Sorry, of course.’ Yana handed the doll to Becq who placed it on her lap. She could see that Yana frowned stared at her as she placed the doll with care into the bag.

  You could hear the sea fizzing against the fringes of the lagoon, the gentle rhythm of the water against the stilts underneath the hut. Birds called out from the forest. She walked to the doorway, leaving Becq sitting on the floor. The volcano was fading into the darkness of the night and the fires that were on the beach. Through the sounds of the forest she could hear children laughing, saw their tiny brown bodies lit up as they danced around a fire.

  ‘Come on, Becq. We should be on the beach having fun.’ Yana sighed, rubbing her abdomen.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Becq said.

  ‘Yeah, I think I’m not used to the food or something.’

  * * *

  Santiago’s team huddled around the fire, watching a native turning a hog on a spit. The local man wore only a loin cloth, but it was the foreigners who felt embarrassed. A crowd of natives stood yards away, watching them. Children looked out from behind their mothers’ bare legs, the firelight warming their faces.

  The doctor sat within the newcomers’ circle, chewing meat. He briefed Santiago. ‘The people that watch you have been here as long as they can remember. They descended from a naval vessel, which was wrecked upon the reef. There were about five women on board that came from a place that I never really understood when they talked about it. Needless to say, five women amongst fifty or so men meant that they were in demand. That was several generations ago, round about the rebellion against science. The sailors weren’t ruffians though, no. They were scholars and academics-scientists fleeing persecution. Deemed as immoral, they decided not to try and leave for the mainland, but set up their own little bit of paradise.’

  Manolin nodded, gnawing a hunk of hog, which had been roasted in herbs.

  Santiago sat on a palm mat, with his hands clasped over his knees. ‘Makes sense. There’s plenty to keep them going here. And that would explain why they speak the same language.’

  ‘Indeed. It’s been easy to get along since I came here.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask. Why did you come here?’

  ‘For the ichthyocentaurs, originally. Plus I was caught up in some trouble about ten years ago.’

  ‘What trouble was that then?’

  The doctor placed the meat he was chewing onto a bamboo plate. ‘Ten years ago was the time when a mayor resurrected one of the ancient technologies, the ones that were outlawed in their time. Well, I got caught up in helping her, and, needless to say, when the shit hit the fan, I left, because the trouble went right down to the street level gangs and whatnot. When the mob decide to take things into hand, it’s advisable not to be there. There was nothing left in Escha, so I decided to follow up a line of research with the ichthyocentaurs. Sure there was some risk, but it was easier than sticking around.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I’ve heard that these little beasties know a secret or two,’ Santiago said. His eye followed a native girl as she walked past the fire and towards the sea.

  ‘I’ll say they do,’ the doctor said. ‘Know much ethnobotany?’

  ‘That’s Manny’s department,’ Santiago said. He slapped Manolin on the back. The younger man coughed out a strip of pork.

  ‘Splendid!’ The doctor turned to Manolin as he looked to where the piece of meat had landed. ‘You’ll love these things then.’ ‘Why’s that?’ Manolin asked. ‘The ichthyocentaurs know how to use every plant on this island, so they never get ill. It’s why they’ve survived for so long here. If you get a headache, then there are three things in that forest that will stop it. If one of them has a stomach ulcer, then there is a bark of a palm tree that needs to be chewed. They’re in superb health, which probably explains why this lot-’ he indicated the natives ‘-don’t suffer much illness either. They’ve lived alongside the creatures for so long, but none of them know what plants do what. It’s the ichthyocentaurs who know all the secrets.’

  Manolin said, ‘I’d love to see some of this tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, you will,’ the doctor said. ‘You’ll want to spend as long as you can on this island.’ He smirked. The fire crackled and the waves encroached. The smell of pork lingered.

  Santiago’s gaze travelled to the lagoon, where two women were shifting a small boat onto the land. He could see their muscled bodies rub together as they struggled with the weight. Once on the sand, they brushed each other down. They were some way away, and there was only the moon to illuminate the scene, but he swore that they lingered long on each touch. They seemed sensual as they brushed sand off of one another’s arm. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks. Maybe it was the weather and good food. Maybe it was because he was, simply, a dirty old man-he would freely admit it-but he watched them, following them running, hand in hand, towards the forest then disappearing into the darkness behind the huts.

  ‘I can see you wouldn’t want to leave a place like this,’ Jefry said.

  ‘You like the island then?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘Oh yeah, I’d say. Everyone seems so peaceful here. It must be relaxing. Yana, maybe it would make you feel a little better?’ ‘What d’you mean by that?’ Yana said. ‘Well, you were feeling unwell on the boat. Now that you’re on dry land you might, you know, be a little happier.’

  She grunted. ‘Nice for you to show an interest.’ She stood up, brushed sand from her skirt, stomped to the village. She stepped over Manolin’s legs, which were spread out, and she glanced at him, but Santiago noticed he looked away. He watched her walk to the huts, she pass a group of natives. She held her hand out in greeting.

  Mr Calyban and Mr Soul stepped out of the trees behind. They were staying in huts in the forest and dined alone. They stood behind

  DeBrelt’s crew.

  ‘Everything in check?’ Mr Calyban said.

  ‘Why don’t you do something useful and fuck off?’ Santiago said.

  ‘I’m sorry, what was that, Mr DeBrelt?’

  ‘I said why don’t you help yourselves to some pork?’

  ‘Thank you, but we’ve already eaten.’ They walked towards the lagoon, along the beach, their straw hats in their hands, the surf spitting at their feet. ‘So, Forb,’ Santiago said. ‘You said we need to protect ourselves tonight?’

  ‘Yes. Yes that’s true.’

  ‘What from, might I ask?’

  ‘Well, from the things that have murdered around sixty or so ichthyocentaur.’

  ‘Well, I think if we’re to help you, we need to know what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘True, true. Every week or so, up until I relocated the ichthyocentaurs to the side of the volcano, we lost about five of them. We don’t know what has killed them, just that the remains are found the next day with the hearts removed and their testes severed too.’

  ‘Testes? So it’s just males that are taken?’

  ‘Yes, only the males. I sent the message to you early on in the killings, because I knew, from what the natives told me, that it had happened before, a generation ago. I suspected they would go on and I wanted to preserve the race. So, knowing that only a scholar would know what they were, I asked for help.’

  Santiago said, ‘You say you don’t know what is killing them?’

  ‘No. But they come from somewhere on the other side of the reef.’

  Santiago’s eyes narrowed. ‘Deep sea?’

  ‘Possibly. You’d be surprised how close the nearest abyss is from here, Santiago. I’ve never known of such a formation, but the reef stretches for miles and marks the edge of what I think is the abyssal plain. I’ve never had the technology to know further. You don’t get many remnants from the past out here. To be honest, since the killings began, I’ve never had the nerve.’

  Santiago nodded. ‘Luckily we’ve brought a decent submersible craft. Maybe it’s something we could investigate at a later stage
.’

  ‘That’d be excellent if we could. Like I say, we don’t go past the reef. If you like I’ll give you a full tour of the island tomorrow. I’ll show you where the ichthyocentaurs now live.’

  ‘That’d be fantastic,’ Manolin said.

  ‘You’ll love them. You’ll never have seen a race use plants the way they do.’

  Manolin said, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  Santiago suspected that, for the first time since he had left Escha, Manolin had something to be excited about. Studying how tribes used plant matter was a major aspect of his life. His Doctorate was awarded, with Santiago’s assistance, of course, on the same subject. The young man stood up. ‘I think I’ll need to sleep then, if we’ll see these chaps tomorrow. ‘Night all.’ Manolin turned, sauntered to a raft, then pushed it out into the lagoon as the others watched on.

  Santiago’s turned his attention to the two rumel.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen him smile all year,’ Arth said, sprawling back and staring at the stars. ‘I think the little chap’ll come out of his shell on this island. He hasn’t got that terror of his causing him grief anymore. And this is the sort of territory he loves to study.’

  ‘Aye,’ Jefry said. ‘It’s good to love your work, even if nothing else loves you.’

  ‘Oh come now, Jefry. Shall I fetch my violin?’ Arth said.

  ‘I know, I know. But I can’t help think that I’ve done something to upset Yana. She’s never been like this with me before.’

  ‘Well, you can’t go blaming yourself,’ Arth said. ‘It’s natural to think so, but coming away to a foreign place can make people a little upset. Sort of homesick. People just get uncomfortable, and don’t forget, she’s been stuck on a boat for a good while.’

  Jefry nodded.

  ‘Just stay cool,Jef, stay cool.’

  Santiago stood up, said good night to the doctor, and meandered along the beach then to the lagoon. He picked up a pearl-white shell and skimmed it along the sheltered water that the lagoon was. The shell bounced four times off of the water before shooting over the edge and into the sea. A young native girl came tugged on his breeches.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you a pretty little thing? You’re going to break some hearts, I can tell.’ She looked up, frowned so he ruffled her hair. ‘So young, so young. To be so innocent. Arrahd, I wish I could be so innocent again.’

  He spent the next half an hour teaching her to skim shells across the lagoon. Pretty soon she had spun a twelver, leaving Santiago wide eyed. After she had gone to sleep it was two hours before he had bettered her and felt he could retire to his hut with a fourteener.

  After he pulled his raft up to the hut and had climbed in, he checked his belongings for a musket and kicked Manolin awake. ‘Here, you take first watch. Wake me in an hour.’

  Fifteen

  ‘Well, this is pier nineteen,’ Menz said. ‘That must be it then.’

  ‘She’s a big one. Let’s take a look on board,’ Yayle said.

  The rumel were standing on the docks, staring up at a large, grey boat. Behind them, other worker rumel in overalls were sitting eating their lunch, whilst seagulls screamed down from above, circling them, eyeing the bread in their hands. These docks had a sense that nothing really happened, and that was the way of things. Nothing in terms of progress, at least. You could smell it in the organic matter that only ever accumulated. It was one of those places where people did what they did, what they had to, earned some coin for some food, and that was about it. Days would probably drift into years and nothing would happen. People would stay, marry, take their parents’ jobs, have children of their own, quite happy to keep doing this. The mere concept of development or migration would unnerve them totally. Menz had seen a thousand places like it in his lifetime-but perhaps he missed all this because his home city had gone. Maybe that was where his bitterness came from.

  As Menz and Yayle climbed a step ladder, they could see over the tops of red-brick buildings, four or five floors high with steep-pitched roofs that reminded him of Rhoam, squeezed together overlooking the harbour. Hundreds of white masts punctured the sky. The sound of engines echoed around the bay.

  ‘This’ll do nicely.’ Menz leaned over the side of the boat, rested his arms on the rail.

  Yayle joined him. ‘I’d say. Hey, have a look at this submersible.’

  Over the side hung a brass rimmed cylinder, with circular glass panels. It was about ten foot long with yards of piping coiled at one end. Walking over, Menz noted what they took to be generators that would supply air to the craft.

  ‘That should definitely do the job,’ Yayle said. He tapped the roof of the craft with his knuckle.

  Menz said, ‘Right, all we need is a couple of people to man this thing and we can go.’

  ‘Is Jella right in saying we need a skipper? Can’t we just do this ourselves?’ Yayle asked, gripping the rails.

  ‘No, lad. There’s no way I can navigate this thing for four months. Remember last time we had a guide, one with experience at sea.’ ‘Why do we have to find one? I bet those two are at each other right now.’ Menz said, ‘Don’t be so crude.’ Then, ‘Anyway, you’re only jealous.’

  ‘Of who?’

  ‘Both of ‘em.’

  ‘Probably true.’ Yayle sighed.

  ‘Anyway,’ Menz said, ‘I doubt they are, lad. Not with that ghoul hanging around.’ He didn’t trust Allocen, despite what the creature had done. Mildly annoyed at his prejudice, Menz thought it a peculiar feeling that people have towards anything that looks strange, unnatural. There’s an inherent lack of trust to the more freakish-and why? It’s purely a physical thing. Perhaps it was some biological consideration, an evolutionary learning-to dislike anything other than what is accepted.

  ‘Hmm,’ Yayle said. ‘He’s a strange one. Endearing, I suppose. If you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘Aye. I guess he’s proved his worth, what with that little carve-up the other evening.’ Menz walked along the deck, glancing at the gulls, which seemed to float in the air, waiting for food. ‘Still, he makes the mind boggle.’

  ‘How do you think he got like that? You know, half fly and half man?’

  ‘Well, they say that scientists did it to them, the Qe Falta, in the last age. Some book of sorts, held the recipe for altering their. .. what’s the word?’

  ‘Hairstyle?’ Yayle said.

  ‘No, fool.’

  ‘Sex drive?’

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘Genes?’

  ‘Genes, that’s it. Altering their Genetic make up. But the secret for that has long been forgotten. Allocen’s one of the leftovers, I suspect.’ Menz stared out to sea. The weather was still, a bank of grey cloud hung low over the horizon. The local waters were filled with trawlers. Yayle said, ‘I suppose we’d better find someone to drive this bugger then? If we sure as hell can’t.’ ‘Yep.’

  The tavern was quiet, the lunchtime period having finished. The sign on the bar said ‘No Beggars’. Yayle walked up to the bar, where a well-built man was polishing tankards. His face was red, as if he had just swum to work. His shirt was stained with oil.

  ‘My good man, we’re looking for a sailor,’ Yayle announced, placing a hand on the bar.

  The barman looked Yayle up and down, his eyes narrowed as he put down the tankard, he draped the cloth over his. ‘Aye, you look the sort,’ he said. ‘If you want those sorts of shenanigans, you’d better walk up Juiliper Street after six. They cater for your lot.’

  Yayle raised his chin then turned to Menz, who shook his head.

  ‘What he means is,’ Menz said, ‘that we need to hire someone to skipper our boat. We need a good sailing type, someone who knows the western seas. Sea of Wands, and beyond.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Right, well, anyone in here after lunch probably doesn’t have a job to get back to. Take your pick.’

  They looked around the tavern. In one corner, a window cast a grey light on an old woman, who s
at with her head tilted back, her mouth open as if she had died only that morning. There were two young rumel, who sat playing cards. They looked too young to know the sea. By the other window, next to a staircase, a young woman touched the edges of her wine glass, before dabbing the crumbs on her plate then licking her fingers, smiling.

  In another corner was a man with a black beard that covered most of his face. Ah, Menz thought. Now he looks the type. He tipped a naval hat back as Yayle and Menz approached.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Yayle said.

  The man looked at them and nodded, then scratched his beard. Yayle glanced to Menz.

  ‘Do you sail?’ Menz asked.

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  ‘Can you read charts?’ Yayle asked.

  ‘Better than any book.’

  Yayle said, ‘Can you read a book?’

  Menz kicked Yayle. ‘Do you know, sir, the way to Arya?’

  ‘I do. And what’re you wanting to go there for?’

  ‘That’s our business,’ Menz said. ‘We need a skipper to take us there. You’ll be away from land for months, at least.’ ‘You got a vessel?’ ‘Yep. She’s a gooden. Parked over there, number nineteen.’ Menz indicated out the window that overlooked the harbour. The bearded man did not follow Menz’s gaze. Instead he sat back, the seat creaking. ‘They say you have to be mad to set sail round there.

  Not many have returned.’ ‘Sailors’ stories, mostly. Besides, we have money.’ Menz produced a heavy purse, tossed it onto the table.

  The man looked at it. Then he glanced between the two rumel, sipped from his glass. He sighed whilst he set his glass down again. ‘There’s a lot of money around these days.’

  ‘When was the last time you had a job?’ Menz asked.

  ‘It’s not all about work now, is it?’

  Yayle said, ‘True, true. Okay, tell me this. You anything against Escha?’ ‘Ain’t we all. Why?’ He looked up, suddenly interested. Menz said, ‘How old are you?’ ‘Seen fifty-four years and can remember most of them.’ ‘You know a lot about the sea then?’ ‘More than anyone you’d know, aye. Most people talk too much these days though.’