Brothers of the Sea

by D R Sherman

  He tensed himself for the thrust, and in that instant before he plunged the sharp point of steel into the water the little fish darted forward and flashed past his legs.

  He felt quite foolish, but then after that he began to feel cheated. He turned round, searching for the fish in the sand-speckled water. He spotted it after a moment, at the edge of the pool, its belly flat against the white coral sand.

  The boy slid his left leg forward, moving it cautiously through the water. When it had traveled fifteen inches he set his foot down gently, careful not to disturb the sand. He was about to take another step when he froze. He stood motionless for a moment, a peculiar expression spreading over his face, and then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. He kicked his foot through the water, still laughing, and he lost sight of the little fish in the splashing turbulence.

  He lifted the harpoon with an abrupt gesture of dismissal and ran it through the guides on the speargun. He turned and splashed through the pool and out onto the rippled sand. He walked on, chuckling softly to himself, thinking about the fish in the pool of water he had left behind him.

  It was a little fish, and even though the pool was no more than six feet in diameter he knew it might have taken him half an hour or more before he finally managed to spear it. He remembered doing it many times in the past, using a pointed stick. But that had been years ago, and it had been the game of a child. He waded into the sea, dismissing the fish from his mind: there were other more important and valuable fishes waiting for him in the deep water of the channel.

  The sand settled in the pool on the beach. The little fish finned its way lazily through the water, pausing now and again to gobble up a mouthful of sand which it spat out a second later. It browsed contentedly, the fear of a few moments before already forgotten.

  The boy waded steadily through the water. It was knee deep when he reached the pirogue. He laid the speargun and the mask on the planking of the boat, and then he pushed it forward till the bow was almost over the large stone which served as anchor. He steadied the pirogue, and then he bent quickly and reached down into the water with both hands. He got a good grip on the stone, and then with a sudden heave he lifted it up clear and dripping wet with water and over the bow and into the boat. He jumped nimbly into the pirogue, and while it still rocked alarmingly he coiled the short fifteen-foot anchor rope.

  He stepped aft and picked up the long bamboo pole which lay beside the oars and was as long as the pirogue itself. He swung it up, holding it with both hands at the thin end about four feet from the top and with his hands about eighteen inches apart. He dug the other end of the pole into the water, and then when he felt the end of it bury in the sand he bent a little at the waist and threw all of his weight down on the pole. As the boat began to move forward he slid his hands up the bamboo and bore down again till the boat had moved forward the whole length of the pole. He jerked the bamboo free of the clinging sand and then swung his body around and plunged the pole into the water on the opposite side.

  He worked mechanically, without having to think of what he was doing, and though it was a difficult art to master it seemed quite easy the way he did it. The boat gathered speed as he drove it out to sea.

  I wish the sun would come out, the boy thought suddenly.

  He looked up, sweeping his gaze across the clouded skies, searching for the brightness behind the clouds which would tell him just where the sun was hidden. He found it after a moment, and beside it he saw a narrow slash of blue which widened in the sky even as he watched.

  “Come on, sun,” he murmured aloud.

  He stared anxiously at the rift in the clouds, never once breaking the smooth rhythm of the driving pole. He liked it when the sun was shining, especially when he went into the water. It did not really matter at other times, but when he dived wearing the mask he liked the sun to be shining because then all the beautiful things under the sea came alive and shone their bright colors back at the sun.

  “Come on, sun,” he said again.

  He began to think of the little fish he had left behind in the pool. He knew it would die before the tide came back, because all the water would have soaked away into the sand by then. He was wondering how long it would take for the water to seep away when the clouds peeled back from the edge of the sun and allowed the first shafts of light to come bursting through. He felt an immediate spurt of happiness, but then he thought of the little fish again and he felt very sad. It would have even less time to live now, with the sun also sucking on the water.

  He began to wonder if it would stay out for a long time. He thought of the bigger pools which the tidewater left behind in the sand which it hollowed out. He remembered how warm the water in them became, and how it was good to come and lie in the water and feel the warmth of it soaking into the flesh after the cold of the deep reef water. He forgot all about the little fish, and he hoped the sun would stay out and warm the bigger pools for when he came back cold from the sea.

  Before he reached the channel the water became too deep to continue using the pole. He shipped the bamboo and sat down on the stern thwart, facing the mainland he had just left. In actual fact it was the island of Mahé, approximately seventeen miles long and with a width of seven miles at its widest point. But to the boy it was the mainland, partly because he lived there, but also because it was the largest island of the Seychelles group. It was not something he had learned at school: his father had told him that it was so.

  He reached behind him and picked up the two thole pins lying on the planking. They had been whittled from wood, and they were five inches long and three-quarters of an inch thick, and tied to each one was a small loop of plaited palm fiber. The boy pushed the wooden pins into the holes in the gunwale. He hammered them home with the heel of his right hand and then lifted out the oars. He fitted the handle of each oar through the plaited loops on the thole pins and then he braced his bare feet against the sides of the pirogue. He bent forward a little, dropping his wrists, and then as the oars dipped splashing into the water he lifted his wrists and pulled back hard. The muscles on his arms and on his back leaped and stood out for a moment before sinking back into the flesh from which they had sprung.

  The boy looked up at the sky, and a smile creased his face. There was a great blue patch up there now, and the sun was right in the center of it. The color of the sea was changing also, beginning to turn blue, but it was not uniform in shading. Where the white coral sand reflected the sun from under the water the sea was shaded a light turquoise-green, and where there was only weed and dark unbroken coral the water was colored like the night sky when there was blue and purple mixed in with the growing darkness.

  The boy rowed on into the channel till he was close to a patch of sea that was a deep dark blue. He backed water and brought the pirogue to a halt. He freed the oars and laid them down across the thwarts against the side of the boat, and then he crawled forward into the bow. He undid the anchor rope from the wooden cleat bolted to the inside of the stem. He gave it another five fathoms from the coil and then retied the lengthened rope to the cleat, securing it with two half hitches.

  He stood up in the bow and tossed the anchor overboard.

  The heavy stone sank quickly, wobbling a little as it went down. It struck bottom at four fathoms, and the bubbles were still coming up as the pirogue began to swing broadside on in the gentle current. It went astern a few feet and then steadied on the rope.

  The boy tested the half-hitches he had put round the cleat. He sat down and picked up his mask, and then leaning over the side of the pirogue he trailed it through the water, holding it by the strap, dragging it backwards and forwards till he was satisfied that the glass and the rubber of the mask had been made properly wet. He lifted it from the water and inspected it.

  In the beginning he had taken great care to keep the inside of the mask dry. It always leaked, and the glass always steamed up, and then one day he dropped it in the sea accidentally and got it wet inside. He shook the w
ater off and wore it as it was, and he never had trouble with it again.

  He wondered suddenly whether the girl knew about this little trick of first wetting a mask thoroughly before wearing it. He did not think she would know about a thing like that. Thinking about it he felt a smug complacence, but then abruptly he remembered what she had called him. It took all of his satisfaction away.

  He jerked the strap of the mask over his head and fitted it into place. He snatched up the speargun and got to his feet. Sixty yards to his left and a little farther out he saw another pirogue. It was heading for the open sea, its patched sail almost bursting with its load of wind and its sharp black bows knifing jerkily through the steep little waves. The boy lifted the speargun high and waved it slowly in greeting. A second later a black arm lifted momentarily in acknowledgment of the salute.

  The boy watched the pirogue driving out to sea and he began to shake his head. It was not the weather in which to take a small boat to the far banks, when the monsoon winds were in the air, not even if a man had to fish for his living. Doubt and anxiety made his forehead wrinkle, but the lines did not stay there for long. If anyone could sail a pirogue, old man Rousseau could. What was more, he seemed to know where the fish hid themselves, even in the time of the vent du sud-est, and it was his boast that he always fished something from the sea, even if it was only a single mackerel. Not every fisherman could say the same thing. The boy laughed suddenly, happily, and he felt a burst of pride in the other’s courage. He too was a fisherman.

  He turned and stared at the mainland. He saw the big house with the sunlight shining brightly on the windows, and beyond it the great green bulk of the steeply rising land. His gaze moved quickly up the side of the mountain, and through the trees he glimpsed the house which was his home.

  He pressed the mask more tightly to his face, and as he forced a little more air out he felt the bite of its suction against his skin. He stared a little longer and then turned away, his body moving easily to the motion of the rocking pirogue. He did not like the sight of the mountains in the daytime. It was just an ordinary mountainside, with many different trees and bushes growing on it, and even when the topmost peaks were veiled in swirling mists it did not look as beautiful as it did in the late evening just after the sun had gone down on the other side of the island. That was the time that the boy liked to look at the mountains, when he was still out at sea or just coming in. There were the lights of many fires winking in the darkness, and if it was not too late the mountains sometimes took on a deep mauve color while the peaks were edged with the red fire of the setting sun and the line of flame stretched from one end of the island to the other.

  It was all very beautiful, and it was very sad, and when he watched it his heart ached and he felt the same as the lonely mountain, because there was a great sadness and loneliness in him too.

  The boy moved up into the bow as far as he could go and then he sat down on the gunwale. The pirogue listed sharply, and as it did so he swung his legs up and over and slipped over the side, holding the mask pressed to his face. He felt the pirogue kicking back as his weight left it, and then the water closed over him.

  Three feet below the surface and still in an upright position he paddled himself round in a tight circle, alert and on guard. He did not really expect to come across a shark down in the waters inside the reef, but it was a precaution he always took. He saw nothing to alarm him, and he kicked out for the opaquely shimmering surface, blowing a stream of bubbles from his mouth.

  The moment he surfaced he gulped a quick breath of air and submerged again. He placed the pistol grip of the spear-gun against his belly, and drawing his knees up and rolling forward in the water to give himself balance and solidity he tensed the muscles of his stomach and then quickly one after the other he strained back on both pairs of rubbers and slipped the wire tongues into the last and second-last of the three notches which were cut into the top of the harpoon shaft.

  He transferred the speargun to his right hand and then straightened out his legs. He surfaced, gulped air two or three times and then swam off with his face down, kicking with his legs and pulling with his left arm which was free. The speargun nosed through the water in front of him at the end of his fully extended right arm, and the fifteen-foot nylon line which was attached to the harpoon from the muzzle of the gun trailed beneath him in a twisted figure eight.

  The boy swam out till he was directly over the patch of weed and coral, turning his head to the side now and again to draw a quick breath. He felt a sudden bursting elation. He always did when he was in the water. It was a free element, and here it did not matter that he had one leg shorter than the other. Though he did not think consciously of his release in terms of freedom, he knew he was a free man just the same.

  Out of the corner of his mask he saw the slender eighteen-inch shape that was not much thicker than a pencil. It hung motionless in the water less than a foot below the surface, its cold unwinking eyes fixed on him. He turned towards it, remembering the first time he had seen a needlefish.

  It had been in the days before he had the mask, when he could not see anything clearly under the water. He had been swimming in the shallows on the edge of the channel, and when he saw that five or six of them had gathered round him his first thought was that they were young barracuda. He had seen the sharp teeth of that particular fish, and as young as they were he knew that they could hurt him badly. And with his blood in the water there was no telling what the great hammerheads and grays outside the reef might do. He felt a great knot of fear inside his belly, and he struck out for the shore with all the furious strength that it had given him.

  When he told his father about it later the man had laughed. They did not frighten him any more, but remembering the first time, their presence somehow always made him uneasy.

  He turned towards the motionless needlefish. It was so slender that he knew it would really be a waste of time firing the speargun. Even if he were lucky enough to hit it, the harpoon point would slide off the armor of its dark-colored scales unless it struck absolutely square. He had fired at them quite often, when he had been able to get close enough, but he had not as yet ever managed to get one.

  He swam towards it slowly. When the point of the harpoon was about eight feet from the motionless fish he steadied himself and brought the speargun up. His finger was tightening on the trigger when the fish darted away. It flashed off fifteen feet to the right and then froze. It hung in the water, watching him, quite still. The boy turned away: he knew it was a game which could go on for a long time without his once getting the chance to shoot.

  A red flash of color below him caught his attention. He took a quick breath and dived, pulling himself down with his left arm and kicking his feet like a frog. At fifteen feet he swam past the top of a great boulder of brain coral. Pink damselfish, striped hawkfish and angelfish and many other gaudily plumed varieties scattered in wild confusion. But they were all little fishes, and he paid them no heed. He went down another six feet and then leveled off and started swimming round the coral boulder. An instant later he saw the large red snapper. It was finning its way lazily along the coral face about eight feet in front of him, quite oblivious to his presence.

  Bourjois, he thought, and his heart began to race.

  He kicked out after it. The snapper wriggled its caudal and pectoral fins a little faster and maintained the distance between them.

  Son of a pig, the boy said in his mind.

  There were not many good-sized fish in the channel these days, and those that remained were very wary. They had been hunted too many times before and disturbed too often by the passing of pirogues. It was all very annoying.

  The boy kicked out desperately, burning up his reserves of air in a last furious burst of speed. He felt a clamoring excitement as he gained on the snapper, but at the same time he felt a rhythmic and painful thudding in his ears and he knew he would not be able to stay down much longer. He began to swing away from the fish, so that
he could get in a broadside shot. He lifted the speargun, and his legs bent at the knees and doubled up as he steadied himself in position. He did not use the sights on the gun, because he had found them to be too exacting in use, and so ineffective. He extended his right arm to its full length instead, lining the speargun up with an automatic and practiced ease. He dropped his wrist a fraction and squeezed the trigger.

  The boy felt a slight kick against his hand as the harpoon shot out of the gun. The sudden contraction of the four heavy rubbers made the water swirl and boil in front of him. For a moment his vision was impaired, but then the turbulence subsided and he saw the harpooned snapper. It was spinning round and round like a propeller, all equilibrium destroyed, and the protruding harpoon revolved with it.

  He took one last look at the dying fish and then struck out for the surface. His lungs felt on fire and ready to burst, and there was a strange thudding noise inside his head. It seemed to him as he thrashed his way up that he was getting no nearer to the surface. It looked leaden and dull from where he was, and it reflected like a mirror. He could see nothing beyond it. He began to wonder whether he would ever reach the surface.

  The rippling mirror above him began to reflect more brightly. He knew he was almost there. With a final frantic effort he kicked out again and swept his arms down through the suffocating water. He could feel the weight of the trailing harpoon and fish, and it acted as a drag. He kicked out again, and then suddenly, miraculously, the mirror above him shattered.

  The pent-up breath exploded from his lungs the instant he surfaced and the force of its exit made spray of the seawater which sought to enter his open mouth. Turning onto his back he sucked in great mouthfuls of sweet air, gulping them in and blowing them out again as rapidly as he could. After a while the pounding inside his head stopped. He rolled over and struck out for the pirogue.

  Thinking about the fish on the end of his harpoon he felt an immense satisfaction. He realized he was grinning only when the mask began to pinch against his stretched skin. He would have been a little shocked if he could have seen the expression on his face: there was elation in it, but there was also a baying kind of cruelty.