From time to time he turns over on his back to take his bearings by the blob of sunlight overhead which is only a shade lighter than the surrounding bluish-green semi-darkness. His gills and skin are of great help too, registering little changes in water content. Near oyster-grounds water is richer in oxygen and feels altogether lighter and more pleasant to the body, for there’s less salt in it. So Ichthyander tastes the water. Like an old sea-wolf that can tell the approach of land by signs revealed only to him, Ichthyander is sure of his way.
At last to his right and left loom up the long-familiar outlines of underwater cliffs. There is a piece of level ground between them with another wall of a cliff behind. Ichthyander calls the spot his underwater harbour, for it’s calm in the worst of storms.
It’s a harbour for multitudes of fish as well, the water is as thick with them as a kettle of chowder! Small ones, with a yellow band across the body and a yellow tail; others with several dark bands running almost diagonally, and numerous brighter kinds, magenta, orange, azure. They shy away in shoals, then reappear from nowhere again. When you come up, fish are milling round you all the way, but you look down and there are none. Ichthyander puzzled over this for a long time till he caught a fish. Its body was the size of his palm but flat as a pancake. Then he knew.
Now for his lunch. On the patch of level sea-floor oysters are plentiful. Ichthyander settles down beside a thriving colony, reclines at ease and prises open the first mollusc that comes to his hand. The choice titbit goes into his mouth. He has a way of eating underwater that makes it an easy thing. Taking a mouthful he ejects water through half-clenched teeth with a movement that has become automatic with him. Naturally he swallows a little water with his food but he’s used to it.
Seaweeds sway round him, the perforated greenery of the Agars, the pinnate grass-green leaves of the Mexican Caulerpa and a tender pink kind of algae. But today, because of the storm and resultant darkness, they all look a uniform sombre grey. A muffled peal of thunder penetrates down to Ichthyander’s abode. He looks up.
There’s a dark spot right above his head. Now what could that be? His lunch over he can go up and investigate. Gliding upward along the cliff-face he approaches the surface and sees a huge albatross rocking up and down, its orange-hued legs within a tempting reach. Up go his hands and close round the bird’s legs. What fun! Bewildered the albatross unfolds its mighty wings in an upward rush, dragging Ichthyander clear. Once in the air Ichthyander’s body regains weight and the albatross drops heavily down, covering him with its soft feathery breast. Ichthyander doesn’t wait for the giant bird to start pecking his head, dives and the next moment breaks surface again some distance off. The albatross is winging its way out to sea and out of sight beyond the mountainous seas.
Ichthyander is floating on his back. The storm has passed by on its way to the east. Thunder rumbles, receding. Rain is pouring down in sheets. Ichthyander lies back, his eyes half-closed with exquisite pleasure. By and by he opens them, turns over and treads water for a better look round. He’s on the crest of a colossal wave. Sky, ocean, wind, rain-all are one big wet whirl, roaring in its primordial fury. As if in impotent rage, little beards of foam tremble on the wavecrests and run in angry zigzags down their sides. What with the swell from the storm and the savage wind the mountains of seas pile one on top of the other and crash down to pile up again.
What strikes fear into the earthly man is great fun to Ichthyander. Of course, waves can be dangerous for him too, but, like a fish, he knows their ways. There are many kinds of waves. Some will toss you up and down, up and down, others will turn you feet first before you know where you are. He also knows what goes on under the waves, and how waves disappear when the wind has died down. It’s the small waves that go first, then the big ones, but the dead swell stays for a long time afterwards. He delights in turning somersaults in the surf, though that isn’t without its danger either. Once an extra big wave overturned him and threw him against a rock unconscious. That would have been the end for an ordinary human being, but Ichthyander came to in the water, only slightly the worse for the experience.
There is no rain any longer; it has shifted, as has the storm, eastwards. The wind has veered too, blowing in warm blasts from the tropical north. Heralded by patches of blue sky torn in the clouds, the sun thrusts its rays through—seawards. In the south-east across a still menacingly black sky a rainbow throws its double arc. It’s an entirely different ocean that Ichthyander beholds now, no longer black with frothy fury, but a blue cheerful ocean, with emerald patches where sun rays have struck its breast.
The sun! In one moment it has changed everything-sky, ocean, shore, distant mountains-beyond recognition. And oh! How wonderful the air is after the storm. Ichthyander now gulps in the exhilarating sea-air, now breathes through his gills. No one knows better than Ichthyander how easy comes gill breathing after a storm has mixed sky with ocean, making the water a good deal richer in oxygen. No one, that is, among men.
But the numerous fish, and the sea-animals too, can appreciate this.
After a storm is over the sea depths, the crevices of the cliffs, the thickets of coral and sponge discharge their occupants; small fry show the way to the bigger fish and when it’s quite calm again, to soft weak jellyfish, transparent, weightless shrimps, delicate Porpita and various Ctenophora, including the most beautiful representative of the group, the Cestus Veneris.
A sunray strikes the water close to Ichthyander, turning it a bright green. The glitter of tiny air bubbles, the hiss of foam… Ichthyander’s playmates, the dolphins, are gambolling nearby, throwing him gay, mischievous glances. Their shiny black backs flash into view in the waves as they chase one another playfully, snorting. Ichthyander laughs and joins in the game. He feels as though this ocean and these dolphins, the sky and sun, were all created expressly for him to enjoy.
Inchthyander raises his head and screws up his eyes at the sun. It is in the west of the sky. Evening is near. But today he doesn’t feel like returning home early. He is going to rock on the waves until the first stars appear in the dark sky.
Yet lolling about soon tires him. And then, how could he forget all the small sea-creatures that are perishing that very moment. He treads water and looks in the direction of the distant shore. For the sand spit! That’s where his help is really needed. There where the ocean surf is playing havoc.
After a storm it hurls ashore heaps of seaweeds and sea-creatures, all kinds of fishes, crabs, jellyfish, starfish, sometimes even an unwary dolphin. Jellyfish soon perish but some of the fish manage to wriggle their way back. So do most of the crabs; in fact they themselves leave the water for the beach to prey on storm victims. And it does his heart good to come to their rescue.
For hours he roams the beach in search of what it is not too late to rescue. It gives him real pleasure to see a fish, thrown into the water, splash with its tail and swim away. Or, still more, to see a fish at first floating lifeless side or belly up come at last to life. Picking up a large fish he will carry it seawards, pressing its wriggling body to his, laughing, as he talks to it in soothing accents. Of course, he would have eaten that very fish without any compunction had he been out in the ocean and hungry. But that’s an evil of necessity. Here, on the beach, he is the sea-dwellers’ patron, friend and saviour.
Usually Ichthyander returns home as he left-using the underwater current. But today he doesn’t feel like going underwater for long, so beautiful are the ocean and sky. He dives, swims underwater and breaks surface again, not unlike a sea-bird hunting fish.
The last rays of sun are gone. The yellow band is dwindling in the western horizon. Gloomy waves like grey shadows chase one another.
Compared with the warm water the air has a nip in it. It’s dark but Ichthyander feels safe; there’s nobody to attack him at this hour of quiet that divides day and night.
*
Here is what he needs-the southbound current flowing quite close to the ocean’s surface. The swell whi
ch is still felt makes the underwater river rise and fall a little as it traces its slow course from the hot north down to the cold south. A great deal lower—and in the opposite direction—runs a cold current. Inchthyander makes good use of both of them when his trips take him along the coast.
The warm current will carry him all the way home. He only has to keep awake so as not to overshoot the tunnelmouth as he once did. Stretching his arms behind his head and out to the side by way of exercise, and pulling his legs apart and slowly back together he lets himself be carried southwards. The warm water and slow movements have a soothing effect on him.
As Ichthyander looks up he sees a heaven dotted with stars as small as specks of dust. Those must be Noctilucae, rising to the ocean’s surface with their tiny lanterns lit up. Here and there in the darkness he sees bluish and pinkish luminous nebulae—tight clusters of minute luminous animals. Balls emitting mild greenish light sail slowly by. Shedding light quite close to Ichthyander is a jellyfish looking for all the world like a lamp under an elaborate shade of lace with a long fringe. The fringe stirs as in a light breeze at every movement of the jellyfish. In the shallows starfish have already put on lights. In the depths below the lights of big fish of prey cruise at speed. They chase one another, circle, die out and flicker up afresh.
Another shallow. The bizarre trunks and twigs of coral are illumined from within in blue, pink, green and white. Some corals flicker waningly, others gleam like red-hot metal.
On land at night you can see the stars, far off and tiny, sometimes the moon. Here there are thousands of stars, thousands of moons, thousands of small multicoloured suns all radiating soft delicate light. Night in the ocean is infinitely more beautiful than night on land.
To compare them Ichthyander breaks the surface again.
The air has become warmer. The dark blue heaven spread overhead is thickly studded with stars. A silver moon rides low above the horizon. A silver runs from it across the ocean.
From off the harbour comes a low prolonged hoot. That is the giant Horrocks, getting ready for the return voyage. Hey, but it’s late. Dawn is not far off. He has been gone nearly twenty-four hours. Father will definitely scold him.
Ichthyander heads for the tunnel, thrusts his hand through the iron bars, opens the grille and swims on in complete darkness. He is now in the lower, cold current that runs from the sea to the garden ponds.
A light knock on his shoulder wakes him up. He’s in the pool. Quickly he comes up; starts breathing through his lungs, taking in the air fragrant with familiar flower scents.
A few minutes later he’s fast asleep in bed-to please his father.
THE GIRL AND THE STRANGER
Once Ichthyander was out in the ocean after a storm.
Surfacing, he spotted what looked to him like a piece of white sail torn by the storm off some fishing smack. Coming nearer he realized to his surprise that it was a woman, or rather a young girl, tied to a board of wood. Was she dead? The thought so upset him that for the first time in his life a feeling of hostility towards the ocean stirred within him.
Or perhaps she was only unconscious? Holding up the girl’s pretty head that was lolling to one side, Ichthyander grasped the board and pushed shorewards.
He swam for all he was worth, as he had never swum before, stopping only to see to the girl’s head, which kept slipping off the board. And he kept whispering to her as he used to whisper to fish in trouble, “Wait a little, it’ll soon be over.” He wanted the girl to open her eyes and yet was afraid of it. He wanted her to come to life and yet was afraid she would get frightened. Had he not better take off his goggles and gloves? But that would take time and then he would not be able to make half as much progress with his gloves off. And so he pressed on, pushing the board with the girl closer and closer inshore.
At last he reached the heavy surf. Caution was needed. The waves were propelling him shorewards. Ichthyander kept feeling with his foot for a shallow place. Finally He struck bottom, safely steered his burden ashore, untied the girl and, laying her in the shade of a bush-grown dune, began administering artificial respiration.
He thought he saw her eyelids quiver, and putting his ear against the girl’s heart he detected a faint beating. She was alive! He very nearly cried out with joy.
Then the girl half-opened her eyes, caught sight of Ichthyander and shuddered and shut her eyes again. Ichthyander was at once gladdened and chagrined. Well, anyway, I’ve saved the girl, he thought. Now he ought to be going away-to avoid frightening her. But could he leave her as she was now—all alone too? Even as he thought this he heard somebody’s heavy footfalls. This was no time for indecision. Ichthyander ducked into a wave, swam underwater to the nearest reef, broke surface in its shelter and watched developments.
From behind the dune a swarthy man with a moustache and goatee showing from under a wide-brimmed hat swung into view. At the sight of the girl he exclaimed: “Gracias a Jesus ó Maria! “, started to run towards her, then suddenly veered to the water’s edge and into the oncoming wave. Thoroughly drenched he ran back towards the girl, started artificial respiration (whatever for, Ichthyander wondered); then bent low over the girl’s face and kissed her. Presently he began speaking to her, rapidly and agitatedly. Snatches of phrases floated to Ichthyander: “I warned you … it was sheer madness… Good thing I thought of tying you to a board.”
The girl opened her eyes and raised her head a little. Her face expressed fear, followed by surprise, then indignation and displeasure. The goated man kept up a voluble flow of talk as he helped her up. But she was evidently still too weak and he eased her back onto the sand. Nor was it until about half an hour later that she could stand up again and walk. On their way they passed quite close to where Ichthyander was hiding. The girl was saying:
“So it was you who saved my life? Thank you. May God reward you for this.”
“You alone can reward me,” said the swarthy-skinned man.
The girl seemed not to hear the man’s words.
“It’s strange,” she said after a pause. “I thought I saw a monster at my side.”
“That was your imagination,” the man said. “Or again it might have been the wicked one come to claim your soul. Say a prayer and lean on my arm—with me around you needn’t be afraid of any devil.”
And they were gone, the wonder girl and the evil man who was trying to make her believe it was he who had rescued her from the sea. But Ichthyander was in no position to give him the lie. Let him do as he liked; Ichthyander had done what he could.
The girl and her companion had disappeared behind the dunes but Ichthyander was still looking their way. Then he turned round and faced the ocean. How big it was-and how empty.
A wave had tossed a silver-bellied blue-backed fish on the sand. Ichthyander looked round him: not a soul in sight. He left his cover, retrieved the fish and threw it into the water. The fish swam away but Ichthyander felt sad without knowing why. For some time he wandered about the deserted beach, picking up fish and restoring them to their element. Gradually he was carried away by his work. Soon his usual high spirits were restored and, forgetting all about time, he pressed on, only breaking for an occasional plunge to cool his gills. It wasn’t until quite dark that he finally turned for home.
ICHTHYANDER’S VALET
Salvator was going into the mountains again-this time without Cristo. Apparently well satisfied with Cristo’s work, Salvator was leaving him behind to his now permanent duties of Ichthyander’s servant. That suited Cristo’s book for it would facilitate his meeting with Baltasar. Cristo had already sent word to him that he had discovered the “sea-devil’s” whereabouts. It was time for them to lay plans for his kidnapping.
For some time now Cristo had been living in the white-stone lichen-covered cottage and seeing much of Ichthyander. Soon they had become good friends. Ichthyander, for whom human companionship was a welcome novelty, had fairly cottoned to the old Indian, who was so ready with tales about life on land -
something Ichthyander knew little about. But he knew more about life in the sea than the world’s greatest experts on the subject all rolled in one. He had a good grounding in geography, at least as far as the oceans, seas and major rivers went;
and also knew something of astronomy, navigation, physics, botany and zoology. But he knew little about men, actually nothing beyond the mere fact of the existence of different races on earth, something still vaguer about their history, and as to their political and economic relations, his knowledge did not exceed that of a five-year-old.
At noon when it grew hot Ichthyander would descend into the underground cave and swim away. He would return to the cottage when the heat had abated and stay there till the next morning. But if it rained or there was a storm at the sea he would as often as not remain in the cottage the whole day and feel all right owing to the extra moisture.
The cottage was not big, just four rooms, one leading into another, and a kitchen. Cristo lived in the room next to the kitchen. Then came the dining-room and a big library (Ichthyander could read Spanish and English). The farthest and biggest room was Ichthyander’s bedroom. A big bath took up most of its centre. The bed was on the side, against one of the walls, but Ichthyander seemed to prefer the bath to it. Before going away, however, Salvator had ordered Cristo to see to it that Ichthyander slept in his bed no less than three nights a week, and so every night Cristo saw Ichthyander to bed and grumbled like an old nurse if the young man was being disobedient.
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