by John Morano
“I’d rather feed my family.”
“One doesn’t exclude the other.”
After they motored on a few more minutes, Kemar asked, “What was that red wire you attached to the fish? Was it something to help it shock me? If it was, I believe the motor might be mine.”
“Nice try, Kemar, but all I did was tag the fish.”
“What is tag the fish?”
“Well, there’s a professor from Queensland, Australia that I met in Vietnam. Name’s Campbell, an ichthyologist.”
“A what?”
“It’s a fancy way of saying she studies fish. My pal asked me to tag and record some of the special fish I stumble upon.”
“Actually, I stumbled on that fish.”
Al smiled. “Let it go, little bro. A couple of times a year, Campbell pops up here to work on some kind of study.”
“A fish study?”
“Yeah, it’s part of the job.”
“A fish professor?”
Al nodded.
“Is your friend trying to help the fish?”
“I guess so. The study certainly helped that gazer. Campbell’s trying to do something for the reef.”
They motored on a few more minutes with Kemar lost in thought. He considered several things: his father, how fishing with Al was different. He was also reminded of the octopus, the one that had escaped him several times.
Kemar blurted, “I would like to meet Professor Campbell.” And then he returned to his rumination while the small boat sputtered and chugged its way back to Makoona, fleeing the sinking sun behind them.
Chapter Seven
An Under-Estimated Prophet
On her way back to her lair, Binti passed over a site that someone had fished with explosives. The coral was obliterated. The desolate plain was murky with dust that rose and fell in the churning water. Occasionally, a small fish would swim by, but the area was basically barren. It stood in sharp contrast to the lush lifeforce that fueled the healthy reef not far off. Binti wondered if the man-tide knew what was left after they exploded the fish from the sea.
It was quiet crossing the gray patch. It was also dangerous. There was no cover, no place to hide. Every move along the bottom stirred up sediment, an announcement for predators to take notice. It was an easy place to catch a meal and an easy place to become a meal. Most fish avoided these desolate patches.
Binti maintained a dull, lifeless gray color, became flat as a flounder, and moved along slowly, looking for the occasional ditch or valley wall to keep her out of sight. She raised her eyes above the sediment to see if she could spot danger. Seeing none, she continued to cross the killing field.
Almost to the living coral, a craggy run of rocks and debris came into view. That was when she spotted him. At first, she was alarmed because the creature blocked her entrance into the reef, but when she realized who it was, Binti could only smile.
Molo was perched on a solitary black boulder that stood like a monument to nothing. He said solemnly, “I hear the cries of children and the other songs of war. It’s like a melody that rings down from the sky. Standing here upon the moon, I watch it all roll by. Standing here upon the moon with nothing left to do, a lovely view of heaven.” Then he turned and looked at Binti and continued, “But I’d rather be with you.”
The eccentric octopus was bursting with vibrant colors, waving his arms all around him. Molo had an explosion of his own going on. It was as if he believed that since an explosion destroyed this place, another might restore it.
He grinned at Binti and waved three arms, inviting her to crawl closer. “Walk into splintered sunlight,” Molo said, “inch your way through dead dreams to another land. Maybe you’re tired and broken, your tongue is twisted with words half spoken and thoughts unclear.”
His display of vibrant colors and patterns revealed the energy that flowed within him and stood in stark contrast to the dull lunar void that surrounded him. The octopus had gone psychedelic.
He chanted, “Picture a bright blue ball just spinning, spinning free. Dizzy with eternity. Paint it with a skin of sky, brush in some clouds and sea. Call it home for you and me.”
Binti wondered if Molo had some strange power, if he could actually bring the dead sand back to life. And for a brief instant, she thought she saw the rock below him flash with color. A thin vein of electric blue shot into the boulder and danced around it. Binti crawled closer.
Molo, it seemed, was picking up pieces of lifeless coral, rolling an arm around them, injecting them with different colors, and then tossing them into the austere field as if they were seeds of life. The octopus was glowing, beaming, bursting as he grappled with the gray. A living palette; a pinch of peach, a sheen of green, and a wink of pink all spilled from his arms, swallowed by the bland sand.
When Binti approached, he chanted, “A peaceful place, or so it looks from space. A closer look reveals the human race. Full of hope, full of grace is the human face. But afraid they may lay our home to waste.”
Molo faced Binti, nodded to her, and continued, “There’s a fear down here we can’t forget. Hasn’t got a name just yet. Always awake, always around . . .” Molo gestured to the obliterated coral, “ . . . singing ashes to ashes, all fall down.”
“You’re one sprayed octopus,” Binti responded. “What the shell are you doing?”
Molo grinned, every arm splashing colors on coral all around him. Like a living fountain, pastels streamed from his suckers. “She comes shining through rays of violet. She can wade in a drop of dew.”
A small bubble of violet dew dropped from the tip of his arm and gently settled on Binti’s mantle. When it touched her flesh, it burst, and she was bathed in the color. For an instant, Binti was carried away to the place where Molo found his finspiration, but she quickly returned to the reefality of the moment.
“Listen, boulder-brain, get down off that rock and stop that finsane display before something grabs you.”
Molo wouldn’t be distracted from his enchantment of the barren field. “Let me lie, let me lie. I don’t need no alibi. The fault of this crime was none of mine. I was the victim of the crime.”
“We all were,” Binti agreed. “But you’re not going to bring life back to this spot. And you might lose your own if you don’t come off that rock and get gray.”
“Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll watch out for you,” Molo whispered.
“I’m not the one who’s making a spectacle of himself. You’re the one who needs to be watched out for.”
Molo tilted his mantle to one side and countered, “The future’s here. We are it. We are on our own.”
“Are we on our own?” Binti asked, touched by the thought, wondering if perhaps the mysterious Molo knew something she didn’t.
He warned, “By and again, the morning sun will rise, but the darkness never goes from some men’s eyes.” Molo waved his arms to point to the dead field as evidence of man’s darkness. He leaned down to Binti and calmly said, “Inspiration moves me brightly. Light the song with sense and color . . . All around her, the garden grew, scarlet and purple, crimson and blue.” The colors poured over her as Molo named them. “Just one thing, then I’ll be okay. I need a miracle every day.”
“That’s a lovely thought, but I’m not going to become a moray meal over a patch of dead sand. Good luck with whatever you’re doing.” Binti blasted herself into the rocks and living coral that waited just beyond Molo. She hunkered down among some brain coral to think and get her bearings.
When she looked back to see if Molo was safe, all she saw was the large rock. Dull streaks of blue grudgingly pulsed through the stone, reaching down into the sand beneath it. Then she heard, “Sometimes, we walk alone. Sometimes, the songs that we hear are just songs of our own.”
“Okay, where are you, Molo?” she asked.
“You poured a cup of moonbeam and assumed a thoughtful face. Just such a look as angels have before they fall from grace.” And with that, a large round of brain coral unc
oiled and stood up, becoming Molo.
Although Binti was shocked, she was starting to learn not to be shocked by anything involving this octopus.
Molo crawled closer and whispered, “From the other direction, she was calling my eye. Could be an illusion, but I might as well try, might as well try.”
“Try what?”
“Once in a while, you get shown the light, in the strangest places if you look at it right.” Molo extended a gentle arm and touched Binti. He slid the tip of the arm along her soft sides. He lifted one of Binti’s arms and extended it, barely touching it. He turned it so that her suckers were exposed. And holding his own arm over hers, he dropped something onto it. It was Binti’s shell.
Molo rubbed it once, and it sparkled like a small star. “Slip out of your shell, you said. Where else you got to go? You been there and back again. What do you really know?”
Binti, surprised and pleased by the gift, didn’t know what to say.
Molo continued, “If I had a star to give, I’d give it to you long as you live. Would you have the time to watch it shine, watch it shine, or ask for the moon and heaven too? I’d give it to you.
“Well, maybe I got no star to spare, or anything fine or even rare. Only if you let me be your world could I give this world to you, could I ever give this world to you.”
Molo closed her arm over the shell. “I can tell you fancy, I can tell you plain. You give something up for everything you gain.”
The male slid two arms down one of Binti’s. She responded by wrapping hers around them. Their suckers touched, grasped, and a faint purple pulse began to beat through their sand-colored bodies. It started in the intertwined arms, spread to the others, and gradually rose up into their mantles. The pulse beat identically in both of them, uniting them until Binti pulled away.
Molo spoke softly. “One or two moments, a piece of your time is all I’m asking, and I’ll give you mine. One or two moments out of all you have got, to show how I love you, believe it or not.”
She’d never done this before. Part of her wanted to swim with Molo more than anything she could imagine, but there was also a quiet sadness welling up inside her. The octopus was confused by the emotion. She backed off but not away.
As she considered the moment and smiled at Molo, the male reached out once more. He turned deep-water green—an honest color—and said, “If you could see my heart, you would know it’s true. There is none except for you. Except for you. I swear on my very soul, if I lie may I fall down cold.”
Binti reached out to Molo. They touched and intertwined. Two other arms followed, and then two more. Soon, the pair looked something like a giant starfish. They turned and spun dreamily in the sea, churning and changing color—red, yellow, peach, plum, until they finally became white with dusty traces of violet, blue, and pink, like living pearls.
Their suckers released, save for one arm each. Binti’s other arms slid between Molo’s, his between hers. They wrapped themselves around each other’s mantle, exploring and tasting as only an octopus can. There were fifteen arms and no mantles to be seen.
Molo seized on Binti’s proximity and whispered, “Where there is no pebble tossed, nor wind to blow. If I knew the way, I would take you home.”
Binti considered where that was. Even she could see, despite her obvious bias, that he was no ordinary creature of the reef. Where did Molo live? Where had he come from? Where was he going? Hootie had called Molo “a prophet on the burning shore.” Was he a prophet?
Her attention, however, returned to the more pressing matter of Molo pressing himself closer. With modest trepidation, Binti gave herself up to the moment. She knew that this was how it must be for her, she could feel it. Molo was a special mate, a special friend. He was gentle, vibrant, and unlike anything she’d ever seen in the sea. Molo, like her shell, was one of Makoona’s jewels. Binti returned his embrace.
This time, it was Molo’s turn to hold Binti at arms’ length. He looked deeply into her eyes and said, “All I really want is you. No one else will really do.” And then he cautioned, “But never give your love, my friend, unto a foolish heart.”
The male was giving her the chance to leave, to deny his advance and his love. It was this gesture of understanding and care that finally drew Binti to complete the union with her newfound love. They drew together once more, arm-in-arm-in-arm-in-arm.
This time, Binti cooed in Molo-speak, “Let the world go by like clouds a-streaming. To be with you is my best dreaming.”
They grasped each other firmly and jetted off beyond the reef, out into the deep, dark water where it was dangerous but private. Later, they glided into the sandy starlit shallows, and by the time the sun and the tide rose, Binti was in her lair.
Molo laid his mantle next to his mate’s and snuggled her. They both knew he would leave. It was the way of the octopus. He rose reluctantly, saying, “I fare pretty much as I please, roll with the waves and ebb with the tide by the edge of the shining blue sea.”
Then he slid close and wrapped his arms around Binti, whispering, “Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world. The heart has its beaches, its homeland, and thoughts of its own. Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings. But the heart has its seasons, its evenings, and songs of its own.”
Binti knew what must be. It was hard-wired inside her—instinctual, just as it was inside of Molo. For much of its life, the octopus is solitary. But why be solitary? she wondered, when being together is so wonderful? Sometimes, Makoona’s ways were difficult to understand, difficult to live. They would separate.
By being a little less in tune with the ways of Makoona, Molo seemed to comprehend them better, the way an outsider might better appreciate what insiders take for granted. Molo flashed a confident expression and wore a confident color. He recalled the evening and drew strength from it, as both he and Binti would in the future.
Molo crawled into the coral crease that opened onto the jungle that was Makoona. He peered back at his mate and said, “A walker after midnight and my destiny is grim. Staring at the starlight till my eyes are growing dim. I still see well enough to know the path I must pursue. If we meet again before the end, I’ll share my fate with you.” Molo slid out onto the reef, changed color, and was gone.
Binti curled up around her tiny shell and tried to dream her way back into his arms. She drifted into sleep, thinking, “Like the morning sun, you come, and like the wind, you go.” It was the way of the octopus.
Having fished with Al for several weeks, Kemar’s routine had become quite familiar. The boy was pleased to have a routine in his life. In the evenings, Kemar would secure the boat with Al, clean fish, and tend to tackle and gear before his day was done. He’d collect a little money and a fish or two from the American. Then he would return to Meela’s shop, where he helped her tidy up and bedded down in her hangar.
Kemar usually gave her the fish. Meela wasn’t the best cook, but compared to the grasshoppers and grass he ate as a boy in Cambodia, Meela’s fare was downright gourmet. Still, as settled as he’d become, another part of Kemar was growing restless to move on.
By the time the boy was through policing the shop, Meela was usually done cooking. They’d sit at an upturned crate overlooking the still lagoon and talk. For Kemar, that often meant a discussion of the day at sea.
Meela was always interested in types of fish he and Al caught. She liked to hear the boy explain the creatures’ lives, and he enjoyed telling her. Her eyes sparkled as Kemar retold much of what Al had explained to him. Kemar’s eyes also glittered as he passionately presented the information, trying to outline each fish’s position in the web of ocean life.
Rarely did Meela discuss her past. But when she did, the boy didn’t know what to make of it. According to the old woman, who many of the locals believed was tianoboto, loosely translated as “nuts,” she’d had quite a life before coming to Makoona. The old mechanic claimed to have lunched with the president of the United States se
veral times, danced with the king of England, owned her own airline, and been married to a wealthy publisher. She quickly pointed out, however, that the publisher wasn’t nearly as rich as everyone thought and, with a trace of bitterness in her speech, said that his love of money was much greater than his love of her.
Kemar didn’t believe that Meela was tianoboto, but he also didn’t believe all her wild claims. The one claim he had no doubt was true, however, was the claim that she was an accomplished pilot.
“In the newspapers, they used to call me an ‘aviatress,’” she’d say, “but I was a pilot, damn it! The plane doesn’t know what sex you are! Ahhh, don’t get me started.” Then she’d wave her hands as if to dispel the memory and return to her meal.
Eventually, Kemar asked the obvious question. “Meela,” he said, “if you were as rich and famous as you say, why live here on Makoona? Why not live with your family? Why not live where life would be easier?”
Meela put down her beloved tomato juice, which Kemar claimed he had “scrounged” from the hotel, and rubbed her eyes. Without looking up, she spoke. “I do miss my sister. And yes, I miss my husband.” The old woman thought for a moment. “Being rich and famous isn’t what people think it is. No one realizes that until they get there, and then it’s too late to do anything about it. But it wasn’t too late for me.”
Kemar did not comment, so Meela continued.
“Rich, famous, it’s all lies. We’re all just people. No one’s really all that different from anyone else. Rich might’ve made me appear better to some, but I wasn’t. The world believed I was the greatest woman pilot who ever lived. Truth is, I probably wasn’t. I crashed a lot of planes. And when I raced, I had an advantage. I flew the best planes there were. I better win. Still, I lost a lot of races. Yet the public loved me and hailed me as the best. The truth was, there were plenty of women who flew better than me . . . and plenty of men who flew worse.”
“I don’t understand.”
