The stench of the sweet raw and rotting mixture was not highly regarded. The putrid aroma bothered Feret Ferrero tremendously. “That gruel offends the vilest rats and cockroaches,” he huffed around his overworked mustache, nostril flared red against the cold. His feet ached through torn calluses and soggy socks. But Hani did not mind in the slightest. “How does he tolerate that crud?” Feret asked, repressing a gag reflex as he sucked in air downwind of the blue cauldron. Yet Hani’s smile remained beaming, bright and welcoming.
“Are you almost done here?” Sage asked him, as though he had spent enough time pouring chum into the water that morning.
A crest broke the surface. They spotted it. A killer whale.
The Whalers marveled at their quarry, the thick tear-drop shaped animal with a curved fin, tapered and rounded, its skin a deep black hide like patent leather, with dark vinyl grey splotches. The animal had an excess of melanin that caused its dark appearance. In the deep or at night, they wouldn't have any chance of spotting the animal. The appearance was brief, a mere glimmer from a breach, but it was enough. They could track it from there. The whale swam its own course, determined. They continued on a course that ran perpendicular to the fields.
“Your chum dragged in the wrong crowd,” Feret mocked.
“Were you trying to attract a whale?” Sage asked. “Whales are good. I like whales, but an orcinus is not easy hunting. I thought you were aiming for something with sharper teeth.”
“Leave me alone,” Hani grumbled.
The Whalers’ pursuit started with their oars breaking the water, harpoons ready to fly. This was a well-rehearsed pattern, with methods passed down from the earliest whale hunters. The orca presented its black fin to the Whalers, in full view, maybe a few hundred meters out, and then doubled back.
Why would it double back?
The orcinus was quick, gliding through the water. The whale claimed the chase as its own, as a taunt to proclaim its superiority. And it was definitely taunting them. Daring them. The Whalers readied themselves and stretched the sails. They were tense and focused, maintaining a careful watch on the surface for any break in the chop.
More than one animal broke the surface. The whale was not alone. In its wake was a small shiver of two sand tiger sharks, ragged toothed on their swift and silent approach. Were these sharks chasing the whale? Patrolling these waters? The sea-mount was an attractive territory. Nothing could stop them from pursuing another predator in tandem. The reality was that the sharks were there, and in pursuit of the whale.
“They should not be chasing such a large species, and not at this hour. It’s not natural,” Feret said.
“They should not be here,” Sage agreed. “Not now.”
The sand tiger shark ordinarily hunted at night. This meant dusk and dawn. They should not have seen them this late in the morning. This was another shift in the ocean’s ecology affecting ordinary behavior. The sand tiger sharks, Carcharias Taurus, were moving further away from their normal predation patterns. Now they were swimming in tandem, in pursuit of another large predator, and over the Alpine’s sea-mount. This wasn’t just a difference in range. It was a complete change in behavioral patterns. These weren’t the only species to exhibit this type of shift in behavior, but this particular shift change messed with their hunt.
“What do we do?” Hani asked.
“The whale delivered them for us to slaughter,” Makrigga said, shaking off his coat, taking care to keep the thick fur collar off the deck and dry.
“Used us?” Feret asked.
“I think so. It must know what we would do once we saw it.”
“Maybe it is impossible for them to find food near the shores. Maybe they are fleeing the coastal waters,” Makrigga said.
“Might make Hani’s job easier. Doesn’t help me much,” Feret said, still rowing.
“And encroaching on our fields. We can’t lose the sea-mount to predators. The farmers can’t harvest the algae if predators swim these waters when the sun is up,” Sage pointed out.
The news would also trouble Sycamore Johnston to no end, unless they solved it then and there.
“So they are hunting as well.”
“Foraging.”
“They are not our best target.”
“Sycamore Johnston would prefer the whale.”
“Or we hunt all three at the same time.”
“These sharks will be a threat to the farmers. That makes them our most important target.”
“These sharks are not likely to forage for farmers.”
“We won’t even have farmers out here until after Buckminster clears the derrick.”
“But we should capture them regardless.”
“If we pursue the orcinus, then the sand tigers will want to claim the carcass for themselves,” Sage said, thinking two steps ahead.
“If we have to deal with them either way, then we should go straight for them.”
“I’m ready to hunt,” Sage said.
“Harpoons,” Makrigga said.
Feret opened his mouth. “What else would we use?”
“You’re not using them, so what do you care?” Hani asked.
“I’ll show you how much I care with these,” Feret threatened as he shook an oar at Hani.
“That will make them angry,” Hani warned instead of acknowledging Feret.
“Anything we do out here will make them angry,” Makrigga said.
“And the orcinus?”
“That will wait.”
“I bet the orcinus brought the sharks to us,” Sage suggested. “It thinks they’re a nuisance. Or maybe a threat. And it wants us to get the sharks of its trail.”
“If there is time.”
“It is early. We still have time.”
“If you don’t decide now, we will be too far from all three in no time,” Feret said. “It’s not like any of you help with the chase. We can’t chase two sharks and a whale with just one man at the oars, but thank you for thinking of me.”
“Or we hunt none of them. Let the sharks leave, and aim for bigger prey.”
“No. We will take the sharks.”
“One, and then the other will follow.”
“Yes.”
“We must finish the first before the other follows.”
“Let us do this and be done with it,” Makrigga said, his patience wasted.
Feret positioned the boat between the whale and the two sharks. The sharks were heading straight for them.
Sage knew Makrigga had an intuitive sense of the sharks’ tactics, as well as years spent hunting all sorts of creatures. They would follow his lead during the hunt. He could explain what went through his head during these moments, but nothing replaced the time spent in the water. It was part of her education, the heightened reflexes and tensed muscles that allowed them to survive. It helped her understand their movements, their patterns and flutters. The way they thought. It helped her react the way Makrigga might react.
Sage understood that a single hesitation separated the space between the Whaler and shark’s open jaws. She learned how to feel for the slight changes in velocity which was essential when the animal could be hiding in murky waters. Makrigga also taught her how to spot the blinking membrane that forced some species to adjust its bearings, that moment when a shift in light causes the slight expansion and dilation of the pupil. This was a powerful skill in clear water.
The shelf dropped off, and with it, the foliage. They were at the edge of the sea-mount. The bottom was well below a quick dive and cover was inaccessible. The water was clear and blue, unmuddied by the murk from the algae. Bright sunlight cascaded deep into the water. Visibility could not be any better.
Fins skimmed the surface. Sage’s muscles tensed as she steadied herself with the boat, ready to assist in case Makrigga needed her help. Makrigga’s fingers tensed around his harpoon, and he launched the spear but missed. Its shaft lodged into the side of a choral outcropping. He transferred another spear from his back to
his throwing arm and braced himself. The shark was further away, but not too far. Feret and Hani pulled at the oars. The sharks seemed oblivious to their chase, focused as they were on the orcinus. Makrigga threw the second spear. This time he connected. The shaft was lodged in the backside of the shark’s bulk. The throw was not fatal but succeeded in getting the creature’s attention.
With a violent jerk, the shark searched for a disruption in the waters, and found the dark underside of the boat’s hull blocking the otherwise clear path of sunlight.
Sage took in the size of the creatures. Her hands trembled. What could she do against such a massive force of nature on the attack? The only protection she had from the sharks’ wrath was a fragile wooden hull. Sage steadied herself and grasped the harpoon with both hands. She directed the sharp end towards the ocean, and bent her legs, ready to pounce.
The sand tiger twisted around and turned upwards, speeding through the water. It smacked its head into the hull and gave the boat a heavy jolt.
The vessel lurched portside. Feret smacked the water with his left oar to brace the tipping. Hani’s feet went out from under him and he slid onto his right shoulder with a dull thud.
With the impact, Makrigga dove into the water, harpoon in hand. Poised.
The shark made a second pass that was inclined to Makrigga’s dive. It was nearly twice his size in length, perhaps four times his girth. When it neared, he kicked off the shark’s round head to propel upwards in the water. He scraped his foot against the rough skin, a thin trail of blood seeping out of the ball. The scrap made Makrigga a target, but it also gave him enough leverage to point the spear gun and shoot it downwards into the shark’s cranium. He severed the nerves, pulverized the brain, the shaft splaying out of the mortal wound.
The shark thrashed and rattled. The frenzied movement signaled to its companion of its death. The creature’s grey and white mass floated lifelessly behind him. Its spots were obscured by the red water.
Sage tied off the rope connecting the spear to the portside rigging. “Get back in here,” she said.
That first one was easy. They cut off the sharks’ path and took it by surprise. They wouldn’t be so lucky with the second.
Makrigga swam to the boat’s promise of safety as fast as he could. Sage stood ready to throw the harpoon to him the moment he stopped swimming.
“There.” Feret turned portside.
The second shark passed behind Makrigga.
“Take the harpoon,” Sage shouted. “It’s behind you.”
Makrigga stopped swimming and tread water about twenty meters away. “Throw it,” he said, and held up his arm.
Sage moved to toss the harpoon to him when he disappeared underwater.
“Where did he go?” Hani scrambled to the side.
“I think the shark grabbed him,” Feret said as he steadied the boat. “Sage, if you don’t mind.”
Sage didn’t need to be asked twice. She leapt from the boat and dove to the spot where Makrigga went under. The spear gun stretched out in front of her.
The clear water made it easy to see what was happening. The shark had Makrigga’s left leg. It was pulling him down and to her left. Thin wisps of red blood flowed behind them. Sage could see Makrigga struggling as the shark pressed its teeth deeper into his leg. Its teeth dug deeper into Makrigga’s leg, tore at his muscles. He kicked the shark in the head, just like he did with the first one. His arms grabbed at the water, flailing, trying to pull away.
She swam as hard as she could manage. As long as Makrigga was fighting, he was creating drag. That gave her a chance to catch up to him. So she swam. Closed the distance.
When she got close, she reached out with the harpoon. It wasn’t close enough to reach the shark, but it was close enough for Makrigga to reach it. He clasped his hand around the blade and pulled Sage towards him. Both Sage and Makrigga trailed behind the shark as it went deeper. The pressure built in Sage’s lungs. They couldn’t go that much deeper before the depth became a problem.
The shark thrashed under the water.
That was Sage’s chance. Makrigga released his grip on the harpoon. Sage looped the harpoon around and stabbed at the shark. She connected with the left side of its head, behind the gill slits. They had it.
Hani looped an iron chain around the second shark’s tail fin. He wrenched the carcass onto the boat as Sage and Makrigga climbed aboard.
The shark left an open gash. The fatty tissue. The muscles. Blood seeped down Makrigga’s leg and into the boat.
“That looks bad,” Hani said.
“It’s superficial,” Makrigga corrected. “I’m doing better than the shark.” He pulled a shark tooth out of his thigh. Tossed it overboard without a second glance.
Sage grabbed a plastic container with some medical supplies. She wrapped Makrigga’s leg with gauze. “A lot of salt water got into the wound.”
“We should return,” Makrigga said. “Quickly.” He cradled the wounds on his leg.
The horizon was beginning to darken with thick clouds. An occasional drizzle of light rain flourished across the small boat.
“Sycamore will make do with what we have,” Hani agreed.
“I’ll get us back to the Alpine. All of you can relax, but if you feel like helping out, I won’t think less of you. I promise,” Feret said as he raised the sails.
As the Whalers sailed back to the Alpine, the sharks hung by the mast with a chain wrapped around their tail fins, their heads facing straight down, the jaws only two meters above the deck.
One of them was still alive. Thrashing. Gnashing at the Whalers. If any approached the beast, the sand tiger could still rip off a wandering hand, or an unperceptive head. Blood rushed to its face, suffocating the creature, flooding its black eyes. Warm blood dripped from its gums onto the deck.
Makrigga circled the shark, carefully, light on his feet, and then grabbed the harpoon embedded in its tail and pulled it from its host. Blood poured freely from the opened wound, painting the shark’s hide red. It chomped at Makrigga, went for his hands. It would have grabbed him if they weren’t separated by the length of the harpoon.
Sage noticed a slight distension in the female shark’s belly. “Look,” she said. “The shark is pregnant. Don’t cut it open. We should wait. The fetus might be alive.”
Feret gave her a quizzical look. He even stopped rowing.
“If the fetus is alive, it can still bite you when it falls out,” Sage pointed out to the other three.
The rest of the crew looked at her, bewildered.
“Sand tiger sharks are cannibals. I told you. The first-born hatchling eats its younger siblings as they emerge from their eggs. That means that there is a little shark inside there that has probably already killed its brothers and sisters.”
Sage could only imagine what it would be like to see a sand tiger hatchling bursting out of its mother’s belly as they cut her open, the hatchling biting and flopping on the deck, trying to grab hold of a stray finger or hand, and then tearing it off. However enticing that sounded, it made sense to avoid that scenario. Everyone else agreed.
So the four Whalers waited for the female shark to stop thrashing and for its eyes to stop scanning the area around it. Eventually, its jaws went limp and slung open. The sand tiger shark’s deft and aggressive movements soon reduced to a series of crippled spasms, where instinct overcame intent, and then nothing at all.
“This will be a nice surprise for the Alpine,” Hani offered. “Let’s go back and deliver this catch to Sycamore. He should be happy. He might even give us a break from breaking our backs on Buckminster’s oil rig.”
“We would get there sooner if you helped me row,” Feret said.
“That’s not going to happen,” Sage said, smiling.
“We might even get back in time for the ration distributions,” Hani finished.
“Let’s hope we don’t,” Makrigga grumbled.
CHAPTER NINE
BEATRICE PLANTAIN
T
HE “BRAIDED WOMAN”
The platform's resident band played a mid-twentieth century jazz tune. Rusty brass instruments struggled with the notes. The strings plucked away with muffled chunks that were barely audible. Beatrice thought the music sounded the same regardless of whether she was at an ocean burial or a joining of two people.
Music during a daily ration distribution seemed like pointless camouflage, like trying to disguise a shark with bunny slippers.. At some point, this routine chore had been something to celebrate. Food! But they didn't have that kind of problem anymore. At least until today. The idea sent a cold chill up her spine.
Beatrice stood guard over the two barrels.
Two pathetic barrels. Less after she allocated additional portions for the Roughnecks. That's all we have to feed these people. Why bother? She leaned against the upper rim of one of the barrels. The rounded steel pressed into her thighs. She crossed her arms. People used to age malt and grain in barrels like this. Their current use was not as fun.
“Do these people know that we can't feed all of them?” Davie whispered. “They look hungry.”
Beatrice looked up. “No. No one made any announcement.” She didn't really give a shit about their hunger. It was their behavior that worried her.
She saw the worry in Davie's eyes. He cared too much. He was tall. In the narrow corridors, his height made him an imposing presence, even though his clothes didn’t quite fit. The sleeves on his shirt were nowhere near his wrists. The hem on his pants was well above his ankles. To cover those areas, Davie wore brass piping.
“When do you want to get this started?”
“I don't know. I'm wondering whether we should bother.”
Davie was obviously trying to follow. “So, what? Send them away? That won't turn out well.”
“Yeah,” Beatrice agreed. Don’t mess with mealtimes. Or empty bellies.
The line of people snaked through the platform's corridors. The ones they could see? There was enough for them. But what about the ones around the corners? The ones that they couldn't see. One ration per person. One ration out of the barrels. The barrel was quickly emptying. Beatrice knew that at some point she would have to say no. The “so go and starve” was implied.
The Platform Page 8
