The Reef (13 page)

When women-and men like myself, I hasten (very much so) to add-reach a certain age, they get to think about what they have done in life-things to pass on, & all that. She’s a beautiful lady, too, & Jefry has let himself slip in recent years. Men do not seem to make that extra effort with age, & it’s no surprise when a woman jumps ship, if you ask me. They’ve been together for years, & maybe it’s the plague of the human mind-that capability for illogical & self-destructive thought which makes her want to go. But look at it from her view: she exercises regularly & eats well, & he drinks each night, getting quite a paunch on him I might say. He can see that she still makes that effort, but what greater sign of complacency is there than that? His rumel hide has expanded, & he has become vulgar. I know people love each other despite that, but good manners & good physique buy a lot. If no other woman wants him, why should she?

I’ve decided I’m not going to sleep with her though-even if she offers. I’m not the sort to do that to friends. I can see she wants me though, or at least, thinks it. But, if it isn’t me, it will be someone else.

Manolin is still an enigma. I hear him crying some nights, through the cabin door. He has left her, I can see that, although it’s not difficult to see. He has brought a bottle of whiskey with him & when he wakes up I can’t tell what has made his eyes red. I think Becq is rather worried about him, although she has her sleeping problems. Last night she told me that she dreamt she nearly drowned again. The omens are not good. Manolin tends to ignore her, but I’ve told her not to take it personally, he’s depressed, & depression is merely anger without enthusiasm. Yana has had a stab at mothering. Not entirely sure if that has had any effect whatsoever.

I despair.

Had a thought: they say that women are more irrational than men; but to be irrational is a major factor in separating humans & rumel from nature-we are irrational species after all-so does this mean that women are more human than men? Are we males more animal-like? That would explain a few things anyway. Just a thought.

What a sorry-looking bunch I’ve employed. Not to mention those two government agents. They have not joined us for supper, ever, & they spend most of their time in their cabin. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they batted for the other team, but I fancy not.

I wonder how Tchad is getting on. Ah, to be married! I loved weddings. My own weren’t much to talk about, but they lose their effect when you have too many. Well, we’ll crack on without the fellow. I’m sure we’ll do just fine. He wasn’t one for sailing, anyway. Besides, he liked Escha too much.

That, I struggle to understand.

I think it best if I read my zoology journals & see if there is anything that could explain what has been happening on Arya. I’ve recently discovered, from a very old article, that the island was discovered & claimed for Escha over two hundred years ago. There is a reef system in the local waters & fascinating palm forests. There was a small colony of humans, in addition to what were referenced as simply ‘strange folk’ who utilised plants in a previously unseen way. They must by the ichthyocentaur. Ethnobotany is Manolin’s speciality, so that ought to take his mind off matters. Pigs were introduced once, & a boat set sail with rabbits as little as ten years ago, but never returned. I suspect both provide the staple diet, running wild around the island & its palm forest.

Who this Doctor Macmillan is, however, remains a mystery. We will find out.

I drank a vintage red, from Rhoam, last night. It was delightful, full bodied, a great colour & packed a powerful punch. It rather reminded me of my second wife.

And I shall not make that mistake again.

Voyage Diaries, Volume
8,
The Trip to Arya. Day 55.

More thoughts, ramblings.

One or two things I need to think over, for future reference. I’m just getting this straight, in my own mind, before setting to work. DeBrelt’s is a cutting-edge operation. We do not need sophisticated equipment, but we do require sophisticated minds. We observe nature, her biological, chemical, geological, mathematical aspects as one whole science. We do not reduce, but adhere to the philosophy of ‘systems’, that is, nature is a system & not a ‘thing’ to be broken down. She is a process, an interdependent mechanism. She changes through time. She is a web. The human & rumel species are not outside of her power. We study not each fraction of science on Arya, but conduct a wide, holistic survey, to understand nature accurately. This was Manolin’s suggestion, initially, & I think it’s a good one, although I must confess that the old ways do set in often. Only then, will we find clues as to whatever affects the ichthyocentaur &, more importantly, how it fits in to the bigger picture.

Always look at the bigger picture.

According to the charts we should be near the volcanic island chain, of which Arya is the largest. I hazard a guess at two days’ sailing. The weather has been good; the health of all on board has been fine. Well, physical health that is.

Manolin, I think, has stopped crying himself to sleep. He talked things over with me two nights ago. As I suspected, his wife had an affair & he caught her-starkers & legs akimbo-with another fellow, a tall chap apparently (it makes a difference to a man, let me tell you). Manolin left immediately, distraught.

I, myself, love women too much to hate them. You could tell she was the sort: self aware & loved attention from all. Manolin was perhaps too weak a character for her. But alas he was bewitched by her looks. We’ve all been there. We’ve bled tears to satisfy their whims.

But,
by Arrahd,
we’d do it again in a heartbeat.

I think Manolin needs a girl with a good heart, who won’t try to compete with him, & who will earn trust over time. Someone not so concerned with glamour, but what the stars mean at night. He would treat her well, I know it. He wants a girl to provide for, who won’t become bored with his attention. He would like a girl who, after reading a good book, looks at their reflection in a mirror & frowns rather than brushes their hair. There used to be a saying that the nicer a woman is to a man, then the worse he treats her. I suspect it works just as well both ways, these days.

I slipped Manolin a touch of cocaine last night. Poor lad had never tried the stuff before. I thought he could do with a booster, even if it was only for an hour or so. I entered his cabin around about sunset. I found a book of Arrahd (what it was doing on my ship, I’ll never know) & decided the best use for it was to use its leather cover to spread it out on. So, I lined it up for him & he was up for it. He’s an experimenter, that one. I like that quality in a man. I even let him use my glass straw through which to sniff it. For his first time, he did pretty well Straight in, no fuss. Within twenty minutes he could no longer feel the roof of his mouth, nor his front teeth, which meant it kicked in all right. However, did his spirits rise? Did he stand up with new-found happiness? Did he hell. He’s so far in the doldrums that not even a little magic powder has any effect. I, myself, started babbling like a goose-as is usual---& think I managed to bore the lad to sleep. That lad’s problem is that he can never decide things, never be a man. I reckon that’s why she went. She went because he never directed her (possibly even in the bedroom some of them like those shenanigans). He’d much rather escape then do things. When I knew him to be at university, I’d catch him the morning after some blind-drunk bender the evening before a deadline. Always avoiding decision, responsibility. Mind you, he’d always pass with distinction.

The two agents that Mayor Gio sent have done nothing but question me, & quite frankly, I’m becoming bored of it. They do not trust me one iota. They come storming into my cabin wanting to know all sorts about the island, any reports of sunken ships in the area, what the killings on the island could be. I tire of it. I had hoped for a great, intellectual debate, but one can be sure of one thing: you won’t get it from government bodies. The thing is, I get the impression that there is something they know, & when I start to ask questions they have to leave. They’re hinting at something, which I think lies not on the island, but, & this is the strange thing, something in the water. It’s a good thing we have the submersible craft with us. It’s old, yes, but there is no better craft for penetrating deep places. So to speak. Note to self: less innuendo on one’s own. It is ineffective.

Yana was looking pleasant yesterday. She strutted about on deck, wearing a thin skirt, & I could see the shape of her legs through it as the sun was setting. Her hair is getting longer-I’ve always been a fan of long hair on a woman-and she’s started dying it blacker. As the sun gets more intense, much more so than Escha, she is browning like a good roast chicken.

She’s been sick a few times. Not sure she’s made for the sea.

Her man, Jefry, has been getting drunk every night, although I must track his source for when the wine goes. She must be frustrated (perhaps sexually? One can only hope). Especially if Jefry’s breath reeks of alcohol.

That reminds me. A crisis has besieged us: there are only three bottles of wine left, all of them cheap. I shall drink them alone, perhaps they will taste better that way.

Thirteen

A palm tree moved in the wind. The doctor looked up through its jagged leaves to see the sun, the light dappling his bald head. The trunk leaned inland by just a fraction of a degree. A section of scab like bark fell naturally, tapped the sand. He picked it up, marvelled at its rough texture. Then he brought it near his mouth, took a bite, chewed. It tasted bitter.

Doctor Macmillan stepped out from the edge of the palm forest and onto the beach, warming in the morning sun. He was wearing a pair of brown, shortened breeches. Above his head a cluster of colourful birds circled the air then darted into the dense foliage behind. He smiled, waded out to the white sand, towards the sea. There, a woman was emerging.

He watched her walk out of the water. She took long, graceful strides as she pushed her browned body from the sea. Her damp black hair covered her breasts. The sun reflected off of her skin, but it wasn’t the light that dazzled him.

He walked over to her, listening to the repetitions of the surf.

Her body was toned from years of swimming and he couldn’t wait to touch her-never could. He embraced her, picked her up from the shallowest of waves, carried her up on to dry sand, where he lay her down. Kissed her. She opened her eyes, but the sky was obviously so vivid that she shut them again, holding him. She allowed him to run his hands over her prominent hips. In this paradise, she was what he cared for most. After a short while, he lay to one side to take in the panorama. She stood up to brush the sand off of her damp body.

Only a thin line separated the horizon from the sky, the water being a slightly darker blue. A shallow bank of sand meandered out for a hundred yards or so, carrying with it light turquoise waters, up to a point, where it stopped and the deeper sea began.

Further into the distance you could see the edges of one side of the reef. Plants were perched on top of the coral, bathing in the sun, as if some exclusive miniature islands. The surf lapped against them, foaming, then towards the island of Arya, where the foam oozed, with some pitch, onto the warm sand.

Tides surged through the coral heads, sparked the water with oxygen. Doctor Forb Macmillan wondered just how many eyes were staring back at him, peering out from under shells, from around gelatinous spines, in places where flat ribbons of tissue twisted, danced around in current induced spirals.

He stared out to sea, ran his hand over his scalp. He rubbed it, unconsciously, smelling the organic matter that had been washed up on the shore in the night: weeds and detritus that the sea had coughed up. His bright eyes focussed on a wave pattern further offshore. Instinctively, he knew where channels flowed. He knew of wind swells, of reef breaks. He turned to the woman. ‘Myranda, I’m going to fetch my board. I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Okay,’ she said.

The doctor ran to the palm forest unbuttoning his shirt, and moments later he returned with a six-foot long short board tucked under his arm. A necklace of tiny shells rode up and down on his chest as he ran. Myranda was wondering along the beach, picking up small detritus, shells, driftwood, then arranging them idly in the sand. As the doctor passed she looked up, slung her long, black hair over one shoulder. They smiled at each other, before he trotted into the sea.

He strode in with his knees reaching up high then threw the board down flat and jumped on top, centring his weight, feet hanging off of one end. He paddled out, careful to keep the nose of his board a couple of inches above the water. For some time swam further, where he knew the greater waves travelled east across the face of the island and its reefs. The salt in the water stung his eyes, but it invigorated him. The sea was pleasantly warm. He could see the edge of the coral reef below him, columns of fish, and in this blue he noticed the shadows of rays drifting coolly.

The winds became stronger, his body felt the force of the water push his board up then allowed it to fall. He kept his mouth closed so as not to consume too much water and as another wave brought him up a couple of feet, he noticed, coming forth from the horizon, a large, grey boat.