Sea Siege

by Andre Norton

  " 'Cause," Liz spoke up proudly, "I do be kin to the old wise womons as live here for years an' years. There be's many wise womons in my family, an' they tells to one to the other all they knows afore they die. Me—" She spread her hands wide and then tapped her fore­head. "I know much-much. An' this here stuff it work. Luce, he put it on an' walk right in the water—fish they all go 'way fast. You'll see. But first you go shoot us that pig."

  Somehow a portion of the animal life of San Isadore had managed to survive the great storm. And Luce led Griff inland to a gully, where the drift of salty sand deposited there by the high winds was piled with the earth that had slipped down in landslides. Luce knew what he was doing, for the slotted pig tracks ran back and forth in trails.

  "You stay here with that there gun." He was almost his old-time self again as he swung into action he un­derstood. "I go—git pig—"

  Griff stationed himself obediently behind an outcrop of wall to wait while Luce melted into the patch of scrub thorn and cacti that had been rooted against the fury of the tempest.

  They really should explore the whole of San Isadore soon, he thought. Water might be a problem. Most of the island had depended upon rain tanks for fresh water. He knew that the base had included a conversion unit in its original installations. But whether that apparatus had been salvaged he could not tell. The storms of the past few days had filled emergency tanks as well as all the rock hollows. And under Murray's orders it had been stored and rationed. Water—and food. Much of the arable land was gone. Around Carterstown the sea had taken the majority of the garden strips. There had been a herd of wild cattle, descended from those left by buccaneers to provision their ships, donkeys, some horses, and the pigs. Surely few of those had come through—

  A sullen grunting in the brush alerted Griff. He low­ered the rifle. Then came an angry squeal. Two rangy sows burst from cover, behind them an ugly-looking boar, who wheeled and turned its head back toward the cov­er as if to face up to the danger that had flushed it out of hiding.

  The pigs of San Isadore were sorry specimens. Most of them would be considered litter runts by any main­land farmer. But the surly tempers and wily animosity of the small herds made them just as dangerous as their cousins that provided sport for hunters elsewhere.

  Griff ignored the sows, setting sight on the boar. He fired, and under the impact of the bullet, the hog ap­peared to rise in the air before it plunged forward, skid­ding on its head at the foot of a cactus.

  Luce skimmed out of nowhere, a brown shadow, his bare body blending into the color of rocks and earth as he went down on his knees to cut the throat of the still feebly kicking animal.

  Together they fastened it to a pole for easier carry­ing. Thin-legged and spine-ridged as the boar looked, it proved to be much heavier than Griff had anticipated. They got it back to the cliff above Carterstown to find there a fire blazing. An iron kettle brought from one of the yet unsubmerged houses hung on an improvised tripod over it, while Liz chopped silvery leaves into chaff and Le Marr studied an array of other vegetation he held fanwise in his hand. Two land crabs lay to one side on a palm leaf, and a dead lizard hung by its tail on a nearby bush.

  Griff found the preparations so grisly that he wan­dered over to sit on a rock and watch the Queen. Since there had been no response from her in answer to his signal shot, he had given up hope of there now being any life on board. But someone had brought her in, had anchored her, and had left that rag of flag flying. And Griff was determined to explore her.

  He had little faith in Liz's concoction protecting a swimmer. On the other hand, the native lore of the islanders was surprising, and such discovery would be welcomed at the base. He was perfectly willing to play guinea pig himself.

  The result of Liz's brewing was set out to cool at last. And they ate strips of stringy pork, fresh broiled, to­gether with Naval rations, while the thick substance with its base of hog grease congealed, Liz testing it from time to time with a fingertip. When she signified it was ready, Le Marr stripped and rubbed it into his skin. After a moment Griff reluctantly threw aside shirt and slacks to follow the islander's example, smearing it first over his skin and then over the trunks he wore. It was smelly and he hated the feel of it, but he trusted Le Marr's faith.

  Luce reached out for the rifle Griff had left leaning against the bole of a palm, but the American caught it up. On impulse he tendered it to Liz. She grinned widely with some of her old-time buoyance of spirit.

  "I think I'll git me some fresh meats, maybeso. Shark meats—"

  Just so he wasn't going to provide fresh meat for some shark in his turn, Griff thought as he padded down-slope to the new verge of the bay. Le Marr had waded out along a crumbled, awash wall, water rising from ankle to knee, and then to his waist before he dove to paddle out over what had been the main street of Carters­town. Griff gingerly copied him. Never before, even on that day when he had entered the inland sea pool, had he felt the same reluctance to trust himself to water.

  He fell into the effortless strokes of an expert swim­mer, heading for the Queens mooring. The water rolled from his greased flesh. He heard a warning shout and trod water. There was no mistaking the cutting fin com­ing around in a wide circle. Griff's hand went for the diver's knife.

  But there was no need for such defense. The fin sheered off, breaking away in a fury of speed. Griff might have been a sea monster himself. Liz's oil at work?

  He had little time for speculation. Le Marr had reached the Queens anchor line. That must be their means of getting aboard. But the ship was riding un­usually low in the water. Perhaps she had shipped a lot of sea in the storm, but from appearances she might have been carrying a full cargo.

  Griff clambered up after the islander. The deck was stripped; everything that a high sea could possibly car­ry away had been torn from its place. There was an odd sucking sound, but otherwise it was very quiet.

  The cabin hatch was closed. Griff skidded across the decking, his greased feet slipping. Again Le Marr was before him, prying at that entrance. Under their strength it gave, but Le Marr muttered as he put his shoulder to it, "Locked from the inside—"

  With a splintering crash it yielded. Beyond was a thick dusk, too gloomy for their sun-dazzled eyes to pierce at first.

  "Anyone there?" Griff called, his heart pounding.

  When there was nothing but silence, he climbed over the wreckage of the door to descend the few steps within. There was an evil smell, a sweetish miasma. Le Marr caught at the American's shoulder, checking his advance.

  "Wait, mon. There be bad thing here—"

  In the murky twilight was a wild state of wreckage. Every object that could be torn loose was piled in a moldering mess on the cabin floor. And with the gen­tle rocking of the Queen, they could hear the swish of water washing back and forth, trapped in the mass.

  "Chris!" Griff could make out the big form sprawled motionless on the stripped bunk. "Chris!"

  He stumbled over and through the junk, but he did not reach the mate ahead of Le Marr. The islander pulled at the flaccid body, his hand resting with urgency on the wide chest.

  "Chris?" Griff made a question of it this time, looking to Le Marr.

  "There still be life. Do we git him out o' here, may­beso we can help—"

  Somehow they got the dead weight of the mate's heavy body across the cabin, up those steps, and out into the clean air and sun. Under his dark skin there was an odd greenish pallor, and, in spite of Le Marr, Griff believed that they had brought out a dead man.

  "Look for the supplies, mon," Le Marr ordered. "See if you can find food—water. He be not hurt—just sick—"

  Griff plunged back into the disordered cabin, dig­ging dog-fashion into the mass on the floor. He found a tin can that appeared intact, though its label was gone, but fresh water was missing.

  Back on deck he punctured the can lid with his knife and discovered he had been lucky, as the tart scent of stewed tomatores came from the battered lid. He pas
sed it to Le Marr and then supported Chris while the other worked pulp and liquid into the unconscious man's slack mouth. As it dribbled out again, Griff's hope sank. They were too late; nothing was going to bring Chris around now.

  But some measure of that restorative moisture had helped.

  "He swallow!" Le Marr exclaimed excitedly. "This mon not be licked yet. He be tough—"

  Griff could see that movement of the throat, too. Yes, some of the watery pulp was getting down. Yet, save for that convulsive swallowing and the very faint rise and fall of his chest, Chris showed no more signs of life than he had when they pulled him from the cabin. And how were they going to transport him to shore?

  The contents of the can being at length exhausted, Griff settled Chris gently back on the deck and stood up, studying the disappointing bareness all about. Some­how, somewhere, they must find something on which they could float the unconscious man to land.

  "How are we—?" he was beginning when they were both startled by movement in the mate. Chris's eyes opened and passed over Griff as if the American were invisible. His lips, sticky with juice, drew back in a snarl of rage such as Griff had never seen the placid Chris exhibit before. And on his hands and knees he crawled across the decking to the battened down hatch of the cargo space. There, as if that progress had drained all his energy, he sank down in a heap, but his big hands drummed weakly on the sealed hatch as he collapsed.

  "Debble!" His voice was a hissing whisper. "Debble —we done cotched you safe! No more killin' mons. Debble—" His head fell on his beating hands, and they were still.

  Griff jumped to help Le Marr pull the mate away from the opening. Then the islander regarded the hatch narrowly,

  "I think, mon"—some inner excitement broke his usu­al calm—"we should look in here. Chris, he goin' be all right. But here—maybeso we find something—"

  He was busy at the lashings, and, now that he ex­amined them carefully, Griff saw that the ropes had been wound and tied in a vast network of knots and inter­weavings—to make very sure that what lay below was safe.

  In the end, they had to cut the majority of the ropes in order to clear the opening. And then, together, they pried and tugged until they had the cover up. The same fetid odor so noticeable in the cabin was present to a far greater degree. But there was something else. Water washed below, swinging back and forth with the movements of the Queen. But this was no overflow from the storm as it had been in the cabin. Here was water that almost filled the hold, and in it—

  "Look out, mon!"

  But Griff had seen it too—that coil of living flesh rising with deliberation from below the surface of the dark flood toward the open hatch. As one, the two on the deck moved, sliding back the hatch, fumbling with the fastenings they had cut loose.

  "So he did bring back debble," Le Marr observed as they made secure. "This be a good thing, I think."

  Griff stared down at Chris with wondering eyes. How had the mate done it and why? But he had. And now the survivors on San Isadore would have the chance they wanted to study the nature of the enemy close at hand.

  VIII

  MAN IS A STUBBORN ANIMAL

  "the base—" Griff paced uneasily across the deck. "If they could send the LC—give us a tow—"

  "No other way to go," Le Marr agreed. "Night comes—"

  Griff caught the significance of that remark. Darkness had always been a factor in the attacks of the undersea things. Did the prisoner below have any way of sum­moning its kind? If so, could the Queen expect an at­tack? Was it fear of that which had made Chris lock himself in the cabin?

  Le Marr arose to his feet. "I go shoreways. Send Liz to the base. We stay here—"

  Before Griff could protest, Le Marr dived from the deck and swam inland. He climbed ashore across some half-awash rubble to the cliff. Griff sat down beside Chris. His imagination was painting a vivid picture for him of that thing below, moving sluggishly about its prison. And the secret of how it had been trapped there intrigued him. Where were Captain Murdock and Rob Fletcher?

  Chris was asleep, sprawled out on the deck, every rib underlined beneath his skin. Now and then he mut­tered, but, though Griff listened closely, he could make no sense out of that gabble.

  It was nearing sunset, and he felt naked on this bat­tered deck with no other weapon than a knife, no de­fense against what might rise from the shallows. If one of those "serpents" were to appear now— They could not hope to face up to that menace.

  A splash brought him around in a half-crouch, steel in hand. But no fanged head spiraled up from the water. Instead he saw Le Marr paddling back, pushing before him a crude raft hastily cobbled out of drift­wood on which balanced the rifle and the iron pot in which Liz had concocted her brew. From the cut lash­ings of the hatch cover Griff knotted a line to lift that cargo on board. And when both it and the islander were beside him, he discovered that Le Marr had come pre­pared for a siege. The pot was full of fresh water, and there were their ration tins and some coconuts, as well as the rifle.

  "Liz goes to the base. She will tell the commander what be here. Tell him send crawl boat for us. Maybe­so come by mornin'—"

  Le Marr roused Chris and gave him some sips of the water, while Griff made good use of the remaining sun time to grub in the wreckage in the cabin, locating and bringing up labelless tins, a fish spear, and a lantern. Le Marr shook his head at the last.

  "Light bad thing. Light draw eyes in the night. We be better in dark—"

  Griff wanted to protest that, but his common sense agreed. He had not forgotten the night he had dived by the reef and the schools of curious fish that had swum into the path of his torch. Yes, a light might draw to them the very attention they hoped to escape.

  They ate and drank sparingly. Griff settled down cross-legged, the rifle resting on his knees. The sea was very calm. Save for the half-submerged ruins of the town, the immediate past might not have been. He was almost drowsing when Le Marr's fingers touched his arm, tightened there in a silent signal of alarm.

  Griff, now accustomed to the swing of the derelict Queen, was aware of it also, the slightly different feel of the ship, a displacement of weight that altered her angle in the water.

  Le Marr's soft whisper came. "Debble thing restless. It wake—want to be free—"

  The American wished he knew more about small sail­ing craft. The Queen was perhaps in danger, riding so low in the water, her motor useless. Could the move­ments of the imprisoned octopus capsize them?

  The effect of that slightest of changes in the Queen was electric as far as Chris was concerned. Pricked out of sleep, he sat up, shivering visibly. His wide eyes stared unbelievingly at Griff, went on to Le Marr, and then back to the American. He shook his head and reached out a trembling hand to touch Griff timidly.

  "You be there in true, mon?"

  "I'm here, Chris—"

  Chris again looked from him to Le Marr. The voodoo man's face wore its usual impassive mask until he smiled.

  "You be back—back home, mon."

  But when Chris looked beyond Le Marr to the al­tered shore line, he was plainly puzzled.

  "This ain't Carterstown—" he said almost plaintively.

  "It's what's left of it," Griff answered.

  Chris studied the ruins and then, with a sudden dry sob, buried his face in his hands.

  "—never no more—" His muffled words trailed mournfully over the waters of the encroaching bay.

  "Chris, what happened to the Queen?" Griff ven­tured to ask. "Where's the captain and Rob?"

  At first he thought he was not going to get an answer. But at last, in a colorless voice unlike his own, Chris replied.

  "The debble things—they came out o' the sea. Rob, he was took—'fore we really see them. Captain—he shoot—the rest—" He shook his head. "It be all mixed up in my head, mon. No more remember. But"—he brought his fist down on the scarred planking under them—"I got this one debble, an' I think I bring him back to the doctuh—to you fa
ther. He know what makes fishes do things. Maybeso he can tell why these fish an' bad things come now to git mons. De doctuh can tell us true! You get the doctuh, Griff—"

  "I can't. The doctor isn't here now, Chris. I don't— I don't know where he is." But he was thinking that what he had told Casey was still true. As long as one could not see the disaster, one could keep on believing that it had not happened—that some day, maybe tomor­row, word would come that the worst had not hap­pened—that the north was still clean, its cities stand­ing, its lights bright, its people living. He could not believe that Dr. Gunston would never return to San Isadore, that in time Me would not be as it had always been.

  "He was poisoned by a fish," he continued steadily. "They flew him to the States for treatment."