Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Prologue
She cut down through the water in a precise, controlled movement. Further down this trench, pressure began to stretch her skin again, and it was at this level that she would usually forget the colour of the sun, the brightness, even the concept of warmth. Distances began to mean less, became more abstract. In the deep, life followed a different set of values. You could see filter feeders, bichir, gouramis, but you could also taste the salt more, sense the movements of the water in thick, unavoidable drifts. And you were required to perceive things on an entirely new level.
She fell for nearly a quarter of the day through differing shades of darkness.
A shark followed a school of tuna that circled with the currents, trailing one another, and within a second she could no longer sense them, only the drag they had left in the water. Bubbles of oxygen shot along her skin, through her hair, and she looked up for them to have long gone. She regarded a trickle of oil, spilt along the floor, black on black, could sense it. Organisms burrowed into the sediment, extracting minerals. With compassion, she hoped that they were waving their antennae in delight-she liked to think everything was satisfied, at one with their existence. For a moment she floated above them, feeling, then swam along the ocean floor.
Towards glimmering lights.
They appeared at first as a blur, but as she came closer they took the form of viscous diamonds. Soon they were all you could see, dazzling, an unnatural phenomena, but it was home. There were thousands of them, arranged in neat lanes, rows, built around a framework that hadn’t yet presented itself clear enough.
At her side a vent spurted suddenly, forcing her to dive away as it vomited ultra-high temperature water, minerals. An explosion of heat, a change in currents. A moment too late and she would have been boiled, she knew that. However this needed fixing. It posed a danger to her, to the underwater community. Inside her head, she altered pressure. She generated a sound, called out through the water towards the lights. It was melodic, played along a certain scale, one that only her kind could hear.
Other sirens came.
She watched their shapes cut through the water until they were with her. With them they brought some encrusted piping. She couldn’t sense if it had been extracted from a dense ore, salvaged from a wreck, or sculpted from coral. Dozens of the women hauled it to the vent and in unison they lowered it. The end covered the vent that had spurted out the heated water. The piping warmed up. Heat flowed along it, back towards the light. She had removed the danger for the moment, and with another group of harmonics she sent the sirens back home, back towards the lights. In their strange tones, they talked amongst one another.
But through the water, there was a disturbing groan-a deep bass that was felt in her stomach more than she could actually hear.
All of the sirens spiralled to a halt, turned to face her.
They could hear it again, and she saw the panic on their faces. Thin gills between her ribs flexed and exposed thin, translucent flaps as she breathed heavily. She knew what she needed to do. It was beginning to awaken, and her efforts were not enough to keep it for much longer. A decision was made: she called out, singing her request.
And ordered her women to become fecund.
Evening: the creature watched the waves fall onshore, focussed on the detail of the froth as each one covered the beach of the island of Arya. Behind him, palm branches swayed in the light wind, fizzing. He tried to calm himself. The sea was approaching, the sound of the waves not quite matching their movements. He noticed that tonight they possessed little pitch. They oozed back and forth, repeating as the wind swells were broken by the reef. Both motion and noise were hypnotising. The moon cast reflections offshore, and the water around Arya broke it up into a scattering of light. A shadow remained up ahead, where the shallow water was broken, and it looked as if a boat had sunk, spilt its cargo.
It was the darkness cast by the reef.
Despite his learning, which ought to have reassured him, his heart was beating fast. Whether or not there was something in the air, he couldn’t grasp-but tonight it wasn’t the reef that was making him frightened. The creature took steps back until he was in light of the beach fire, and glow illuminated one side of his body. Other such fires lined the beach, a thick, tailed shadow by each of them. Ashes sparked regularly off into the sky. Salt and decomposition filled his nose. To his other side he noted moonlit sand and the shadows of the palms that punctured it. Jasmine was pungent, offered somewhere in the distance, somewhere he wanted to be. Anywhere but here.
But he ignored that because he was afraid, and once again he regarded the sea.
The silhouettes of sharks drifted above his head. He swam down from the light, through air bubbles that stimulated his skin, past the photic zone in search of the ocean floor, the dark. A school of tuna swam in a circular column away from another shark in a never-ending chase. His tail heaved behind his stout legs, propelling him further down into the black. Each variant movement he made took him to within a grain of salt to where he wanted to be. His heart rate doubled, tripled.
He stopped, hovered in the gloom. Schools of luminescent fish dazzled him, and they flipped at high speed before soaring away. He shuddered, his long hair drifted around his head. He felt vulnerable suddenly, with a vague awareness of something, but he couldn’t figure out what. Why didn’t he listen to the others? They were right to think him foolish for wanting to find out for himself.
In a controlled thrust he swam to a piece of coral, did not touch it. Instead he simply stared at the strange substance. It was rock and animal and plant-that was what the doctor had told him, at least. It was precious. Life forms worked together, linking in vast and complex systems. And everything benefited.
The temperature fell further, not from his descent, and he shuddered. He regretted the decision to try and see what was down there, to find and penetrate the trenches the other side of the reef. The others warned him not to go so deep. He turned in a slow arc whilst looking around in an alert state, his eyes sealed shut by a translucent film. Bubbles rose from below, regular palpitations of air jetted along his skin, tickling him. He kicked his tail down, pushed up through the dark waters. Then he paused, as if in a trance.
He could hear the faintest of melodies. It was coming from deeper waters. The tune released him from his fear, he felt revived, the waters became warmer. Uncontrollably, he became aroused as the melody became more intense. His heart seemed to stop, suspending him in the waters, helplessly.
The fires burned lower, more driftwood was hauled on. The creature watched his own shadow grow with the flames. Determined to see the night through, his eyes were fixed on the tide, which came in further on each push. It fizzed on the rocks, the sand, the sea plants that lined the shore. He examined the surface of the water for discrete changes, or for any signs of the one whom swam in to investigate. Everyone knew he would not return.
The tide gradually approached the beach fires and the foam began to soak some of the driftwood before receding to ebb. His eyes were heavy, and spits of salt from the sea and the wind st
ung them. Halfway through the night, drizzle sparkled in the air. The mist of water was fresh, and his skin shivered. The night remained calm and the rhythm of the tide was soothing. The sound of the surf was monotonous. For how long would he have to stay here, to do this? Night after night? How long until his kind could rest easily?
A song rose above the sea.
He heard something tender, deep in his head. He focused on the water, tried to follow the waves, but couldn’t. He walked forward, unable to feel the sea lettuces squelching beneath his feet, then touched the foam of the water, continued out into the sea. Still the melody played in his heads, more intense than before. He became aroused, could see that the rest of his kind were following him. They all waded out pushing the water around them as it reached their chest. The movement of the sea was sluggish, pushing him like driftwood. He was standing firm, tensing the muscles in their legs as they waited for the melody to climax, something it seemed to promise.
He glanced down into the water to see shining eyes staring back up at him, felt hands touch, caress, stimulate, crept up his thick legs. A primitive sensation flooded his body.
And, fatally, his kind was drawn further out to sea, underwater, suffocating him. In his final moments he was aware of his, of the pain, but he was disconnected, concerned with only the melody.
Morning: Doctor Macmillan bent down in the sunshine on the section of beach that was further up from the rocks. He looked at what he first thought was some strange, new piece of coral washed ashore, but stumbled back after had had brought it close. He recognised the segment of bowel, frowned, then noticed further organs, dry, open, next to the remains of the bonfires.
Even at this early hour his bald head perspired. Would he ever get used to this temperature, despite his years based here? A firm, onshore breeze aired his shirt. He turned towards the dense palm forest that was yards away from where he stood to see if there was anyone there. There was no one, nothing. The forest stood calm.
He couldn’t work out why he felt frightened, as if his routine had been consciously watched. He walked further along the shore as the fine, warm sand squeezed between his toes, headed towards the sun. Holding his hand up to his eye, he saw one of the ichthyocentaurs.
Rather, it’s remains.
He approached the washed-up carcass. Its chest had been cut open. He picked up a piece of driftwood to push the wound apart further, could see that the creature’s heart had been taken. The doctor explored the tissue further. The creature’s eyes were glazed open, a half smile on its bloodied face. Decaying flesh reeked, and he cringed as flies swarmed all over it like a fast-growing tumour. He stumbled back.
The bald man stood still, stared offshore. He closed his eyes so that he could hear only the wind racing along the beach, the wave motion yards away. The surf roared in. Full of energy, he thought. He opened his eyes to watch a small gull race over his head, arc out to sea, curving along the beach, looking down to the water’s surface. It flew to the south, becoming a shadow in no time at all as it moved in front of the rising sun.
He lowered his head, shook it. Not again. This can’t go on. There’ll be no more left if I don’t do something. A fabulous race of exotics, wiped out. And I need them to survive.
The movement of the afternoon waves tilted the small boat. The wind was noisy. The ichthyocentaur that were sitting inside the boat were visibly scared as the doctor lowered a sack of fruit on board the long craft. He thought it would be sufficient-they never ate that much, and they could always catch some fish should they need to. It was another hot day, but he noted that the two male ichthyocentaur shivered. The doctor looked at the anatomy of these creatures for a long time, as if, in this moment, it would be the last he ever saw of them. Of course, he wouldn’t, there were more on the island. He handed over a bottle, sealed by a small piece of plant matter. Inside it was a note.
Foam brushed his toes and plants and detritus were scattered around. Sand was lifted, smoothed over as the saltwater trickled underground. It was these small details of the world that he appreciated, and was one of the reasons he adored the island.
This was doing the right thing. They would bring help, it will bring attention. I only hope they manage to do it safely.
He pushed the boat and it creaked. His muscles tensed, his feet slid in the sand, pressing down to create a deep scar on the beach. Water spat up at his shirt, and it became damp and heavy. Then an ichthyocentaur picked up an oar, began to row, then the other did, and they looked at the doctor, who nodded, trying not to display too much emotion.
It’s all right, you will be fine, he signed to them.
They did not reply, their hands busy with steering the boat out. He sat on the sand, crossed his legs, watched the boat sail into the distance. A bend round the reef and it was gone.
One
Manolin stared out of the window, as he often did, to watch the rain. To him, rain was a delicate, feminine violence. From his house you could see over the lines of ships that filled the docks of Portgodel South. Water was striking wood and metal with an alarming force. Behind intricate, rusted metal work, people ran for shelter, newspapers or coats above their heads. One old man was regarding the sea with a primitive serenity, as if he wanted it to take him into a saline grave. A rumel dockworker jumped from one boat to another, his tail stretched out for balance as he dived into a metal shack. The sign on the wall said “cheap lunches”. Half opened crates were left to become islands on the cobbled harbour, brackish ponds forming around them. Faces stared out from the yellow light of dry, top floor rooms. In these shades of grey, the horizon was imperceptible.
Manolin sipped from his glass. He didn’t like to drink wine, but she would insist they drank it together. Still, he swirled the liquid around staring at it with some disdain, aware of the meaning within this action. This was how it always was: her decisions, her choices. Tasting the tannins, he grimaced, then set the glass down by the windowsill. A vague sensation came to mind that her eyes were beginning to burn with rage. He caught her reflection in the window as she tossed her red hair back, rearranged herself in her chair. Of course, he should have known that this was what she would be like. There had been enough signs.
The first night they were introduced: within minutes of meeting him she was already laughing at something that another man had said. From that moment, it created a need in him to keep her smiling, and when she did, there was comfort. Perhaps a man more aware of emotions would have stayed away from such a situation. Their love was intense at first, but he wasn’t old enough to realise he should have left things merely at that. They’d spend evenings where they would drink wine and she would do most of the laughing, only for them to spend the following hours sweating in the bedroom, losing control of his urges. But he didn’t like to drink wine.
She said, ‘You never answered my question.’
‘You know why,’ he said.
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Come on, you really ought to spend more time with me. You’re never here. You’re always working.’
He said, ‘You know I can’t get out of it. It’s been arranged for weeks. I’ve told you about it every day more or less.’ Then, ‘So, you know, why don’t you come along with me?’
‘You know I can’t stand them. They’re always trying to outsmart each other. You intellectuals.’ He felt as if he was constantly on his own, that she never understood him.
Again, the elements distracted him. Manolin had always loved the sea. It was a reminder that there was something else, something more than the city. Something special that those who never left the shores would never experience, and they were poorer for it. He also loved storms. It stopped the city, for a while. It stopped the flow of people, forced a moment of peace. To him it was nature’s way of reminding everyone that they couldn’t control everything in their lives. Not that he ever wanted to control things. He was more than happy to sit back, let other people do that. Let decisions be made by those who feel the need to, he thought. Maybe it was the o
nly reason that he stayed in this marriage.
He turned to look at his wife, still sitting in her chair, still reading a cheap newspaper. It was something he would have once dismissed as sweet, but now he hated it. Why does that happen? he thought. Why is it that the things you love at first can be the things you resent, that cause bitterness. Or was I just blinded in the first place-that I always hated it?
They had married only months ago. She was pretty, but that was not enough to go on. He was learning that the hard way. Red hair fell either side of her sweet face, which he’d seen turn into the nastiest of grimaces when required. And her slender figure was deceptive of the amount of strength it could generate. There were things he smiled at: he used to like the way that heels didn’t suit her tall frame, had adored the fact that she wore flat shoes when out with him. At other times he had loved walking into a tavern with her. The feeling it brought. At first, he liked the fact that she made decisions. She was the one who convinced him to get married. She was the one who booked the honeymoon. She fucked him while he lay looking up in awe.
It hadn’t been a bad start.
She’d been a waitress in an up market bar near Pennybrook Road, just outside the Ancient Quarter, but too near the side of the industrial areas so that it lost it’s classiness. A new line of restaurants and inns had been slapped on top of six hundred year-old cobbles. She had worn a white shirt that was a size too small, cut to enhance everything she had. He was kind, considerate. Her ex had treated her badly.
It was inevitable.
An exchange of addresses, three weeks of courting and a quick marriage left them boxed up by the docks.
An oil lamp inside reflected off of the window, creating a warm haven for his eyes, and he gazed back now at his own reflection. Many considered him a handsome man, never short of admirers, but she was far more attractive. That was the way he had to have it. He wasn’t much older, his black hair did not yet show any signs of age, his brown eyes were still bright.
The Reef Page 1