The Reef

by Mark Charan Newton

  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.

  His eyes widened with exasperated hope, but he concentrated on the waves, feeling a bolt of energy race through him. He paddled further still, the beach far behind. When a wave became high, he rode into it, diving like a duck under the oncoming water then out the other side. He placed each hand on the rail of the board, pushed himself up, felt his triceps quiver as he hauled his body out of the water then sat on the edge of the board, and allowed it to slide beneath him in a movement as fluid as the ocean.

  He waited, rising then falling with each wave.

  The boat travelled half a mile or so past him, was headed towards the eastern beaches of the island, before it came to a stop. A moment later, smaller, wooden boat made its way towards the shores.

  He waited, watching the water, observing the swells. He was looking for a reef break. He felt the wind chill the water on his back.

  Eventually, the wave came.

  He used both feet and arms to manoeuvre the board so that it faced the beach. Then, holding the rails, he pushed his body up again. He slid the board beneath, free
ly, and placed his chest flat against the board.

  The doctor committed himself, angled the board to the tide, began to paddle fast and caught a large wave, felt the wind, pushed himself up, positioning his feet at the rear of the board. The muscles in his legs tightened. He held his arms out for balance.

  At some speed he surfed towards the beach, cut along the water, speeding still, and could feel the board vibrate as angrily a wounded shark, and he saw the island move towards him. The beach slid along his view, then he twisted the board into the wave, but turned the nose too far, caught the lip of the wave, and in a heartbeat, he plunged into the warm, salt currents.

  He held his breath, clutched his board, and felt bubbles of air race over his body and he could see the light smear with water then disappear, before it revealed itself to him once again. The waters calmed. The tiny sparks of sunlight crammed into his eyes.

  Then he surfaced.

  He lay face down on the board, gasped for air, spluttered out water.

  Wipeout.

  He wiped his eyes and he could see the palm forest close up, as he was at the far end of the east beach. Paddling, he rode the currents round to where he had set off from. The doctor smiled at the sensation of the warm waters on his arms. He glanced to the forest, liked to test himself on how many of the species of palm and fig trees he could identify. He could smell the perfumes of the pittosporum species lingering from the night.

  Up along the beach, he could see an unknown figure standing next to Myranda. The stranger stared out towards him, shading his eyes with his hand, whilst Myranda was moving backwards. The doctor noted that the figure wore a top hat, was dressed unusually smartly. Could this person have found the message? Could they come to offer help to us?

  He paddled towards the figures and into shallow tides, dismounted, landed knee-high in the water, hauled the board under one arm, and waded onshore. He thrust the board upright into the sand, headed to the stranger, his feet sliding back on the fragile sand.

  * * *

  Santiago turned to address him and, taking off his hat, extended one arm out to shake hands. ‘Doctor Macmillan, I presume,’ he said, and clasped the doctor’s hand. ‘Indeed,’ Forb said. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

  ‘Santiago DeBrelt, of DeBrelt’s Freelance Exploratory Crew. And I believe, sir, that you left us a message.’ He drew out the note that was sent, and held it up. It rippled in the wind.

  The doctor nodded. ‘Yeah . Well fancy that.’ He stared at Santiago in a way that suggested he didn’t expect it to have worked, that it was a final hope in an attempt to save the species.

  ‘Fine island, you have yourself here,’ Santiago said, turning to take in the dark, palm forest. He turned to face the green bush.

  ‘She’s not mine, or anyone’s to own,’ the doctor said.

  Santiago turned to face him, nodded, took a good look at the doctor’s face. Noting the fine lines around his eyes, he guessed him to be about forty, perhaps fifty years old, but young looking for it. His body was toned, browned, but not to the extent of a native. Two bright green eyes shone eagerly from an angular face. Santiago thought he was spoiled by a rather square jaw, then glanced at his own, expanding waistline. He looked back at the forest. ‘Why, you’ve got figs and palms, orchids and acacia, heavenly birds and a ... Oh my, I say, is that volcano an active beast?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ the doctor said. He tilted his head to follow the newcomers gaze.

  Above the thin strips of palm trees, was the blue-brown cone of a volcano, which from the boat he assumed to be a small mountain. Santiago followed the line of the volcano, which dominated the landscape. The sides of the rim had broken. Down the slopes, its edges were jagged, being claimed by the forests. Hugging the rim were two cumulus clouds. The shadow of the volcano cast one half of the forest in darkness. Santiago’s gaze fell to the forest close up, and saw the blackness that the canopy sealed in. Vines hung down as thick as arms. Dense, exotic vegetation spiralled into any available gap, hogging what light there was. Santiago frowned as a hare dashed out onto the beach, generating a little yellow puff as it slid to a halt on the sand. Its head shifted from left to right.

  ‘Your hares, I presume? They’re not native I take it?’ He placed his hat upon his head.

  ‘That’s perceptive of you,’ the doctor said. When I came here for my second, and final time, I brought them, knowing they would flourish and feed the natives well enough.’

  ‘No predators?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘There too many of them now?’

  ‘We keep them in check where we can. Somehow the forest does its part.’

  Santiago nodded, turning to assess the island’s aspect toward the sea. Behind him, Arth and Jefry, the two black-skinned rumel approached.

  ‘Ah, rumel,’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘I haven’t seen them since I was on mainland Has-jahn nearly ten years ago.’ He looked at the two foreigners with keen eyes, following the sweep of their tails as if he suppressed the urge to touch their black skins, to see if they were real.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Arth and Jefry,’ Santiago said. He stepped back with his arms wide. He took a sideways glance towards the woman who stood almost naked, with a small piece of cloth around her waist, her hands clasped together, waiting politely.

  Arth and Jefry shook hands with the doctor.

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you. I’m Doctor Forb Macmillan. It’s a relief to have visitors. So, you’re here to solve our problems?’

  ‘Well, hopefully,’ Santiago said with a gentle chuckle. ‘And to survey the place for our records. You have ichthyocentaur, so it seems.’

  ‘We do indeed. They’re some way up, through the forest.’ Santiago felt excitement at a new species, another that was similar in race to the human and rumel.

  ‘Well, Arrahd bless us,’ Arth said.

  ‘Arrahd,’ the doctor said with a half smile, his eyes turning to the sky. ‘Haven’t heard that god’s name for a while. No, not for a long time.’ He regarded sea, squinting to block out the sun.

  ‘Yes, we’re quite keen on seeing them,’ Santiago said.

  ‘And you will see them, you will,’ the doctor said. ‘There any more of you? Three seems to be a damn small number to come out all this way.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, they’re still on the boat over there,’ Jefry said pointing behind him. His shirt flapped in the breeze. ‘We have another five to come, but I thought I’d let these two row me out first,’ Santiago said. The doctor frowned, analysing the comment. ‘Is speciesism back in fashion on the mainland?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Santiago said. ‘No, I just didn’t want to break into sweat too early. One never knew who one is likely to bump into.’ He glanced at Myranda. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.’

  ‘Don’t be coy,’ the doctor said. He turned to the newcomers. ‘This, gentlemen, is my wife, Myranda.’

  ‘Charmed.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  Myranda smiled whilst Santiago ravaged her body with his eyes.

  ‘Good,’ Doctor Macmillan said. ‘Well, now that we’re all introduced, perhaps you’d like to have a tour and familiarise yourselves with the island. Will you take lodgings here, or do prefer to live on that tin can for your stay?’ The doctor nodded towards the boat that was anchored offshore.

  ‘What lodgings do you have?’ Santiago asked.

  ‘Bring everyone onshore and I’ll show you,’ the doctor said. He walked past them urging them to follow with his arms wide. Myranda ran up alongside to him. They exchanged a smile, strolled ahead, whilst Santiago, Jefry and Arth stared at her from behind, following every sway of her steps, scanning her tender, brown skin.

  Santiago smoothed down his moustache with his forefinger and thumb.

  Fourteen

  Manolin watched Becq DeBrelt step off of the rowing boat and into the water. Her hair had b
ecome lighter since she’d left the mainland. She leant her thin frame to bring the boat onto the shore. Wearing a white vest and brown breeches that clung to her body, she turned, her hands in her pockets, to consider the island.

  From their vantage point you could see her father, Santiago, talking to Doctor Macmillan in the shade of a hut, and he was lounging in a hammock as a woman cooled him down with a large palm leaf. She took out a piece of cord from her pocket, tied her hair back. Her face perspired and the skin on her shoulders had already started to peel.

  Manolin jumped off the boat and stepped next to her on the sand, scrunching his face in the sun and he dropped a large bag at her feet. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Manolin was wearing a white shirt. His breeches clung to his skin he could see sweat trickling down his leg. He thought the weather pleasant until the wind dropped. The air had become oppressive, humid. He looked towards Santiago, rolled his eyes. Hauling his own bag on his shoulder he walked forward, glancing around eagerly. Becq followed.

  Yana stepped out in her thin skirt and vest top. She breathed, drawing in the fresh island’s air. She smiled. She had begun to die her greying hair to its full black, and waves of it fell down her shoulder. Stepping on to the sand, Yana walked towards the others, spiralling whilst turning to scan the horizon. Her arms were held out wide as if she had been liberated. Manolin suspected she probably had, in some way.

  The last two men stepped off of the boat, wearing smart trousers, identical blue shirts, with a black tie. They fanned themselves with straw hats, stepped off of the boat hesitantly, looking out to sea more than towards the island.

  Manolin overheard their annoyingly formal conversation.

  So this is it, then, Mr Soul.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Calyban, indeed. No sign of any of our ships then, wrecked or otherwise.’

  ‘No, not yet. That Santiago fellow has a submersible. I think that should reveal some more.’