by Paul Haines
“Thirty-six. Participants.”
“So far, someone has successfully walked back up this beach and into the rest of their life every single year. Why not me? Better odds than chemo. Better than the lotto. I’d say my chances are good.” Sam laughs. “Unless this is the year that no one does.”
“Are you afraid of dying, Mr Sawyer?”
Sam pauses for a second, casts a glance at me, then faces Steve again. “I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of leaving my wife a widow in the prime of her life. I’m afraid of leaving my three-year old daughter without a father. I’m afraid of my death ripping my family apart. Dying? That part is easy.”
Steve indicates the crowd in the stands and along the ridge overlooking the beach. “And are your family here today?”
Sam stares up at the crowds and shakes his head. “No.”
“Is that because they don’t believe that you’ll win today, Mr Sawyer? Or that you don’t believe?”
Sam turns his back on the camera. The spade is back in his hand.
He scoops out sand and piles it next to the hole.
“Mr Sawyer?”
“I think that’s enough,” I say.
Steve nods and backs off, then faces the camera. “Not too optimistic there, folks. A statement like that might just affect his odds. Over to Carrie at iNetBet for the latest update and our panel of experts. This is Steve Moki, for iNet.”
Steve gives me a nod, his offsider downs the camera, and they stroll back towards the path leading towards the bars, cafes, and betting agencies.
Sam is crying.
“You okay, bro?”
“Yeah.” He places the spade next to the hole and climbs in. It’s deeper than it has to be. “Give me the earpiece.”
I insert it into his ear and attach the clips so it won’t work loose in the surf.
“How’s that?” he asks.
The window on my laptop clearly shows my head staring away off camera. He’s watching me watch the screen. His voice comes through clearly on the speakers, distortion free. The mic is waterproof, and I’ve been assured it offers the best underwater sound available.
“Good,” I say. “Perfect.”
“Then fill me in.”
I pack the sand in around his body. There is a heat there already, infused in every grain from the thermal springs running beneath Hot Water Beach.
“Make sure you get my arms tight. I don’t want to be able to get out if I change my mind.”
I bury his stick-like arms as he holds them beneath his back.
“You can always change your mind. You just say. I’m right here. I can get you out.”
“Come on, Toby. What would be the point of that?” He doesn’t look at me as he says this, instead he stares at the sea. The waves are rolling in now. Low tide has passed. A tear rolls down his cheek.
“I’m just saying, that’s all. I’ll be sitting up just past the hide tide mark. Just in case.”
He says nothing. I finish packing the sand in tight around him until only his head rests upon the sand. His thin hair is wet with sweat that beads down his forehead, disguising the last of the tears.
I take a tube of sunblock from the beach bag, squeeze out a handful of cream, and smear it over his face.
“Wouldn’t want your blistered noggin all over the media when you come out of this, eh?”
We try to laugh. I pack the bags, then press my nose to his scalp, breathing in for what might be the last time the smell of my brother’s sweat, chemical-free and born of the sun. I kiss him, and then take our gear up to the shade beyond the high tide mark.
As soon as I’m out of earshot I hear him sob. He’s forgotten I have him on audio feed. I sit, arrange the bags and the laptop, and listen to Sam’s deep breathing exercises. He’s meditating.
All we can do now is wait.
The waves gather momentum, crashing against the shore. Each surge of froth inches closer than the one before. The noise of the crowd is steady, a constant barrage against the day, while the helicopters hover above, rotors throbbing. I count off thirty-six heads, sitting on the sand. Thirty-six bodies buried in sand heated by thermal springs. A human hangi, a veritable feast offered up to the Gods. The betting agencies have been keeping official survival records for a decade. In that time 63 people quit before the tide came in, 57 people cooked to death, and 185 people drowned. Sixteen people have walked back up that beach. There has never been a year when no one survived.
Statistics. Everywhere. iNetBet lists everything you need to know in order to maximise your winnings. Age. Weight. Sex. Race. Religion. Disease. Positive and negative weightings. Statistics. They are only good for telling you what happened in the past, for the group, not the individual. They can’t predict the future, they can’t predict the now. You’re either on or off. Dead or alive.
The odds on Samuel surviving the tide are now sitting on 60:1.
The fact that his family are not here has weighed heavily against him. I have $10,000 riding on Samuel. In this game, no one cares about match-fixing. At least Sam’s interview has worked in our favour.
The crash of the surf is louder now, as it breaks closer and closer.
I check the camera. The waves appear enormous from this angle, the foam bubbling in the sun as the water sucks back to the sea.
It’s only metres away. The microphone picks up Sam’s steady respiration, barely audible beneath the muted roar of the ocean. It won’t be long now. Five minutes, maybe less.
“Toby?” Sam’s voice over the microphone.
“I’m here, Sam.”
“No word from Tina or Izzy?”
“Nothing, Sam.”
“I just thought . . .” He trails off.
“You can stop this. You’ve got three more months, at least. All the doctors say so.”
“I know what they say.”
“That’s ninety more days to watch your daughter grow, ninety more days of love, of guidance.”
“I’m dying, Toby. I can feel it.” He laughs. “I’m not burying my head in the sand because I’m scared of facing reality!”
“Let me come down, dig you out.”
“If I walk off this beach today, Toby, it’s after the tide has worked its magic. Whatever it is, whatever fucking miracle that happens here, I’m going to be part of it. I don’t have three months left. And I want so much more than that.”
“Please, Sam.” My throat burns and I’m struggling to swallow. “Please. Don’t—”
“Don’t you fucking pull out on me now! You told me, you fucking swore as my brother, you’d do this with me. Don’t you fucking dare!”
“I won’t, Sam, I won’t. I’m with you, bro, all the way. To the end.”
We say nothing for a little while, and listen to the ocean. The crowd is quietening. As the tide creeps in, the tension blankets those crowded in the stands.
One of the participants screams from the far end of the beach.
It doesn’t stop, a hoarse ululating acceptance of pain. The cameras for the newsfeeds zoom in. An elderly woman, her face a rictus, in between screams she sucks in breath, panting “. . . it burns it burns . . .” and then the screams continue. Her friend runs from her position above high tide, but is sent back by the woman screaming in the sand. She knows the stakes.
Sam hasn’t even moved his head. For a second I’m terrified he’s already dead. I increase the volume on the laptop, finding instant relief in the sound of his breathing. Foam is now settling around his head. Some of it has splattered the lens of the camera, but it is washed away as the next wave rolls in to lap at his face.
There’s a roar from the crowd. The obese man has clawed his way from the sand. He staggers up towards the path. People clap and cheer and boo. His skin is burnt red. He collapses short of the tarmac, face first into the sand. His massive frame wobbles and shudders as he howls in dismay. Medics appear on the path and head towards him. The crowd roars again. A woman rises from the beach, water and sand dripping from her b
ody. Her feet splash in the foam washed up by the surf. Her support person rushes to greet her and they enfold in each other’s arms.
“What’s going on?” Sam’s voice, followed by crackling against his mic. I hear him spitting out water.
“The first to leave. Three, no, now four.”
If no more follow suit, that will be the last of the quitters for this year. The waves now buffet the remaining heads. It is too late now to repent, to dig your way out of your grave.
I know this. Sam knows this. So do the punters, as the odds are recalculated onscreen.
He gasps between the waves, his head tilted back, trying to keep his airways free. “Have they . . . are they here?”
Should I lie to him? Would that make him feel better? Would it make me feel better? I choose my words carefully.
“We’re with you, Sam. All of us. We love you.”
Only the top of his head can be seen. His hair drifts in the tide like seaweed clinging to a rock. Others, those who chose to dig closer to the water in the hope that it may affect their outcome, are completely submerged. The crowd has fallen silent. The crash of surf and the intrusive buzz of the helicopters are the only sounds that remain.
I feel sick. My fingers leave a slick of sweat over the control pad on the laptop.
A call comes in.
“Toby?” Tina’s voice is almost calm, although I can hear a dam close to bursting behind her words. “Where are you guys? Is he okay?”
“We’re to the far right of the path. The last ones.” I can no longer see the head of my brother. The waves are surging now. Foam and sand churn as they hit the beach. A huge rip has formed and drags water back into the sea. “He’s just gone under.”
“Oh, God, we’re too late, we’re too late.” Tina sobs, then manages to control herself. “The traffic, Toby . . . we didn’t think it would be . . . the traffic.” I hear Izzy in the background asking what’s wrong.
“He might still be able to hear. I can connect you,” I say.
Sam’s camera shows a swirling mess of cloudy water. The roar of the ocean pounds his microphone.
Tina pauses. “Okay.”
“You’re on.”
“Hi, Daddy.” Izzy says, loud and clear. Each word a delicate helium bubble, her voice so little, full of life and promise. “Daddy?”
She pauses, then her voice is quieter, distant. “He’s not talking to me, Mummy.”
“Keep talking, honey, he can hear you. He just can’t talk back right now,” says Tina.
“I hope the swim makes your tummy all better, Daddy. I made a picture for you.” Another pause. “He’s still not talking to me, Mummy, why’s he—”
Tina says something, but I cannot make out the words.
And then Izzy is back on the line. “Bye, Daddy, I love you.”
I’m watching the camera to see if Sam acknowledges any of this.
Some last gasp, a flurry of bubbles escaping his lungs, perhaps. I hear nothing but the water wrapped around the microphone, see nothing but the murkiness of the ocean as the surf rolls up Hot Water Beach, racing towards the high tide.
“Sam, I love you.” Tina’s voice breaks. “We’ll see you soon, we’ll—” She finishes the sentence with a half-swallowed sob. Izzy begins to cry. Tina hangs up.
I sit there in the shade, watching the screen, watching the waves.
The crowd sits in silence. I turn off the laptop. There is nothing more to be seen there.
The rocks where Uncle Andy used to take us at low tide are now beaten with surf. He taught us how to shuck oysters fresh off the rocks, lending us his fishing knife to help pry open the jagged shells. I’d cut my finger and Sam had held it tight in his palm as he led me back up towards Mum, while blood poured down our wrists. She had scolded us and Uncle Andy both, but we were back on the rocks the following day with his knife hunting for more oysters.
I look up the beach. The nearest support person has their head buried in their hands, rocking slowly back and forth on their knees. I stand and walk towards the edge of the water, letting the Pacific Ocean wash over my feet. The water is cool. At least that’s something.
Where there is life there is always hope, I tell myself.
We wait for the tide to turn. Eventually we walk down the wet sand to dig up the dead, our hearts in our hands, the crowd poised to applaud.
The February Dragon
Angela Slatter & Lisa L Hannett
Priling did not die immediately.
Her husband’s boasting had led to the challenge, to her standing in the arena, almost to term, unable to wear armour because of the great swell of her belly. Priling had been one of the finest dragon-catchers—and killers—in Sepphoris, but that was before this child made her heavy.
The thing she faced was a melding of scale and flame, black and orange, red and gold, with violent flares of blue; the colours flickered like a conflagration. It towered over Priling, spewing forth a hunting cry that excited spectators even as it hurt their ears. She did not flinch.
The crowd roared as the dragon leapt, its attack fierce. The sword Priling plunged into its maw melted in a rush of fire. As if by magic, she avoided the worst of the flames, but the dragon wrenched her arm off with its powerful jaws, teeth easily sawing through her soft flesh. The dragon’s blood entered its slayer’s wound in the seconds before fire cauterised the spurting arteries. With the dagger in her remaining hand, Priling tore a long hole in the beast’s throat, severing its jugular. Black ichor gushed into the sands of the arena. Wranglers were summoned to restrain the dying beast, and afford the Physicks time enough to drag the semi-conscious woman to safety. The audience voiced their displeasure at the abbreviated main event; Priling’s husband, face ashen and voice unsteady, did his best to assuage them with promises of better shows tomorrow. He hadn’t bargained on giving refunds this day.
It was Priling’s nature to fight, and fight she did. Over four days her body gradually turned black and grew hard scales; her hands sprouted claws as the dragon’s blood wormed its way through her. It was a poison to the dragon-catcher, but to the child within it was an alchemist’s dream. Mother and child teetered on the brink of humanity in the hours before dawn on the final day. Priling fought the venom that could not fully transform her, unable to either remain woman or become dragon. She stayed alive long enough to give birth to a daughter.
And so Casco was born, her father’s shame and her mother’s final triumph.
* * *
“Where is she?” Pater Claudio yelled. The old man was so angry that his mane of white hair trembled as if shifted by a sly breeze.
Mirko shrugged. He’d lost sight of his charge ten minutes ago—she’d given him the slip on their way to Verre’s House. It wasn’t the first time she’d eluded him and it wouldn’t be the last. Both he and Pater Claudio knew where she went on these brief sojourns. Mirko was her bodyguard, yes, but if Casco did not want company there wasn’t a power known to man or dragon that could make her obey. “She’ll be fine.”
Pater Claudio’s face went an astonishing shade of red. “She’s got no cause to go there, Mirko. Slinking around that family, thinking nobody notices her. She’s too old to be so foolish. Casco is to be escorted at all times—you know that.”
Mirko had never seen such colour in a human countenance; he wondered if his patron’s head might pop. “Never fear, Pater. She’s bright and sharp—no longer a little girl. And those nails of hers would do for anyone who looked at her the wrong way.”
“Those nails,” said the older man through gritted teeth, “are precisely what we need to protect, imbecile. The sooner I get her—”
There was a familiar sound at the threshold of the vestibule: the clack of bone on stone. A single sharp spur grew from the back of each of Casco’s heels. Her boots were custom made to accommodate the protuberance—a hooded gap in the soft leather allowed the spur to remain unencumbered, though not entirely out of sight. Her sharp diamond toenails were easier to conceal. Pater Cl
audio and Mirko sighed with relief.
Casco both rewarded and disturbed the eye. Her skin was as white as forge-fired glass, so that she seemed to glow in the vestibule’s dim light; her eyes were such a deep black they appeared to have no pupils. Her hair, darker still than her eyes, was a series of soft interlocking scales that ran in long waves to her waist, rather like the frills on the necks of the great extinct lizards on display in the House of Natural History. She was beautiful and strange, wonderful and awful; anyone seeing her for the first time felt themselves to be somehow less in her presence. Subsequent viewings did not necessarily diminish this sensation.
“Pater,” she said. “My apologies. I stopped by the fountain room and forgot to tell Mirko.” She lied so smoothly that both men neglected to call her on the untruth.
“See that it doesn’t happen again, Casco. You are too important to this House.”
“You mean my nails are, Pater,” she said archly.
He squirmed on the skewer of her words. “When did your tongue become so venomous, child? Verre’s House has cared for you all your life. We rescued you from the Dying Place, my poor dead wife carried you with her own hands, and we’ve never treated you as anything less than precious.”
Casco nodded, a little contrite; but she had heard the story so many times she really wanted to avoid a repetition. Knowing she had been an unwanted baby did not make her feel precious; it made her feel hollow, like nothing more than Claudio’s discovery, his commodity.
“And Verre’s House will keep you safe from dragons, wolves, witch-lords and time itself,” said Mirko, his head low to hide a smile that would belie his sincere tone.
“Valiant gestures indeed, Mirko. And I am ever grateful,” Casco intoned.
Claudio looked closely at her, searching for a hint of mockery, then decided it was not worth his while to fight with her. Soon enough he would be in a position to better deal with her little rebellions. He nodded curtly. “Now then, go to your work-cell, Casco. The buyers will be here at the end of the month to bid for the Empire bottle. It must be finished.”