by D R Sherman
The boy slumped with relief. He felt quite weak for a moment, but then a sudden exultation swept through him. He stood up in the boat and started cheering and shouting and waving his arms.
”Marsouin! Marsouin!” he called. “Come back, marsouin!”
He knew now that the big fish had not forgotten him. He thought of its magnificent leap, higher then he had ever seen a fish jump, and he felt a warm glow of pride, for the big fish and what it had done, and also because he was the friend of the fish.
Eighty yards away, and far out in the deep channel, the dolphin surfaced. It came halfway out of the water, standing straight up in the air on its tail, and it turned its head and watched him for a moment before sinking slowly back into the water and disappearing out of sight.
The boy waited expectantly, but it did not come up again. After a few minutes he sat down and pushed the oars out and started rowing again. He felt no despondency as he had before. The fish had not deserted him: it had returned, and it had leaped high in the air to show him that it still remembered, and he knew then with a quiet and unshakable conviction that he would see it again. He did not understand his feeling of certainty, but it was so strong within him that it left no room for inquiry or doubt.
A little farther in the boy shipped the oars and stood up. As he reached for the bamboo pole he wondered whether the appearance of the big fish had been an accident, or whether it had heard and actually come in response to his whistle. He thought about it hopefully for a while, and then suddenly he remembered once again the last time he had whistled at it, and how it had come about immediately after that.
He decided that the dolphin must have heard his whistle, and he was ecstatic to think that he could call it. He was almost tempted to whistle again, but the fear that he might fail to summon the big fish stopped him. He evaded the test and excused his defection neatly by telling himself that the fish was probably much too far away to hear him by now in any case.
THE boy limped up the steep side of the mountain towards his home. He was always more conscious of his limp just after he had been swimming. Once again he felt a dull antipathy towards the land which made him limp and hurt him when he walked, and at the same time his love for the sea increased proportionately. It was always the same when he stepped onto the unyielding earth after having been in the water for a while.
He climbed on up the hill, his wet shorts stuck down hard against his lean-fleshed buttocks. In his right hand he carried his speargun and mask, and clutched in his left hand were half a dozen tightly rolled leaves of choice tobacco. The ends of the leaves stuck out on either side of his fist.
He lifted his hand and sniffed in the raw pungent aroma of the dry, golden-brown leaves. He held his breath for a while, savoring the rich sweetness of the smell. It was a good, clean smell, and he liked it, and he did not understand how anyone could prefer to burn the leaves and smoke the acrid fumes which only stung the nose and throat. He decided that it would be better to take snuff, but he had seen some of the fishermen who did. He had watched them sneeze till the snot spurted from their nostrils and their eyes filled with tears. The idea did not appeal to him, especially the snot.
He sniffed at the leaves again, his nose pinching in as he inhaled. He glanced back across his shoulder suddenly, but no one was in sight. He smiled, thinking about the leaves in his hand. He had broken one of his rules to get them, because he had stolen them from the property of Jean Morel. He consoled himself with the knowledge that though they had been grown on his land they were not for his personal use: he smoked only the fat white cigarettes which he bought in the shops of Victoria, and which the Chinaman sometimes stocked. Pierre Vigot had grown and dried the tobacco for himself.
The boy paused for a moment to catch his breath, leaning his back against the thick bole of a takamaka. He took most of the weight of his body on his left leg, resting the right, which was feeling tired and trembly.
My left leg is the bad one, he thought, and yet it never hurts as much as the right. He knew it was because of the way he had to walk.
He glanced at the leaves in his hands, remembering that he had almost been caught. If it had not been for the thick bushes at the edge of the stream he would certainly have been seen. He wondered if Pierre Vigot would miss the leaves he had taken. He did not think so, but he hoped that he would.
He pushed himself away from the tree and started up again. He walked more slowly now, with his body bent far forward against the steep slope of the mountain. He wondered what would have happened if Pierre Vigot had seen him with the leaves clutched in his hand. He pushed the thought from his mind quickly, because it was not a pleasant thing to think about. He told himself that he would have to remember to ask his father about how he could almost kill a man with one blow from his hand. He thought of the great size of Pierre Vigot, and he doubted that such a thing was possible. He would ask his father about it though, because he knew that one day he might have to face the big Creole without the speargun in his hands.
He thought of the big fish, and he wished that he had its speed and all its great strength.
The boy lifted his head and stared up the hill. He saw the edge of the flat terrace, and beyond it the top of the thatched roof of his home. He lengthened his stride and began to walk a little faster, shutting his mind to the hot pain in the muscles of his legs. He was suddenly impatient to tell the man about the big fish that had become his friend.
He reached the end of the stony path and stepped up onto the fiat land of the terrace. It was a relief to stop climbing. He saw the man sitting exactly where he had left him. He wondered if he had sat there all the time he had been gone, without ever getting up to make a move. The thought saddened and dismayed him, but then he saw that he was seated on the middle step, and he knew he must have moved. It made him feel better. He hurried forward, his body rolling as he limped.
The man looked up as the boy approached, and a smile lit his dark face which had been a lighter brown before the sun darkened it.
“You did not have any luck,” he said.
It was a statement, not a question, and though he spoke of the fishing, his eyes were on the leaves of tobacco in the boy’s hand. But he did not mention them, because he had his pride, even now.
“Papa!” the boy exclaimed, panting from the exertion of the climb. “I was working just inside the reef—”
He broke off suddenly, because he saw that the man was not really paying attention. He followed the direction of his gaze, and he found himself staring at the rolled leaves in his own left hand. He glanced up at the man, and he saw the eagerness and longing on his face. He held out the tobacco.
“I have your leaves,” he said.
The man nodded. He wanted to reach out quickly and take the beautiful tobacco, but he restrained himself. There was first the matter of a little ritual which had to be observed, and though he knew in his heart that all of it was just an elaborate pretense, it helped him retain the remnants of his dignity.
“So I see,” he said softly, and then measuring his words and putting only a hint of inquiry into them: “They gave you credit at the store?”
The boy felt a stab of irritation. It was a foolish game which the man played, and he did not understand why they should have to play at it so often. He wanted to shout out at the man and tell him that he had stolen the tobacco, but the trusting confidence he saw in his dark eyes made him swallow his vexation.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “They gave us credit.”
“Thank you,” the man said simply, and he stretched out without haste and took the tobacco.
The boy knew that the man was thanking him for more than the tobacco. It made him feel mean about having been angry a moment ago.
“The proprietor of the store has faith in you,” he said, embellishing his tale to ease the pricking of his conscience. “He knows you are the greatest fisherman in these parts, and he is not afraid of allowing you credit until you are able to fish again.”
“We will pay him when I am well again,” the man said, speaking with an expressionless gravity which matched that of the boy.
Not if I can help it, the boy said under his breath.
“Can I get you some paper and the matches?” he asked.
The man held his hand up quickly, and then he laughed. “I took the liberty of being prepared,” he said. “I have the paper and the matches with me.”
He put the tobacco down carefully beside him and then stretched his right leg out so that he could get at his pocket. He reached inside it and took out a box of matches and a small fold of scuffed brown paper. He tore off a piece about three inches long and an inch and a quarter wide and then returned the paper to his pocket. He put the box of matches down and then he lifted the bit of paper to his mouth and gripped one corner of it between his lips.
He separated the outermost leaf from the loose roll of leaves and broke the rib two inches from the top and then tore the leaf straight across. He put the larger bit down on top of the other leaves and then after stripping the rib from the piece in his hand he shredded the leaf as finely as he could, tearing it straight up and down and then tearing the strips across.
He brushed all the little pieces of tobacco into the center of the palm of his left hand, and then he covered them with the palm of his right hand and kneaded them till they were stuck together. He sniffed at the tobacco and breathed out with a loud sigh of satisfaction. He took the piece of paper from between his lips and put it over the little mound of leaf on the palm of his hand. He turned his wrists over with a quick flick and transferred the tobacco to the piece of wrinkled paper. He spread the tobacco and then rolled the paper round it. He gummed the edge down with a liberal application of spit and then after smoothing out the kinks stuck the cigarette between his lips.
He struck a match with a little flourish. He lifted it towards the cigarette, and then halted the flame when it was an inch away from the tip. He paused, deliberately prolonging the moment in order to heighten his forthcoming enjoyment. When he could stand the agony of it no longer he touched the flame to the tip of his cigarette. He drew on it hungrily, and his cheeks grew hollow with the force of the suction he applied. The loose paper on the end of the cigarette flamed momentarily and went out.
The man sucked the smoke deep down into his lungs and held it there. He drew on the cigarette again and inhaled a second time without releasing his breath. He felt the warmth of the smoke right inside his stomach. He turned the cigarette around in his hand and studied the freshly formed ashes with satisfaction. When he could hold his breath no longer he opened his mouth and exhaled. He blew the smoke out slowly, savoring to the full the ecstasy of that moment.
Good, he thought, though it is not as excellent and strong as a carot of tobacco in which the leaves are first smeared with molasses and coffee essence and then aged inside a fiber rope made from the fronds of a coco maron. He drew on his cigarette again and then looked up at the boy. It is better than nothing though, he thought.
“You were telling me about the reef,” he said, coming back to it as if there had been no interruption at all.
The boy had been bursting with impatience all the while the man had been busy with his cigarette. He had wanted to tell him about the big fish and the shark, but he had been unwilling to start his recital because he knew the man’s attention would be divided. He started forward eagerly when the man spoke, the words bubbling in his throat.
“I shot a small bourjois first, and after that a papillon and a cacatois,” he said.
He saw the man’s eyebrows lift in questioning astonishment. He felt a bit guilty, remembering that he had fed all the fish to the big marsouin. He waited for the man to comment, but he remained silent. His remorse vanished in a spurt of defensive indignation.
What if he had given the fish away? The big porpoise fish had saved his life. It had also become his friend, and it was the duty of a man to repay his debts, even to a friend. It was a simple code, and he had come to value it when he was still a young boy, because the life of a fisherman was hard enough even when they helped each other.
“I swam out across the channel after that and worked towards the reef,” the boy went on. “I saw this fat porgy sitting in the water at four or five fathoms and I went down and put the harpoon into him. I brought him up to the surface, and I tell you my wind was already gone when I got there.”
The man saw a sudden flicker in the boy’s eyes. It came and passed so quickly that he did not have the chance to recognize it for what it was. He knew that there was some meaning to it though, and he sat forward suddenly, intent and very alert.
The boy drew a deep breath. Remembering the big hammerhead made him shiver deep inside. He hid his fear, because he did not want to show such a thing, but he could not hide it from himself. He breathed out and in again and then he began to speak. His voice rose, and the words tumbled from his mouth one over the other.
He told his father about the shark, and how it circled him endlessly in the water and only came in to the attack the instant he went up to breathe. He spoke about his fear, be cause it was an easy thing to talk about when the mark of it was not there on your face, and he told the than about turning round and round in the water to keep the shark in sight till he became dizzy and exhausted. He told of that final moment when he faced the shark, with all of his strength gone and all his hope gone, and nothing in his hands but a small harpoon and in his mind the knowledge that he was going to die. But he did not die, because that was when the big fish that did not look quite like a porpoise came out of the deep blue water beyond the reef and drove the shark off with one blow from its pointed snout.
He told the man of the big fish coming up between his legs and of how he had ridden it under the water with his legs astride it and his back pressed up against the smooth dorsal fin.
He went on more slowly then, telling the man about how he had touched the marsouin and rubbed his fingers up and down over its white belly. He told about giving it the four fishes he had speared, and he explained it as a repayment of a debt. He did not mention the fact that in the beginning he had given the fishes to the porpoise because he had not wanted it to go away. He thought the man would think him foolish, and so he kept the knowledge of it to himself.
He came to the end of his story, and he told the man about the great loneliness he felt when he thought that the fish had deserted him. It had saved his life, and he had come to think of it as a friend, and he felt saddened because it had left him without any farewell. It was stupid to think like this about a fish, he said, but it was something which had grown in his heart and which he could not help.
He had been feeling angry and very sad, and it was then that he remembered how the fish had come about and swum back towards him when he whistled at it once before. He did it again, whistling as loud as he could. He did it more out of hope and frustration than anything else, and he did not really expect the fish to answer him, but then suddenly it came bursting from the water and it jumped like no other fish he had ever seen. It leaped clear out of the water and high into the air, and he saw the white of its belly as it passed high over the pirogue and crashed into the sea on the other side of the boat.
The boy paused to catch his breath. He stared blindly out to sea. Once again in his mind he saw the great leap of the big fish. He remembered that it had jumped in answer to his whistle, and the thought of it lit a fire in his heart. He turned suddenly to the man, his eyes shining with excitement. He was glad then that no one else had seen the dolphin leaping: the memory of it would belong to him alone.
“What manner of fish was it, Papa?” he asked. “It could not have been a marsouin, because it was unlike any porpoise I have seen.”
“It is a fish of the same family,” the man answered. “And though some people call it a dolphin, it is truly the same thing as a porpoise. I have seen them often before, but seldom in these waters, and certainly never have I seen them working in so close towards the shore.”
“You must be more careful, Paul,” he said. “If it was not for the lucky happening of that porpoise I do not think you would be here now.”
He spoke quietly and very matter-of-factly. He wags a fisherman, and he himself had survived many near-disasters, and he knew he would survive many more before he finally died. A man was always in danger when he clawed a living from the sea, and it was one of the things which had to be faced. He did not think he would die in a bed when his time came. Thinking about it he hoped that he would not.
It would be better to die out at sea, he thought, tied to a great fish and doing what he had to do, or caught in a storm and fighting it till he had no boat left to fight it with.
He did not think the boy would die in his bed either, because already he loved the sea too much.
But he is so young, he thought, and the vision of the shark put a cold emptiness in his belly.
“What I cannot understand,” the man went on, “is how that shark came to cross the reef. They will come in at night, yes, but in the day they do not like the reef behind them. The only thing I can think is that he was very hungry, and he was attracted by the struggles of the fish you had speared.”