Brothers of the Sea

by D R Sherman

  The man misinterpreted the boy’s sudden move. He stared at his back for a moment, and his eyes grew suddenly misty. He cleared his throat and swallowed his pain.

  “I know it is a hard thing for you to leave her, my Paul,” he said, and his voice was almost breaking with compassion. “But be brave, and it will not be so hard.”

  The boy rolled over on the bed, every muscle in his body tensing and every nerve vibrantly taut. “But I am not leaving her, Papa!” he exclaimed incredulously.

  “But you will have to leave her,” the man explained patiently. “When we move from here who knows where we will find a roof for ourselves. We may even have to go to Praslin or La Digue. The people there are kinder, and they have more faith in promises, though I do not even know how we will move when my leg is as it is.” He shrugged quickly. “We will find a way, because there is always a way to do things when they have to be done.”

  Oh my God, the boy thought.

  “Praslin or La Digue?” he echoed, in a faint and shocked whisper.

  “Yes,” the man said quietly.

  “They are many miles across the sea,” the boy murmured. “Many miles,” the man agreed.

  The boy turned over slowly and pushed his face as close to the wall as he could get it. He dug his fingers into the mattress and began to squeeze. His grip did not relax till his hands and his arms became quite numb, and by then there was nothing left in him with which to squeeze.

  He knew then that he would have to kill the big fish. The thought of it sickened him, but what made it all so terrible to bear was the knowledge that he would be doing it for himself, and not for his father or his house. And the man had only thought of him, and that was the truth.

  THE boy slept fitfully throughout the night. He woke early in the morning, when the first pink traces of dawn were staining the sky and the dark sleeping waters of the ocean. It was much earlier than he had ever awakened since the man first broke his leg.

  He lit a fire outside. When the coals had started to collect he placed a breadfruit on top of them. There was still a little coffee and a little sugar left, and he filled a tin can with water from the bucket and placed it beside the breadfruit to boil. After that he walked down to the stream.

  He stayed there for a long while, long after he had finished washing out his mouth and rinsing his face. He sat down on a small rock beside the edge of the stream, watching the racing water. He heard it, and he saw it, but none of it was real. He was thinking of the big fish, and of what he would have to do.

  He felt a disconcerting mixture of sadness and fearful excitement. It took his breath away and tied his belly into a knot. He stared blindly at the swift flowing water a little longer, and then he sat up suddenly. His fists clenched in helpless anguish.

  “I cannot do such a thing!” he cried aloud, giving tongue to his pain and his desperation.

  But your father will do it, answered a whisper inside his head.

  The boy stiffened. A tremor ran through his body and then he sagged. He stood up slowly, and his movements were like those of a tired old man. He turned away from the stream and began to trudge back towards the house.

  There was no excitement in him now: only the sadness remained, and it was deeper and more oppressive than it had been before. He had found a way out for himself, but that was all.

  He took the bucket outside for the man, and while he was washing he made the coffee. He mixed exactly half of the coarse chocolate-black grounds that were left with some of the sugar, and then he sprinkled the mixture into the, boiling water in the can.

  The man ate his piece of breadfruit in silence. He stared out to sea most of the time, chewing mechanically and without any enthusiasm. When he had finished his breadfruit he rubbed his fingers clean against the step on which he was sitting. He rolled and lit a cigarette, and he drank two cups of coffee while he smoked it. He began to wish again that it was the time of his son’s birthday when the hesitant voice of the boy broke in on his thoughts.

  “Papa—”

  “Yes, my Paul?”

  “I think perhaps we might kill the big fish,” the boy said stonily.

  The man threw the soggy stump of his cigarette away. He sat up tensely, gripping the edge of the step with both his hands.

  “You do not make a joke?” he asked.

  The boy felt numb. He had not wanted to say it, but he had, and now there could be no turning back. He shook his head, and he began to feel sick as he stared at the cruel eagerness which sparked in the eyes of the man.

  “Do you think the fish will come back today?” the man asked.

  The boy nodded mutely.

  “Then take the harpoon and be gone!” the man cried. “Before it is too late.”

  The boy stood up without a word. He walked into the house, and into the room which he shared with his father. He lifted the big killing harpoon off its bracket on the wall and then walked out again. He halted at the bottom of the steps. He faced the man, holding the harpoon out in his hand.

  “I cannot do it,” he said stiffly, and then his voice rose shrilly as he went on. “You must do it!” he cried. “Because it is you who want him dead, to pay the rent for this house!”

  He felt a stab of guilt at his hypocrisy. He smothered it quickly, telling himself that he had spoken the truth after a fashion. The man did want the dolphin dead.

  The man glanced down at the great plaster which encased his leg. Uncertainty crept into his eyes, but then suddenly his face hardened with determination.

  “You will help me with the boat?” he asked.

  “Can you not manage without me?” the boy pleaded.

  “No not with my leg as it is,” the man replied harshly. “And in any case, it is you who will have to summon the dolphin to the boat so that I may get the harpoon into his heart.”

  The boy flinched. It was something he had not thought of. He wanted no part in the killing of the fish. He had almost convinced himself that by not participating actively in its death he would somehow be blameless. He wanted to refuse, but then he thought of the girl and the great stretch of water which might soon be separating them.

  “I will help you,” he said, and he felt a monstrous terror and disgust at his own betrayal.

  “I will remember this for as long as I live, my Paul,” the man said quietly. “And I will remember that you have done this for me and for my house.” It never occurred to him that his son could have done it for any other reason.

  The boy lowered his eyes. He began to wish that he had never been born, and that he had never met the big fish, which was the same as wishing that the shark had killed him. He went inside the house and picked up a handline, and then he collected his speargun and his mask from under the bed.

  “But we will not need the line and you will have no time to shoot with your gun,” the man protested.

  “It is early, but the girl might be waiting for me,” the boy replied dully. “I will tell her that we are going fishing. I do not wish her to think that the big fish is going to die.”

  “But she will know about it later,” the man said. “Would it not be better to tell her the truth from the beginning?”

  “No,” the boy said quickly. “I will tell her about it in my own time.”

  His mind seethed as he thought of a way to exonerate himself. He was beginning to despair of ever thinking up an adequate explanation when it came to him suddenly. It was really very simple. He would tell her that the dolphin had surfaced while he was under the water, and that the man had put the harpoon into its heart the moment he saw it.

  The man shrugged, and he pushed himself up off the step. “It is your business,” he said.

  He stared curiously at the boy. It was not like him, but he had no time to think about it. He felt an excitement stirring in him that was as old as the first time he had gone fishing. He hopped up the steps and walked stiffly across the veranda. He picked up the crutches which he had not used for quite a while.

  It was a steep
mountainside, and even with the crutches it took the man twenty-five minutes to reach the bottom. The boy limped along beside him, slowing his pace to match that of the man. When they reached the bottom of the hill the man hid his crutches under a bush and walked on. He had no need for them now, and besides, he preferred not to be seen using them to help him walk.

  They crossed the road side by side and walked through the grove of coconut palms. They reached the low seawall, and the man sat down and swung his legs up and over and then over again on the other side. The boy hesitated among the palms. He did not want to see the girl. She would want to come in the boat with them, and he would have to refuse, and he could think of no explanation which would be satisfactory.

  “Come on, Paul,” the man urged, glancing impatiently at the boy from the other side of the wall.

  The boy edged forward. He checked the sun, measuring its height above the horizon. It was early, much earlier than he had ever come before. Perhaps the girl would not be waiting.

  He jumped up on the wall and then down onto the beach. He glanced quickly to his left, holding his breath, but he saw no sign of her in the place where she usually waited for him. An immense feeling of relief swept through him. The inevitable moment when he would have to face her and deceive her had been postponed. He hurried after the man, and he called out to him as he ran past him and went on down the beach.

  “Wait by the edge of the water, Papa,” he cried. “I will bring the boat in as far as it will come, and the plaster on your leg will remain dry.”

  The man nodded. Even now he thinks of me, he thought thickly.

  The boy splashed into the sea and waded out to the pirogue. He tossed the line and the harpoon into the boat, and then he laid his speargun and mask down carefully. He hauled in the anchor and heaved it into the boat. He swung the pirogue and then he bent forward and threw his weight against it and started it moving towards the shore. The moment the keel scraped the bottom he stopped all way on the boat and steadied it.

  “Come on, Papa,” he called.

  The man stepped forward unhesitatingly. He waded laboriously through the six feet of shallow water which separated him from the bow of the pirogue. He sat down on the gunwale and swung his legs over and into the boat.

  The moment the man was settled the boy dug his heels in and hauled back on the pirogue with all his strength. The boat began to move, slowly at first, and then more quickly as it floated free. He pulled it into deeper water and then sprang aboard nimbly.

  He took up the bamboo pole and turned the bow of the pirogue in a complete half-circle and then poled it straight out to sea. When the water became too deep he shipped the pole and sat down on the stern thwart and used the oars. He was a hundred and twenty yards out when a faint cry carried to his ears across the still water. He looked up, and there on the beach right by the edge of the water he saw Pierre Vigot waving frantically. He glanced across his shoulder at the man sitting behind him. The stroke of his oars maintained their even, driving force.

  “I wonder what he wants,” the boy mused.

  “It cannot be anything to our advantage,” the man replied bleakly.

  The boy nodded in silent agreement and faced forward once again. He rowed the pirogue to within fifty yards of where the reef fell away into the deeps. He backed water with the oars and brought the boat to a halt. He stared at the big house on the high ground and grunted with satisfaction as he shipped the oars. He was a long way out now, and even if she did spot him she would never be able to see clearly anything of what was going to happen.

  As he stared she came from the house and walked to the wall. She paused by it for a moment, looking out to sea, and then suddenly she began to wave. He watched her for a while, and then he lifted an arm in acknowledgment and turned away. There was a great heaviness in his heart. He wondered if she would ever think or realize that he was doing it, not because he did not love the fish, but because he loved her more. He thought about it for a while, but he did not think she would understand. How could she, when she never had to fish to pay the rent for the house in which she lived? Or worry about having to move because she did not have the money to pay it?

  The man untied the coil of line from the shaft of the harpoon and flaked it down on the planking of the pirogue. He stood up, with the harpoon in his hands, testing his stiff leg and getting the feel of the boat. A faint smile of satisfaction tugged at his mouth. He turned to the boy.

  “You are going to call the fish now?” he asked.

  The boy shook his head. He moved past the man and into the bow of the boat. He lengthened the rope on the anchor and then threw it overboard.

  “I am going to shoot some fish first,” he said, picking up his mask and rinsing it over the side.

  “What madness is this?” the man growled.

  “I always shoot fish to feed the marsouin after I have played with it,” the boy answered.

  The dolphin was it now, no longer him, the personal friend it had been before. The boy was acutely aware of his treacherous differentiation. The burden in his heart grew heavier.

  “But you will not be able to feed the marsouin,” the man said, and his voice was suddenly gentle. “You are not here to play with him this time.”

  The ,boy started violently. He had known it all along, but now that it had been put into words he could not believe it. But it was the truth, and there was not a thing he could do about it. His eyes filled with blinding tears. He shook his head and fought them back.

  “I am still going to shoot a few fish before I call him,” he said dully. “The marsouin may be watching from deep down in the sea,” he went on. “If I do not act as I have done in the times before, it may become suspicious. Who knows what a big fish will think?”

  He did not believe that the dolphin would be watching, and even if it had been he did not think it would be alerted by any deviation from the routine which he had followed in the past. He knew in his heart that it was only an excuse to postpone that final hideous moment.

  The man did not believe it either, but he understood the torment that was in the boy. “You may be right,” he said gravely, pretending it for the sake of his son. “Go and shoot a few fish, but do not be too long, mon Paul.”

  The boy slipped the mask over his head and adjusted it quickly. He picked up his speargun and went in over the bow. In the next fifteen minutes he speared two jewel-blue wrasse and one of emerald-green, but he found no pleasure in his freedom below the surface or in the death of the fishes he had killed. He moved leadenly through the water, with the aching heaviness in his heart also in his arms and in his legs. In the end, when he could stand it no longer, he returned to the pirogue. His procrastination was only making it worse.

  He pushed the mask up on his forehead. He hauled the anchor up without a word. He spat the coppery saltiness out of his mouth and took a deep breath. His tongue lifted up towards the roof of his mouth. His lips pursed and then he sent his piercing whistle out across the early morning water of the sea. In the taut silence which followed he began to hope that the dolphin would not hear him. I am sorry, Marsouin, he told the big fish in his mind, but I have the girl and there is nothing that I can do. “Try it again,” the man whispered tensely.

  The boy whistled once more, hating himself for doing it, and almost instantly the dolphin surfaced eighty yards away. It stood up on its tail for a moment, and then sank back slowly into the water. He searched for it, feeling sick, and then twenty yards out he saw the dark shape of the big fish as it swam towards the pirogue under the water.

  Beside the boy the man stood up quietly. The harpoon was in his hands, and unconsciously his callused fingers began to caress the smooth wooden shaft.

  The dolphin came to the surface ten yards from the pirogue, squeaking and whistling with excitement. When it saw the man it grew silent. It watched him warily.

  The boy called to it softly, but it made no move to come closer. He knelt in the boat and smacked his hand down into the water, but
still the dolphin held its distance suspiciously.

  “Why does it come no nearer?” the man hissed, tense with excitement and impatience. “You told me that it swam right alongside the boat before.”

  “It did the same thing when the girl first came with me,” the boy whispered. “It does not know you, and so it is wary.”

  “Do something!” the man cried softly. “Bring the big fish to me!”

  The boat rocked gently as the boy stood up. “I will go into the water, and he will come to me beside the boat.”

  He did not want to do it, but then he thought of the girl, and he remembered the feel of her breast against his cheek. In his mind he balanced it against the knowledge that the dolphin had saved his life. He clenched his teeth and pushed the thought aside. He adjusted his mask and slipped over the bow and went down silently into the stillness under the sea.

  He surfaced beside the pirogue. He reached up and caught hold of the gunwale with his right hand. He hung there in the water, and he drew his legs in and bent them at the knee and placed the soles of his feet against the hull of the boat to steady himself. He called to the fish with a soft trilling whistle.

  The dolphin began to squeak and whistle again. It swam slowly towards the boy, coming closer and closer. The boy watched it, his mind and body numb. He saw the shadow of the man long and dark in front of him on the dark blue water. The shadow moved, and it seemed almost to lift off the water as the man stretched upward and lifted the harpoon high above his head.

  The man waited, watching the dolphin close. He held the harpoon with a love that was almost obsessive. My sweet God, he thought, it is almost like putting the knife of your body into a woman who has never been a woman before. He felt a great hurting inside him, for himself and for this thing which he had to do, and for the big fish who was like a woman. He lifted the harpoon a little higher and then started it plunging down.

  I love you, fish, he thought joyously.