Chris

by Randy Salem

  She stood poised on the outer edge of a sand bar. A foot in front of her the water dropped abruptly to a depth of twenty feet. She made a final check of her equipment.

  She went over the edge feet first. And the instant she was submerged, she felt her body respond. The panic she had expected to seize and paralyze her did not appear.

  Chris cut the water smartly and struck deep to the bottom. She swam clear of the bar and headed out to the open sea. She moved easily through the water, her eyes open, alert to her deep green world, her senses keenly alive to every sensation.

  Below her fronds of eel grass sent up slippery fingers to catch at her and slide past. There were few fish now and only an occasional crab scuttling across the bottom. A sand shark lazed past, unconcerned with his weird companion. An eel slithered over her calf and wiggled away.

  The element was alive with something infinitely more disturbing than fish or weeds. Bits of cork and tin cans and wood and shell and flotsam of every description, stirred up from the depths far out at sea and heaving in toward shore, whirling and eddying around her with each swell of the sea.

  Exhilarated by her return to the great Atlantic, Chris soon relaxed and began to play and somersault, now racing a little green fish, now flipping over to float on her back. She was oblivious to the signs around her, heedless of danger and a stranger to fear. There was no trace of the nervousness that had consumed her for days. She felt only an overwhelming joy at being home.

  She wished that Carol could be with her. It would be wonderful to cavort here with Carol, chasing and dodging, and even just looking, observing life here at the bottom of the sea. This you couldn't put in any museum. You had to see it first hand.

  She remembered how it used to be with Johnnie, how the two of them used to dive together when all they had was a couple of pairs of homemade goggles. Then they used to pretend they were going to find a pirate's chest of gold or the hull of a sunken ship.

  They learned over the years that there wasn't much pirate's gold to be found off their tiny strip of coast and that the bottom of the sea wasn't littered with wrecks. They had learned the pleasure of playing tag with a blow fish, grabbing one and rubbing his belly to watch him bloat. And of finding a beautiful shell with the snail still inside and alive, not the dried out ugly husk they would find on the shore.

  And she wished Carol could be here to see it all now. Carol would appreciate it. Not like Dizz, who would only run to the very edge of the waves and stick in a toe, never putting so much as a whole foot in the water. It would not be that way with Carol. She could teach Carol to be at home under the waves.

  Diverted by her thoughts and by the scene around her, Chris was completely unprepared for trouble. She swam slowly, idling with the current, breathing easily and letting her body revel in the feel of the sea.

  It was hardly ten minutes before she felt the first sharp pang of discomfort. On the swing up from an elaborate back bend, the left thigh convulsed in a sudden spasm, then relaxed.

  It had been a full two years since that business off the Tortugas; as far as Chris had been aware, the leg had healed as good as new. There had been crutches and therapy and the doctor had pronounced her cured. But there it was—she could feel the twelve-inch scar etched in pain.

  She swam slowly, favoring the leg. She sensed the weakness of it on the downward pull. She knew she was going lopsided and pulled hard with her arms to keep herself on an even keel.

  There was a good three-quarters of an hour left in the tanks. Plenty of time to get ashore at a snail's pace; even before Carol had a chance to get worried.

  As yet Chris was aware only of slight discomfort and the fact that it was not as easy to swim as it had been a few minutes before. But she was confident in her ability.

  She changed her course and headed in. As she turned the second cramp hit. She winced with agony.

  Slowed to a crawl and no longer intent on the mystery of this other world, Chris became conscious of something above and beyond the pain. She was cold, chilled through. She knew she was shivering. Numbness began to spread through her limbs like a creeping paralysis. There was a knot of muscles in her stomach that felt like a granite boulder pulling her down.

  She figured herself to be about half a mile from land. That distance was like nothing—when you've got air and a good stroke.

  Another dozen strokes. And another. This time the spasm came and stayed. The cramp did not relax. She tried to straighten out the leg. Nothing happened. The leg was bent nearly double and held as though in a vise.

  The leg was useless to her now and she knew it.

  The pain was nearly intolerable. But somehow, she knew, she must not give in to it.

  Her arms cut powerfully through the water. She tried feebly pushing with one leg, but that didn't help much. It seemed to be suffering sympathetically and didn't want to move.

  She stopped shivering long enough to feel that she was beginning to gasp for air. With one tank gone, she had a half hour to make it, or...

  For a second, panic gripped Chris. She saw herself doomed in her watery grave. But she was like a fish in water; it had been her natural habitat most of her life. And a fish doesn't drown. She was damned if she wouldn't put up a good fight.

  Floating close to the bottom she managed to adjust the valve on the second tank. Her fingers were stiffening with the cold and the muscles in her arms ached. She knew she had more air left than strength.

  Chris set herself a course for shore, cutting down toward the inlet and hoping to take advantage of the current's drag. With a little luck she would be able to make the line of pilings and follow them into shore. At worst she'd be swept into the channel and the river, where the pull of the water wasn't so devastating.

  She found herself going full steam ahead and getting nowhere. Caught between the downstream current and the inexorable turning of the tide, every stroke carried her only inches toward her goal. She did not have power enough left in her arms to slice across the water's double drag.

  She began to know a terrible fear, a more deadly chill inside than the one already numbing her limbs. Think of something pleasant, she told herself. Think of something pleasant. Think of Carol waiting on shore.

  Waiting to help you, waiting with a fire to warm your aching bones. Think of Carol.

  For minutes at a time she let herself drift, being pulled by the conflicting forces almost parallel with the shore. Once she tried to surface, only to realize she hadn't strength left to pull out of the undertow.

  But the force of the undertow meant that she was close to shore, too close to give up. Too close to die.

  In a burst of energy born of fear, Chris surged ahead, stroking powerfully with her arms. She commanded her legs to begin the steady rhythmic beat that would get her home. The right leg moved.

  She didn't know what happened with the left. It went back and out for the kick. Then it pulled up and caught in a final, hideous cramp. The pain shot through her hotly and brought tears to her eyes. Then she blacked out.

  Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

  She hit the first of the pilings with a force that, on land, would have knocked the top of her head off. She took the blow on one shoulder. The blow jarred her awake and shook her the length of her body. She felt like she had been crushed by a falling tree. The rubber suit cut sharply across the barnacles on the post. They bit deep into her shoulder, grazed against the bone. Blood mingled with sea water, oozing out through the tear in the suit and trickling down her back.

  In a daze she realized what had happened. And in a daze she became aware of her own blood in the water around her. Objectively she knew that the rubber suit had been torn and, apparently, her shoulder mangled. She felt the water seeping through the hole, running down her back and legs and filling up the feet and leggings of her suit.

  Again and again she felt herself smashed against the pilings, too far gone to hold herself off or to grab on and hold fast. Her head, her hands, her shoulders crashed against the w
ood and the shells.

  Minutes, torturing minutes, passed. She began to breath slowly, steadily, getting a grip on herself and the situation. Finally she made a move. She grabbed hold of one of the pilings and grasped it with her arms and knees. She held on with one hand while she pulled off the flippers with the other. Then she put her arms around the next pole toward shore and let go with her knees. With each move the waves tore at her, pulling at her and nearly breaking her grip. But she hung on for her very life.

  Like a starfish Chris clung to those pilings and made the final yards to shore. Inch by inch, her belly scraping across the barnacles, hanging by her fingers, ripping her gloves and fingers to shreds, she moved. Using muscles that felt already dead, she moved.

  She did not know how many centuries it took her. Pyramids are younger than the centuries it took her. But it happened. She got there. She saw the misty morning and the beach and the dunes. She heard a sea gull.

  And she heard Carol. Carol running along the sand, calling to her.

  The last ten feet she made like a snail, creeping on her stomach, pushing with her hands when a wave rolled in and for a moment lifted her.

  And then there was Carol, splashing through the surf and crying. Pulling her up onto the shore and all the while crying.

  Carol kneeled beside Chris and loosened the straps of the tanks and pulled away the mask. She bent and kissed a bloody hand.

  "Chris," she said, still crying, "Chris, darling are you all right?"

  Chris lay on her back looking up at the girl. She tried desperately to say that it was so. But she just couldn't make it.

  "Get Johnnie," Chris whispered. Then she fainted.

  CHAPTER 16

  The doctor had come and gone before Chris woke up.

  She lay still on the bed, her eyes closed. Across the room she heard Carol and Johnnie talking in muffled whispers. She started to move and open her eyes, then relaxed against the bed. She had a lot of thinking to do before she let them know she was awake.

  She knew that the experience she had just undergone could make a lot of difference in her plans. Even now she realized that her confidence in herself had been badly shaken. Her work had been the one good thing in her life, her whole life except for Dizz. She didn't know anything else. And if she couldn't dive–

  But she did not even know how to think in any other terms. Even since that first accident, she had not for a minute considered what she would do if she could no longer go out to sea. She had simply taken for granted that she would. And she would have to go on thinking that way.

  The big thing, of course, was the Tongariva situation. From the way she felt now, Chris had a sneaking suspicion she wasn't going diving again for a long time. Every bone and muscle and pore of her screamed with pain. The leg lay stiff and cramped. She tried to move it. It didn't budge. The shoulder was heavily bandaged. Her fingers refused to bend.

  She caught her lower lip in her teeth and bit down hard. It seemed somehow unjust. This should have been the trip to end all trips, the most important find ever. To have it snatched away, out of all reach—it just wasn't fair.

  For a moment Chris considered the possibility of retribution. She had deliberately deceived Dizz. She had lied and cheated on her for years. She did not stop to question why the powers of justice should be backing Dizz. She suddenly believed only that she was being punished.

  Yet Chris could not dwell long on defeat. Her scheme of living allowed no room for it. She had no time to lie here and feel contrite and sorry for herself. At nine tomorrow morning she had to see Jonathan. And after that? Well, after that, by heaven, she was going to Tongariva if she had to get there on crutches.

  And she'd dive too. And swim. Only the good Lord knew how, but she was going to do it.

  But first she had to get the hell out of this damn bed.

  She opened her eyes. She realized that she was back in Johnnie's place, in the room she and Carol had occupied the night before. It was already twilight. There were no lights in the room except for the rosy glow of the fireplace. Long shadows crept across the floor and onto the bed.

  Chris cleared her throat and tried to talk. All she could get out was a croak.

  "Hi, skipper," Johnnie said. He stepped out of a dark corner and came to stand at the foot of the bed. "How's the kid?"

  Chris tried again and this time managed. "I could use a drink," she said. She heard her voice come out hoarse and raspy.

  "I figured as much," Carol laughed. She got up from a chair and stepped into the glow from the fireplace. She turned to a small coffee table, then came toward the bed with a bottle of brandy and a glass. "The doctor said it would be all right, though."

  Carol poured three fingers of brandy and set the bottle down on the night table. She looked at Johnnie. "Lift her up," she said. "If she can take it."

  Johnnie moved close to Chris and leaned over the bed. "Easy, kid," he said. With infinite care he slipped an arm under Chris' shoulders. Chris tried to put her arms around Johnnie's neck and found that she couldn't move them that far. Johnnie easily lifted her to a sitting position.

  Chris grimaced and felt the tears smart in her eyes. Once she was propped up, it was better. Her rear end seemed to be the only part of her that hadn't been battered.

  She reached out a hand for the glass. The fingers were stiff, like branches poking out from a tree. She could not bend them to grasp anything. She blinked her eyes to cut off a sudden rush of tears—she was beginning to feel sorry for herself.

  Carol held the glass gently to her lips. Chris swallowed and felt the brandy bum a path to her stomach. She sighed and tried to manage a grin. It wasn't much of a success but Carol got the idea and smiled warmly in return.

  "Well," Chris said, "I'm beginning to feel human again."

  "Not so fast," Johnnie said. "You're entitled to sit still for a while, my friend." The look on his face meant that he intended for Chris to stay there for a long time.

  "Like hell," Chris said. "I'm going to be in New York tomorrow at nine. Which means," she said, glancing at her watch, "we've got to get out of here by midnight. Six hours, mate."

  "Chris," Carol said, "the doctor said that you're not to move out of that bed for at least a week." Her voice was gentle but firm. Chris Snorted and shook her head. It hurt to move it but she didn't let anybody know it.

  "Not likely, my dear," Chris replied. "A week from now I'll be in Tongariva."

  Carol and Johnnie looked at each other across the bed. Johnnie lifted his shoulders helplessly. Carol bit her lower lip and turned away.

  "Look, skipper," Johnnie said, "you're too big to hold down. And I know better than to try. But you're in no condition to go anywhere. Face it."

  Chris gritted her teeth and set her jaw. She threw back the cover and swung her legs to the edge of the bed. She braced her feet against the floor and stood up, holding onto the headboard with one hand.

  "Mate, you're a skeptic," she said. "I said I'm going back to New York tonight and I'm going back to New York tonight."

  Johnnie moved forward to give her a hand. Chris found that she could not put her weight on the bruised left leg. She let Johnnie help her to a chair. Johnnie did not say anything, but his face was hard with disapproval.

  Carol came and sat on the floor at Chris' feet. She cocked her head to one side and winked up at Chris. "You're crazy," she said. "But I love it."

  Johnnie stood leaning against the mantle, hands in his trousers' pockets. His black eyes were almost somber. "Look," he said. "I ought to clobber you right now and throw you back in bed. But I won't. What I am going to do is drive you home. It's a long trip and you're not going to make it sitting up in the car. I've got an old mattress from a cot and a bunch of extra blankets.

  “I’ll fix up a bed in back of the station wagon. Carol," he said, nodding at the girl, "can follow us in the car. Okay?"

  Chris wrinkled her nose distastefully. She didn't enjoy being treated like an invalid. But Johnnie was right. The ache was to
o much. And maybe she could sleep. Maybe she could sleep enough to get the ache out of her by the time she saw Jonathan. He wouldn't be at all happy if he saw her like this.

  "Okay," Chris said. "It's a deal."

  "Good," Johnnie said. "I'll go get the wagon ready. We might as well get started as soon as possible." He started toward the door. "If there's anything you want, just send Carol down. I’ll be out back."

  When Johnnie had gone, Carol moved closer to Chris and leaned her head against Chris' knee. She looked up at Chris tenderly, her eyes soft with love. "Honey," she said, "what happened out there?"

  "I got a cramp in this bum leg of mine, that's all," Chris said. "Johnnie and Clem were right about the rough water. Once I lost the use of my leg, I couldn't pull hard enough to get out of the current." She put out a hand and laid it on Carol's head. "I'm just thankful you were there when I got out. Otherwise I'd be fattening up the gulls by now." She rumpled the girl's hair affectionately.

  "I told you you were too stubborn to kill," Carol said. "But what about the trip? Do you think you'll be ready to dive again that soon?"

  Chris did not answer for a moment. She was ashamed to admit to Carol how she really felt. But she knew that Carol would guess, and that Carol had a pretty good idea of how badly she had been hurt. So she said, "I'm afraid I'll have to get Brandt to send somebody else with me. I won't miss this trip. But it's going to be a long time before this leg's going to get me anywhere. Not to mention the shoulder."

  "I wish I could be with you," Carol said.

  Chris smiled down at the girl. "Darling, I wish you could, too." She knew she meant it. Depressed, weary and sore as she was, Chris remembered just two things—that Carol had saved her life, and that Dizz would give her hell for getting hurt.

  Carol, her gentle Carol, would not yell at her. Not when she was beaten and miserable.

  Too tired to think or care, Chris longed to he in Carol's arms, to let Carol's tender touch and soft words ease the misery of her body and soul. She did not want to have to think anymore. Not about Dizz. Not about Tongariva. Not about anything. She wanted only to be held and loved.