Alexander Beliaev

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Alexander Beliaev Page 5

by The Amphibian


  Though the plan of attack was well worked out an unforeseen circumstance nearly made it fall through.

  Zurita, Baltasar and a dozen cutthroats hired in the dockside, wearing Gaucho clothes all well armed and mounted, had taken up stations alongside the pampas road. The night was dark. The gang listened hard for the hoofbeats.

  Suddenly the bandits heard the chugging of an engine, quickly drawing nearer. Two powerful headlights stabbed the darkness and before they knew where they were a big black car had rushed by.

  It had never entered Cristo’s head that Salvator could travel in this new, unconentional way.

  Zurita was beside himself with rage and disappointment; Baltasar was amused.

  “Take it easy, master,” he said. “They travel by night and will rest in the daytime. We’ll overtake them.” And he spurred his horse on; the rest followed suit.

  They had ridden hard for the better part of two hours when they spotted the glow of a campfire ahead.

  “That’s them. Something’s happened. Wait for me here while I do some scouting.”

  And dismounting, Baltasar crawled snakelike into the darkness.

  He returned in an hour.

  “The car’s out of order. They’re repairing it. Cristo keeps watch. Come on, let’s hurry and get it done with.”

  It was a quick job. The bandits took Salvator’s party by surprise—just when they had repaired the car-and tied Salvator, Cristo and the three Blacks hand and foot with not a shot fired.

  One of the bandits, who acted chieftain, Zurita preferring to stay in the’ background, told Salvator that they were prepared to ransom him for a big sum of money and named it.

  “Youll have it,” said Salvator.

  “That’s for you. And it’s double if you want your men set free too,” said the bandit following up his advantage.

  “I haven’t got that much money available,” Salvator said, after a pause.

  “Finish him off! ” the bandits shouted all at once.

  “111 give you till dawn to think it over,” said the bandits’ spokesman.

  Salvator shrugged his shoulders as he repeated:

  “I haven’t got that much available.”

  His coolness impressed even the bandits.

  Taking Salvator and his men aside, the bandits ransacked the car and found the spirits intended for collections. Soon they were drunk and sleeping on the ground.

  At crack of dawn somebody crawled softly to Salvator’s side.

  “It’s me,” came Cristo’s voice. “I managed to untie myself and have killed the bandit on watch. The rest are drunk and incapable. Let’s hurry! “

  They got in, the Black driver started the engine, the car leapt forward.

  Behind there were shouts and a few rifle shots rang out.

  Salvator pressed Cristo’s hand.

  Only after Salvator’s departure did Zurita learn that Salvator had been willing to pay. Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to take it than try to kidnap a “sea-devil” nobody knew was worth anything? It’s all over bar the shouting, though, he thought. And he waited for news from Cristo.

  THE AMPHIBIAN

  Cristo had hoped that Salvator would send for him and say:

  “You’ve saved my life, Cristo. From now on there will be no secrets for you in this place. Come with me, 111 show you the ‘sea-devil’.” Or words to that effect.

  But Salvator fell short of Cristo’s hopes. He generously rewarded the brave Araucanian and became all wrapped up in his research again.

  So Cristo started his own research. The secret door proved a hard nut to crack but his patience was rewarded in the end. One day he pressed a boss on it and it swung slowly open, like the door to a strong room. Cristo slipped through and the door swung shut, taking him a little aback. He examined it, pressing every boss in turn; the door didn’t open.

  “A fine trap I caught myself in,” he muttered. “Well, I might as well have a look round.”

  He found himself in a hollow, thickly overgrown with trees and bushes and walled in on all sides with man-made cliffs.

  The plants Cristo saw were of the kind usually growing on humid soils. The big shady trees did not let sunlight through to the numerous rivulets burbling underneath. Fountains, scattered among the trees, added to the moisture in the air. The place was as damp as the low banks of the Mississippi. Standing in the middle of the grounds was a small flat-roofed stone house with lichen-clad walls. The green blinds on the windows were pulled down. The house had a not-lived-in look.

  Cristo reached the far end of the orchard. Judging by the rustle of pebbles that came to him from behind the wall the ocean was close at hand. So this is as far as Salvator’s holding goes, thought Cristo. In front of the wall was a huge square tree-lined swimming pool no less than fifteen feet deep.

  At Cristo’s approach some creature he didn’t have time to see beyond a glimpse dashed from under the trees and across to the swimming pool, making a big splash as it plunged in. Cristo’s heart was beating nineteen to the dozen as he went closer. That must be him, the “sea-devil”, he thought. He was going to see him at last.

  The Indian looked into the clear water.

  On the bottom on white stone tiles crouched a big monkey. There was fear mingled with curiosity in its return glance. And it was breathing-breathing under the water! Spell-bound, Cristo couldn’t tear his glance away from its sides, heaving and falling, heaving and falling…

  Presently, with a start, Cristo recovered himself and gave a short laugh. So the “sea-devil”, fisherman’s bogey, was just a monkey that could breathe underwater.

  Cristo was at once glad and disappointed. Descriptions of the monster had led him to expect something quite different. What tricks fear and fancy play on us, thought the old Indian.

  Now it was time for him to make good his retreat. Cristo retraced his steps to the secret door, climbed a big tree by the wall, got onto it and jumped down, hoping to God his old legs would not trip on him.

  No sooner Cristo was safely on the ground than he heard Salvator’s voice.

  “Hey, Cristo, where are you?”

  The Indian grabbed a rake lying on the path and applied himself to gathering dry leaves.

  “I’m here,” he shouted.

  “Come along, Cristo,” Salvator said, striding onto the path and across to the secret door. “To open you press here,” and he pressed the very boss Cristo had just used.

  A bit late, aren’t you, I’ve seen your devil, thought Cristo.

  They went into the orchard. Salvator led the way past the lichen-clad house straight to the swimming pool. The monkey was still underwater, crouching where he had left it, letting out little bubbles of air at each exhalation.

  At the sight of the monkey Cristo went through a little show of surprise, which, almost at once, turned to genuine.

  For Salvator was paying no attention to the monkey, apart from waving his hand at it as if dismissing it. Promptly the monkey swam up, scrambled out, shook itself and climbed a tree. Salvator bent down and pressed in a small green panel, concealed in the grass. There was a hollow rumble and hidden hatches yawned open all along the bottom of the pool. The water gushed through. In a few minutes the pool was dry. The hatches snapped shut. An iron ladder, reaching down to the bottom, slid into view from its place somewhere in the side of the pool.

  “Come on, Cristo.”

  They climbed down. Salvator stepped on a tile and another hatch opened—in the centre of the pool. Iron steps led down into the darkness.

  Cristo followed Salvator down into a corridor, faintly illumined by the light falling through the hatch. As they proceeded it soon gave way to complete darkness. The echo of their footsteps rang dully in the corridor.

  “We’re nearly there, Cristo.”

  Salvator halted and ran his hand along the wall. There was a click and floods of brilliant light. They stood in a stalactite cave, facing a brass door with lions’ heads gripping brass rings in their jaws. Salvator
pulled at one of the rings. The stout door swung open, letting them into a dark hall. There was another click as a globular opaque lamp lit up a big cave whose far wall was all glass. Salvator worked the switches. The cave was dark again, then several powerful searchlights threw their beams into what looked an immense aquarium just behind the glass wall. Fish frisked among the seaweeds and corals. Suddenly Cristo saw a humanlike creature, with huge globular eyes and frog’s paws, step out from behind a tangled growth of seaweeds. The creature swam with easy grace towards the glass wall, in a close-up of immense eyes and silvery-blue scales, nodded to Salvator, entered an allglass cubicle that was at one side of the wall and shut the glass door. The cubicle was quickly emptying. The stranger opened the other door and was in the cave.

  “Take off your gloves and goggles,” said Salvator.

  The newcomer obediently took the things off and Cristo faced a slim good-looking young man.

  “Please meet Ichthyander the amphibian, or the ‘sea-devil’ as he is also known,” Salvator introduced the young man to Cristo.

  The young man was smiling amiably as he offered his hand to the Indian.

  “Hullo,” he said in Spanish.

  Cristo pressed the offered hand. He was too stunned for speech.

  “The Black who’s serving Ichthyander is ill,” went on Salvator. “You’ll stay with Ichthyander for a time. Ill make it permanent if you are up to the mark.”

  Cristo nodded in silence.

  A DAY OF ICHTHYANDER’S

  It is still night but dawn is near.

  The air, warm and damp, is full of aromas of magnolia, tuberose and mignonette. Not a leaf stirs. All is quiet; the crunch of sand underfoot is the only sound. Swinging from his belt in time to his step as he goes along the garden walk are his dagger, a pair of goggles and webbed gloves and swimming shoes. The path runs between black blobby shapes of trees and bushes, only visible by comparison. Ichthyander brushes a branch every now and then, sprinkling dewy drops on his hair and cheek, still warm with sleep.

  The path veers to the right and dips a little. The air gets perceptibly damper. Ichthyander feels stone flags and halts. Unhurriedly he dons his swimming gear. Then he exhales all the air from his lungs and plunges into the pool. The water is invigoratingly cool, sending a prickly sensation through his gills, which are now moving rhythmically. Man has turned fish.

  A few powerful strokes take Ichthyander down to the very bottom of the pool and a little -way along it. His outstretched hand meets the first iron bracket sunk m the stone wall, then another, then a few more, till he’s in the tunnel and walking bent forward against the incoming cold current. A push with both feet and he’s up but feeling as if he has plunged into a warm bath. It’s where the warmer water from the ponds travels to the open sea. Ichthyander turns over on his back, folds his arms and drifts head first, letting the warm current do his work for him.

  The end of the tunnel is drawing near. He can already hear the rustle of stones and shells where the spring in the sea-floor at the tunnelmouth throws up its jet of hot water.

  The amphibian turns over for a better view. But it’s still pitch dark. He stretches his arm forward and the next moment finds the iron grille, its bars thick with slimy seaweeds and rough barnacles. For some time he fumbles with the intricate lock. Presently the heavy circular door swings slowly open, Ichthyander slips through and as he heads for the ocean hears the lock click behind him.

  It is still dark underwater. Only below, in the black depths, there is an occasional bluish sparkle of Noctilucae and the dull reddish glow of a passing jellyfish. But dawn is almost there and the phosphorescent creatures of the sea one by one extinguish their tiny lamps.

  Breathing comes less easy to Ichthyander; there are constant little pricks in Ms gills. That means he’s already past the rocky headland and in the stream of muddy water from a river that flows into the ocean there.

  I wonder how the river fish can live in that silty water at all, he thinks. Must have tougher gills.

  Ichthyander turns sharply to his right, due south, then goes down till he strikes the clean water cold current that travels along-shore northwards to a point where it veers to the east under the impact of the mighty Parana River pouring into the ocean. Its bottom layer flows rather deeply, but its top layer-Ichthyander’s destination-is only about fifty feet below the surface. He can rest now: the clear waters of the current will take him a long way out into the ocean.

  He can even have a nap while it’s still dark and the fish of prey are not up and about yet. Sleep comes sweetest when dawn is near.

  While he sleeps his skin registers every little change in temperature and water pressure. Presently his ears detect a hollow clank, then another and still another. Those are anchor-chains. A few miles away, in the bay where he’s drifting to, asleep, smacks are weighing anchor for dawn fishing. Then, superimposing on all other sounds, comes a steady rumble, far-off but powerful. That comes from the screws of the Horrocks, a large British liner plying between Liverpool and Buenos Aires. The liner must still be another twenty miles off but that’s nothing for sound; in sea-water it travels at a speed of some fifty miles per minute. By night the Horrocks is a sight to feast your eyes on-a gay town, brightly illuminated and floating. But to see her at night Ichthyander has to leave for the ocean in the evening. It is a different Horrocks that makes harbour in Buenos Aires soon after sun-up-all her lights out, bulky and blaring. But he’d better come out of his nap. The liner will soon have all the inhabitants of the ocean wide awake, what with her screws, engines and lights. Surely the slight change of pressure that alerted him a few moments ago was caused by dolphins, always the first to sense the approach of the liner. They must be well on their way to the liner by now, eager to meet her.

  As the harbour and bay come to life the clugging of ships’ engines closes upon Ichthyander. He opens his eyes, shakes his head to drive away the last of sleep and propells himself up.

  Surfacing, he takes a careful look round for any boat or schooner, sees none anywhere near enough to bother, and treads water.

  There are only cormorants and sea-gulls round him, skimming the water often so closely that their chests of wing-tips touch its mirror-like surface, sending tiny wavelets scurrying away. The cawing of the white sea-gulls is like a child crying. Swishing with its mighty wings through the air directly above Ichthyander so that he fancies he’s struck by a minor gale, a huge snowwhite albatross heads shorewards. The red-beaked orange-clawed bird has black-fringed wings, every inch of twelve feet from tip to tip. It’s not without envy that Ichthyander watches it go. What wouldn’t he give to have such wings!

  Night is retreating behind the distant mountains in the west. The eastern sky is slowly turning rosy. Barely perceptible ripples appear on the ocean, like so many tiny streaks of gold. When the sea-gulls soar up they turn pink.

  Blue patterns crease the pale level surface of the sea as a gentle breeze starts to blow. It gathers force; the restless blue becomes deeper. The first yellowish tongues of foam begin to lap the beaches. The water closest inshore turns green.

  A string of schooners comes in sight, low on the water. Ichthyander remembers his father’s orders to avoid people and goes down in a steep dive. Soon he’s back in the cold current that will carry him further offshore, eastwards. In the lilac twilight that reigns at this depth red, yellow and brown fish flitter about like a motley swarm of butterflies.

  A buzzing sound comes from above; for a moment the water darkens. That must be a sea-plane flying low.

  Once, he recalls, a sea-plane landed on the water close to him. He went for a doser look, held onto a float—and came very near to losing his life. All of a sudden the sea-plane took off and Ichthyander was whisked some thirty feet aloft before he recovered enough presence of mind to jump for his life.

  *

  Ichthyander looks up. The diffused ball of sun is almost plumb overhead, indicating that midday is close at hand. The surface of the water is no longer a v
ast mirror that faithfully reflects the sea-bed where it is raised, the bigger fish and Ichthyander. Like a fun-house mirror it is now distorted and assuming an infinite variety of shapes.

  Ichthyander comes up. As he draws near the surface he becomes aware of a choppy sea. Presently his head and shoulders are clear and he’s riding up on the crest of a wave, then down, then up again… Oho, the sea is choppy! There’s quite a surf already where the swell of the sea breaks upon the shore, roaring lustily, overturning big boulders. The water next to the white foamy line has been churned a yellowish green while a sharp south-westerner goes on whipping up waves, tearing off white tips of foam. Every now and then spray blows into Ichthyander’s face giving him intense pleasure.

  Why is it, Ichthyander wonders, that when you swim through the waves they seem deep-blue but when you look back they are much paler?

  Shoals of flying fish skim away. Gliding up over the wavetops and down across the troughs they fly some forty feet and touch down, and fly up again. The gulls dart about, crying. The fastest birds there are-frigates—cut the air with their wide wings. The one over there—with a huge curved beak and sharp claws, dark-brown feathers shot with green and an orange-hued crop—is a male. His mate, white breasted and with paler plumage, keeps at his side. Suddenly she drops down like a stone and the next moment is up again, a silver-scaled fish struggling in her beak. Albatrosses are soaring aloft, a sure sign of a storm brewing.

  Somewhere up there, dauntless birds with the undignified name of screamer are already speeding to meet the inky clouds. The fishing smacks are less eager to encounter the storm. Under a full press of sail they seek the shelter of the harbour.

  Greenish twilight reigns below the waves and the amphibian tells his way by the big ball of sun that can still be seen through the double screen of gathering cloud and water. He’s got to reach the oyster-ground before the sun is blotted out by clouds if he’s to have his lunch at all. Swimming frog-wise he spurts on.

 

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