by John Morano
The inspiration had come to her from somewhere else, somewhere inside her that was not actually thought. The same was true for her home. No one had ever told her what to select or where it could be found, and yet here it was, and here she was.
For a relatively young octopus of only two years, Binti knew a lot about life on Makoona. How did she know so much? Was she simply very intelligent, or was it something else? By now, Binti’s internal dialogue was running like a tidal wave across the sea, sweeping over one observation after another. And then she realized something else: that she’d never actually seen an old octopus. A couple of times, she spotted large males at the edge of the reef who looked pretty old, but Binti couldn’t ever remember seeing an old female.
What was the reason for that? she wondered. Was there some disease that affected only mature females? Was the man-tide involved? Perhaps she was missing something. It was a topic she’d love to talk to the spirit-fish about, but without a proper shell, she believed the discussion would never happen, that only wearing the right shell would enable her thoughts to reach the spirit-fish.
Chapter Two
Time and Tide
Kemar opened his eyes as the sand brushed against his skin. It was good to feel the soft earth beneath his feet. He stood. And then it hit him: he stood! He was on dry land!
Kemar looked around. He was standing on a small sandbar, small enough for him to know without taking a single step that he was alone. A dozen paces wide in any direction, the small patch of sand barely split the surface of the vast water. He stood on a whisper, a quiet little spot that the ocean hadn’t heard, for surely if the ocean knew about this subtle interruption, it would’ve swept over the sandy intrusion and washed it from existence. But the island survived, and so did Kemar.
Looking out to sea, the young Cambodian spotted a flurry of dorsal fins slicing through the deep green beyond the pale blue that ringed the sand. The boy guessed that having done their good deed, his dolphin saviors were heading back to their own corner of creation.
Kemar sat down comfortably on the red cooler to ponder his fate. For some reason, he seemed to ponder better when he sat. The boy was happy to finally feel dry. However, he had no idea how he was going to find food or water or get off this barren patch that was little more than a sandy life preserver. Kemar began to tap the cooler with the heel of his foot, another movement that increased his ponder power.
Maybe it was the sitting, or maybe it was the tapping, but the boy’s neurons started to fire once again. The cooler! He remembered that Son Ba and Mir Ta had filled it. He remembered that he retrieved fish, water, and other goodies when the lid slipped off.
Not quite sure what was still in there, Kemar knelt in front of the plastic box, which seemed more like an altar at the moment. He flipped the white lid open and looked inside. Some salt water had seeped in, moistening a dried flounder fillet and several salted perch. Overripe fruit tumbled along the bottom. There was a plastic jug with drinking water, an extra kremar wrapped around a fillet knife, and a cheap, waterlogged compass, as well as a tin can that looked like it might store rice or beans.
Little more than a swatch of cloth, the kremar could be very useful. The boy spread it out on the sand and arranged his booty to dry in the steadily rising sun. Any trace of the lingering cool night air would soon be burnt away.
After a hearty glug of water and a modest morsel of fish—since it was unclear how long these provisions would have to last—Kemar began his work. At first, he thought it would be good to erect some type of signal flag or fire that a passing boat might see. But all the island offered in the way of materials was sand and water.
And since there was no vegetation, there was also no shade. The boy knew he would have to escape the sun if he was going to survive any length of time, so he moved to the center of the sandy plot and began to dig.
Like a ghost crab, he burrowed, figuring that he would dig as deeply as he could until he struck water. Then he’d construct sand walls a foot or two high if they’d hold. He’d tie the ends of his two kremars together and drape them, along with his clothes, over the top of the shelter. If it didn’t get too windy, he might find relief from the sun and the heat.
After a little more than a foot of digging, the sand became cool and hard. The digging hurt the boy’s raw hands, which were waterlogged and sore from his dolphin rickshaw ride. Kemar picked up the coffee tin, thinking it could make a suitable scoop in the more densely packed sand. He popped the plastic lid. Frozen by what he saw inside, the canister slipped from his hands and landed upright in the supple sand.
The vessel contained neither coffee nor beans. And although it was quite full, there was nothing in the tin for Kemar to eat. In fact, with his present situation in mind, there was nothing in the tin of any use at all. Still, it was an incredible sight—gold. Lots of it.
Mir Ta, as generous as he was large, had filled the can with gold taels—thin, leafy sheets of the precious metal that refugees used to pay for their passage on the boat or to bribe officials as they escaped from their homelands. They were more valuable than currency, even U.S. dollars, in that virtually no one would refuse to accept them.
Kemar knew where these came from. Three days ago, he’d told Mir Ta that he found Captain Phan’s stash stuffed in a section of unused pipe. The pipe was mounted vertically from the ceiling to the floor in a remote corner of the engine room. A façade, the pipe led nowhere and did nothing other than house Phan’s blood money. Often extorted from vulnerable shipmates, other times taken as a bribe or gratuity, more than occasionally stolen, there was a lot of gold in that pipe.
It had been a coordinated effort, the boy guessed. Son Ba filled the cooler while Mir Ta raced to the engine room, knowing that everyone would be watching Kemar’s demise. Mir Ta seized the opportunity to be alone in there. He was so large, he could’ve popped the pipe out in an instant.
The boy wondered if he’d stuffed all the gold into the can. Did he give the entire treasure to his waterlogged friend, or did he keep some for himself? Kemar hoped he’d held on to some of it, but whatever his intentions, Mir Ta had thrown his friend a golden lifeline. Little did he know that Kemar would gladly have traded the whole can for a leaky raft and a paddle with a hole in it.
Placing the taels in the cooler, Kemar used the empty can to continue digging. He scooped out a cozy crater and used the heavy, wet sand to construct two-foot walls. He made them two feet thick as well, pouring a little sea water on the sand to mold and pack it solidly. Next, he stretched out his two kremars over the top and piled sand along the edges all the way around. A frisky wind would surely whip the fabric from the sand, but for the time being, the primitive shelter would protect him from the sun. There was, however, something else the shelter was powerless against, something the boy had optimistically overlooked.
It was a busy morning for the gobies of Makoona. Everyone was up to their pectoral fins in work, and still, clients were lined up. Paykak, the leader of the station, didn’t have time to chat with his friend. Knowing the octopus as he did, he was pretty sure she’d be asking him and several of his patrons what shells they’ve seen. On a slow day, that wasn’t a problem, but Paykak and the gobies prided themselves—actually, they were obsessed—with providing fast and efficient service.
The coral reef cleaning station was one of the most remarkable places in the sea. It provided an unparalleled example of mutual trust between species. Tiny gobies hovered above their station, flashed their neon stripes, and waited for customers to swim in. The clientele consisted of virtually all the larger fish of the reef and many of the smaller residents. Groupers, bass, rays, eels, jacks, triggers, and even barracudas would stop in for cleanings regularly.
Lined up in single file, they’d slowly approach, one at a time. An old sawfish named Shnozz loved to swim in and point her head down at the sand, almost bowing to the gobies. She’d raise her fins, open her mouth, and spread her gills wide. Then a pair of gobies would look Shnozz over, d
iscuss their findings, and get to work. One or two cleaners would enter the sawfish’s mouth, completely disappearing inside the creature, working on teeth, mouthparts, and beyond. Anywhere else in the sea, the gobies would be snapped up and swallowed, but at the cleaning station, that never happened.
According to the law of the reef, the gobies were expected to give any fish a thorough cleaning, eating all the parasites that lived in and on it. They also consumed lesions, scar tissue, and remnants of past meals as they attended to the general hygiene of the fish. The fish benefited from the cleaning, while the gobies got plenty of free food without having to search very hard to get it.
But all this was based precariously on one very important rule: neither the gobies nor the patrons could be eaten or harmed while they were at the cleaning station. However, once a fish cleared the bounds of the station, it was back to survival of the fittest. The rule was generally obeyed by all.
Binti enjoyed visiting the cleaning station. Occasionally she’d get in line for a little nip and pluck around the suckers or the siphon, but Binti was really there more for the interaction than the actual cleaning.
There were two other things the octopus liked about the station. The first was the unique sense of cooperation and relaxation. Since no one worried about being eaten, it presented a rare opportunity to relax. Makoona always seemed more beautiful when Binti saw it from the cleaning station. The coral colors seemed deeper, sharper. The fish were more interesting. The water was easier to breathe. For Binti, the cleaning station was a special place. There were always excitement, rumors, and news.
The other thing she really liked about visiting Paykak was meeting new fish. In that sense, she was unlike the rest of her kind, who tended to be a solitary lot. Because no one was very concerned about being eaten, Binti could actually converse with potential predators, sometimes even as friends.
The predators, however, usually fell into two categories, neither of which could be described as friendly. Either they wouldn’t interact with you at all, because it’s harder to eat an acquaintance, or they’d talk to you all day, finding out where you lived and where you fed. They’d get your scent. They’d study you in a friendly way. And then, after you both left the cleaning station, they’d look for you.
Without a doubt, the most remarkable behavior of predators at the station was their restraint. Imagine how simple, how enticing, it would be for a barracuda to bite a goby or for a gang of snappers to butcher a bass waiting to be cleaned. It didn’t happen, and there was a very good reason why. Everyone in Makoona knew the story of Sledge, a hammerhead shark who didn’t follow “the rule.”
As the legend was told, Sledge was waiting in line one afternoon. The line was rather long, and the shark had already been warned about finning to the front. He was a rather selfish, impatient creature who would fin his way in front of others as if his time were somehow more valuable than anyone else’s.
The gobies worked diligently but slowly. The sun started to set, and all the other fish had been cleaned except Sledge. When it finally came time for his cleaning, the shark approached the pair of gobies who waited for him. The two were tired and full after cleaning fish all day, but since Sledge had waited so long, they agreed to clean him anyway.
Rather than be appreciative that the gobies were tending to his needs, the hammerhead complained, “I waited here all afternoon. I haven’t eaten, and now everyone else is heading out to feed. You’re getting your meal from me, and I’m still here, SO HURRY UP!” As if his tantrum wasn’t annoying enough, Sledge added volume to his complaints. He was one loud shark.
Gobies don’t enjoy being yelled at, especially when they’re cleaning, so one of them, Yhtac, calmly said, “Sledge, there are other things that we would like to be doing too. And you know as well as we do that we don’t have to clean anyone after sunset. The only reason we’re still here is that we want to make your wait worthwhile so you don’t have to take more time from your very important life and return here sooner than necessary.”
While the former part of the goby’s statement was somewhat fish-etious, the latter part about not wanting Sledge to return sooner was as true as the tide. The pair knew that the better they cleaned the hammerhead, the longer he’d be out of their lives, so they worked quite gilligently.
Then Sledge barked, “You’re not trying to help me out. You’re just slow. I could do better rubbing up against barnacles!” The feisty fish was suffering from a classic case of cleaning station rage.
Having heard quite enough, the gobies emerged from the hammerhead’s gills and said, “Fine, go rub up against some barnacles.”
And as they turned to swim off, Sledge swallowed one of the cleaners.
Yhtac screamed, “Spit Laup out! Don’t be stupid! Come on, he’s Paykak’s cousin!”
Sledge smiled, Laup’s tailfin hanging from a space between his jagged teeth. The shark sucked it in and swallowed, saying, “Oops, too late.” Then he stared at Yhtac and asked coldly, “Who’s next?”
The remaining goby dove under a rock while Sledge, humming to himself, swam off into the darkening blue.
When Paykak heard about Laup’s demise, knowing that all the cleaners of the reef were united in this principle, he decreed that there would be no cleaning anywhere on Makoona for two days. This didn’t ingratiate Sledge to the rest of the reef’s residents, who had all types of raw wounds and parasites that needed tending to. But Paykak went a step further, declaring Sledge an “uncleanable.” It might very well be the worst fate that can befall a fish.
Oh, it might take a little time, but eventually, Sledge would return to the cleaning station and beg to be cleaned, a request no goby or any other cleaner would honor. As an “uncleanable,” Sledge’s wounds would fester, parasites would abound, disease and bacteria would proliferate, and ultimately, Sledge the mighty and ungracious hammerhead would die a slow, horrible death.
And that is why no fish, no matter how mighty, wanted to ignore the rules of the goby cleaning station. Sledge provided an apt reminder to the rest of the reef as to just how powerful the little fish could actually be.
After a refreshing rest in his most humble of abodes, Kemar woke and decided he’d dine on a piece of overripe fruit, figuring he’d eat the foods most likely to spoil first. The boy crawled out of his hole, stood, and bent over the red cooler. He removed a soft mango, took a bite, looked down, and noticed that the tide was rising. As a matter of fact, it was rising quite rapidly. While he’d dozed, at least a third of his island sanctuary had been reclaimed by the sea.
The tide was definitely a problem, but in order to know just how much of a problem it was, Kemar would need to know exactly how high it would rise. If the tiny patch wasn’t completely engulfed, this would be little more than a survivable annoyance, but if the tide washed his footing away, it could cost the boy his life.
Kemar gazed at the sand beneath him. He knelt down and rubbed his hands across the hot, dry surface. His knees and toes sunk into terra that was not so firma. Kemar poked around, hoping to find evidence of a diminutive plant that might suggest the salt water never reached its sensitive roots. He didn’t find any.
It wasn’t long before the tide covered the island. Kemar’s hut had washed away. He was left sitting on his cooler, praying that the water had reached its apex. The boy turned the cooler on its side, which added about six inches of height to his precarious perch. He certainly could’ve stood on the sand not too far below the water, but it was safer and dryer to sit on the cooler. Kemar hoped that the high-water mark had more or less been reached.
Over an hour later, the boy was no longer sitting on his cooler. It was underwater, and he was standing on it. Had he stepped off the plastic box, he would’ve had to tread water to keep his head above the sea. The boy could feel the rising tide wet the top of his neck. And as the ocean rose, the sun set. A sliver of sun clung to the sky, while sparse tufts of thin clouds veiled faint stars and a moon that seemed to shove the remaining daylight be
neath the horizon.
Boom! The sound of a nearby explosion cracked through the still air. Thunder, perhaps even a distant volcano, Kemar thought. With the run of luck he was having, Kemar felt that it could even be both, or maybe some nation was test firing nuclear weapons nearby. Yet the sky was cloudless. The noise didn’t appear to be weather related. There’d been claps of thunder earlier in the day, but they were much more distant, and Kemar had taken little notice of them as the tide demanded more and more of his attention. Boom! This explosion was so close, it couldn’t be ignored.
At this point, the tide wet Kemar’s earlobes. Where there was once a claustrophobic crease of sand, there now appeared to be a boy’s face floating like a coconut on the calm sea. In just a few moments, Kemar would be forced to abandon his perch, hug his cooler, and cast his fate to the currents once more.
Another problem occurred to the boy. As a fisherman, he knew that when the water returned to the sand, predators followed to see what had emerged for them to feed on. Kemar wondered if something might find him.
And just as Kemar slipped off the cooler and started to tread water, something did find him. A bright light hit his eyes, blinding him temporarily. The boy heard the distinctive sputter-putt-putt, sputter-putt-putt of a slow-moving outboard motor.
The light grew brighter as the sound grew louder. The beam bounced up and down with the tiny swells. When the light struck his eyes, Kemar saw nothing, but when it broke away for a second or two, the boy could glimpse a small boat, under twenty feet, with what appeared to be one person on it, approaching slowly.
Kemar shouted and waved with nervous delight—delighted to be found, yet nervous about who had found him. He’d been a boat person. He’d seen firsthand just who the people were who inhabited the ocean—who they could be. He knew there was no shortage of pirates or criminals or opportunists on the sea. On the boat with Son Ba, one of their biggest fears was being targeted by pirates who knew that boat people were usually very easy marks.