by John Morano
Bao choked, “What?”
“And don’t you dare throw that into the lagoon or anywhere near my shop; otherwise, I’ll drop the next one in your boat.”
The mechanic returned to her chores, uninterested in Bao’s dilemma. The fisherman stretched his hand out to Kemar, offering the grenade to him. The boy shook his head and backed off quickly.
Bao called out, “Where Bao put grenade?”
Meela smiled, lifted her head from a toolbox, and said, “I do have a suggestion, and I’ll even help you put it there, but you’d probably come up with a more comfortable place than what I have in mind.” She bent back into the toolbox and resumed her work. Kemar could hear her quietly cackling to herself while Bao splashed around the boat, desperately searching for the missing pin.
When Binti and Hootie arrived at Ebb’s algae farm, the diligent damselfish was hard at work cultivating his crop. As soon as he heard his friends, he stopped working.
“Show her! Show her!” Hootie hooted.
Ebb gestured with his right pectoral fin and nodded toward a stand of staghorn coral. Binti and Hootie followed him to a spot just beyond the thicket. There, sitting on top of a broad yellow sponge near a cluster of mussels, was a trident shell, the largest one any of these three had ever seen. It glistened in the twisted, bouncing rays of sunlight that pierced the sea.
Binti reverently raised four arms to stop her friends from going any closer. She smiled and flashed pink, blue, and finally red. Then she reached out and gently stroked the speckled smoothness of the trident.
“Oooohhh, it’s magnificent,” the octopus cooed. “Smooth, clean, large—it’s everything I dreamed my shell would be. This is the shell that will put me in touch with the spirit-fish. I can feel it. I can see it.”
“Pretty nice, isn’t it?” the blowfish asked rhetorically as he puffed with pride.
“I stumbled on it when I was chasing a grunt from my field,” Ebb explained. “He hid in the shell, but I got rid of him. No room for squatters here.”
“It’s so beautiful,” Binti said as she slipped other arms around and into the shell, exploring every corner, every contour.
“Well, it wasn’t this nice when I first spotted it, but I cleaned it up a little.”
“The gobies couldn’t have done any better,” Hootie added. “When I saw it, it just screamed Binti at me.”
“Really?” the octopus asked. “It said my name?”
“Not really. I mean, I thought of you. The shell didn’t talk.”
“It’ll speak to me.” The octopus hugged the trident shell and proclaimed, “Today, I am a true mollusk.”
“Uh, you’ve always been a mollusk,” Ebb said matter-of-factly.
“No, I haven’t been. Would you be a farmer without your farm? Now I’m a mollusk. Now I’m complete.”
“Why don’t you try it on for size?” Hootie invited.
“Yes, yes. It’s just so exciting.” The boneless Binti backed into the shell’s crevice, slowly inserting herself. It appeared to be a very tight fit, like trying to fit a whale into a whelk, but Binti squeezed into the trident anyway. The constricted octopus had a difficult time breathing. With her arms dangling from underneath the shell, it looked like seven snails all shared the same home. Her eyes peered out of the small space just above her arms. Her huge mantle was crammed into the interior.
A breathy Binti asked, “How does it look?”
Ebb and Hootie made eye contact, not quite sure what to say. The blowfish deflated a bit and then said, “Well. Uhhh. You look, marvelous.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular gill grabber,” Ebb echoed.
“But how does the shell look?”
Ebb hedged, “I’ve never seen an octopus in a shell before. It takes a little getting used to.”
“You sound kinda funny, Binti. Are you sure it’s comfortable?” the blowfish inquired gently.
“It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, but isn’t that how a shell is supposed to feel? It does feel hard. But I’m not so worried that something will just sweep by and swallow me, like I am without a shell.”
“That’s good, but you can’t really change color in that shell, and it doesn’t look very mobile,” Ebb said. “Are you sure this is the one?”
“You’re the one who told me that this was the shell I was looking for, that this shell would change my life! It is beautiful, right?”
Both her friends chimed their agreement.
“Oh, yes. Spectacular.”
“Stunning, positively radiant.”
“And you know it’s better to look good than to feel good.”
After a few moments of shell kissing, Ebb asked, “Are you sure this is the one?”
“I know. I’ll just crawl around in it for a while and see how it feels. Maybe the spirit-fish will speak to me or give me some sign. Then I’ll know for sure.”
That said, Binti began to crawl awkwardly away. Swimming was out of the question. Even crawling was difficult, with several arms all bundled up under the hulking husk. The shell slipped off the octopus once or twice. She was forced to throw two arms over the trident with suckers locked down to keep the carapace in place, which didn’t really enhance the effect.
Hootie asked, “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“How are you going to get into your lair wearing this huge thing? I mean, now that you have a shell, doesn’t it become your home?”
“I guess you’re right,” Binti muttered. “Maybe I’ll just sleep in it right here and see how I feel in the morning.”
“Maybe by tomorrow, you will have heard from the spirit-fish. Then you’ll know whether this is the shell you’ve searched for. That’s what’ll happen,” Hootie predicted.
The optimist in Hootie always seemed to float to the surface. It was a trait that could be very encouraging, but it was also a trait that could make Hootie—and those who swam around him—more susceptible to disappointment.
That night, Binti wedged herself, shell and all, under a rocky ridge. She felt pretty safe, but she was also getting rather hungry, probably because it was next-to-impossible to hunt with the heavy house on her boneless back. She felt numb in several arms and endured the meanest mantle-ache of her life. But Binti was determined to give the carapace a chance, so she kept it on and stayed where she was.
Then, finally, Binti began to nod off. It was the type of sleep where one is half passed-out, half awake, bouncing back and forth between the two states. As she dozed restlessly, she heard the familiar voice that she couldn’t identify, the voice that came from within but was not her own. The octopus listened carefully. The voice was faint and fuzzy.
What could she do to make the murmur more clear? Should she sleep or should she rise? Unable to decide, she hovered in the in-between state, waiting for guidance. And it came. Carried by a cool current, it came out of nowhere, a whisper on the reef. There were many words being spoken at once, all with the same voice. But Binti could decipher only one message.
The voice sang softly in her mind, In wickedness of pride is lost the light to understand . . . Without love in a dream, it will never come true. The octopus strained to hear more. She asked the voice, What are you saying? Are you the spirit-fish? Have I made the right choice? Can’t you tell me?
Then she heard, “Well, well, well, you can never tell.”
The voice faded away as the light of morning rinsed it from the water. Only one last thought floated in the current: Miracles happen when everything else fails. And as the sun lit up the morning, Binti knew only that she hadn’t yet found the singular shell she searched for. She suddenly suspected that she’d embraced her quest for the wrong reasons. Binti believed there was a shell she was meant to find; however, it had nothing to do with establishing her identity as a mollusk. Cramped, cold, and hungry, the octopus emerged from the barren husk, abandoning the trident on Makoona’s sandy floor.
Binti turned tan with brown blotches and streaks of green. She was pleased to taste
the water against her skin. She was an octopus, and that meant she was also a mollusk. She did not need to wear another’s shell to become what she already was. The animal accepted the truth, hoping it would lead her to another.
Chapter Four
The Ends Justify
Bao had managed to hold the grenade all the way to the dump, where he tossed it into a pile of garbage. The exploded trash created a fresh buffet for Makoona’s lazier fauna.
Later, the determined fisherman borrowed a motor from a colleague who was too ill to go to sea. The man who supplied the motor made Bao swear that Meela wouldn’t hear about the loan. That, however, wasn’t a guarantee Bao could make if the rumor on Makoona was true, that the engines spoke to Meela. Many times, she’d merely listened to an outboard—some claimed without it being started—and diagnosed the engine’s problem and its cause.
Before they left to fish, Bao brought the boy to meet many people. He smiled as he introduced Kemar and seemed genuinely pleased with their association. Like a proud father, Bao boasted of the valuable help Kemar gave him. He explained, in great detail, many things the boy had done to help him, including several feats even Kemar couldn’t remember performing.
The boy began to see that he might’ve found not only a friend, but also a place where he could belong and feel safe. It was one reason why Bao’s sudden sullenness later that day perplexed the young refugee.
As they motored through the soft swells that rocked the small boat with the borrowed motor, Kemar hesitatingly asked Bao what was bothering him. He was shocked when the man replied, “You what bother Bao.”
Kemar thought he understood the problem. He reassured his companion that he was fine, that he was happy to have ended up on Makoona with him.
Bao laughed. “Don’t care you fine or happy at Makoona. You worthless.”
“Worthless? Why? Because I lost a net? Because I don’t enjoy fishing with hand grenades?”
“Worthless because no one buy you.”
“You tried to sell me?”
“Why think Bao show to everyone? Boy have no value. Should have let sea keep you.”
Kemar slumped against the rail. For a moment, he’d allowed himself to be weak, to trust. He’d indulged a desire to live a normal life. He was thankful to Bao. The fisherman reminded him that he could never have a normal life. You can’t exist under the Khmer Rouge as a youngster and then forget the horror; you can’t be thrown from a boat into the sea to die; you can’t be sold by your savior and live a normal life. Happiness and trust, it seemed, were no longer possible.
Kemar returned to the numb callousness that had protected him in the past, failing to comprehend that a life without a dream, a goal, a challenge is not a life at all. The boy pushed his pain into a place deep within him that housed all the pain he’d ever felt. Every time he added another experience to the vault, a rare shred of what remained of his innocence was torn away.
Finally, Kemar stated, “You don’t own me. You can’t sell what you don’t own.”
“Not really selling Kemar. Bao choose wrong words. Trying to help boy. Try to match skill to someone who needs.”
“And who will pay.”
“Pay boy too. Boy, Bao, merchant all benefit.”
“When were you going to tell me about all this?”
“Boy one who put idea into Bao’s head. Boy one who ask for work with mechanic. You abandon Bao.” The older fisherman was practiced at deceit. He knew exactly how to bend the truth to fabricate believable lies.
“Maybe you could let me know what you decide for me before you do it. I might have something to say about it.”
“Not think boy mind.”
“Not mind that I’m being sold?”
“Not sold! Not sold! Wrong word.”
“What if I decide this is the last time I will fish with you?”
Bao liked the idea of sitting dry in the boat while Kemar did the dirty, dangerous work. But Kemar might not be worth feeding, paying, or using extra gas to transport, especially since he was proving to be somewhat annoying company. So Bao replied, “Then this will be last day. Can sleep under boat if like.” The benevolent Bao knew it would be difficult for anyone to disturb his property while Kemar slept under it.
The boy thought for a moment. “I will work for you today. You will give me dinner and two dollars.”
Bao smiled. Now they were playing his game. He would give the boy a lesson in making deals. “Is fair to Bao, if fair to boy.” Bao pointed a finger at Kemar, adding, “If anyone Bao introduce you to give work, you give Bao half of wages for first month. Only be pennies. How much could boy be worth? Boy give money for all Bao do for you.”
The words rang in Kemar’s ears. This was something that Phan would’ve negotiated, the type of language and logic those who believed in the Khmer Rouge would’ve employed. Kemar knew this game, and he knew where Bao would’ve stood had he been in Cambodia when the trouble started, when the cities were evacuated and the educated were murdered.
Kemar paused and presented a counter-offer. “You will give me dinner tonight and two dollars for my work today. For every night I sleep under your boat and keep it safe for you, you will give me either seventy-five cents or breakfast. I will give you one quarter of my first month’s pay if one of the people you introduced me to hires me.”
Bao was amused by the thought that perhaps the youngster wasn’t as worthless as he appeared. But he dismissed both the boy and the thought as he responded to the latest offer.
“One-third of first month money. Twenty-five cent for taking care of gear at night.” Since he’d introduced the boy to most of the merchants on the island, Bao knew that Kemar might wind up working for several of them. In his mind, Bao believed he’d be entitled to money every time Kemar worked for a new employer. It was a possibility the boy overlooked and the man banked on.
“Very well, Bao.” Kemar offered his hand to the man.
Bao accepted the small, thin fingers and the sincerity of their grip. He returned the grip but not the sincerity.
When they reached the stretch of ocean that Bao was looking for, he gunned the engine and then glided to a spot where a weathered plastic bleach bottle bobbed on the water, anchored to the coral below—a marker, not a mooring. Bao had Kemar toss the boat’s anchor over the side. The boy knew that gunning the motor and tossing the anchor would alert and disperse many of the fish but wasn’t very surprised at Bao’s sloppiness.
Although Bao thought a lot about money, he typically expected more from others than from himself. Bao tended to be lazy in that he’d do whatever was easy to make a quick profit. Other, more sophisticated ventures—potentially much more profitable—usually eluded him.
What eluded both of them was that the heavy anchor was crushing and ripping large patches of living coral. It could take a thousand generations before any of Kemar’s offspring would see similar coral configurations in this spot again.
With the boat secure, Bao briefed his new employee about the day’s activities. Since Meela had confiscated the grenades, Bao had prepared another very effective and equally lethal method of coaxing fish from the coral. Bao popped open a compartment under a seat and produced several plastic squeeze bottles. They were filled with liquid that, when viewed through the cloudy plastic, looked more like opaque, dirty water.
Bao handed two of the bottles to Kemar, saying, “Don’t drink. Would be better off sucking down sea water.” The older man handed his associate a small orange hand net. “Not belong to Bao. Don’t lose, or maybe Bao lose your two dollar.”
“Really?” the boy asked. “Well, I might lose your boat one night.” He picked up the net and dropped a bottle into it. Holding the other container in his hand, Kemar asked, “How do you fish with water in water?”
“Not water. Cyanide. Have more if need.”
Kemar stared blankly at Bao.
Sighing, the man explained, “Swim up to a coral with plenty place for fish to hide. Spray in cracks. Scoop what come
out. Even if look dead, grab. A few minutes in bucket, many wake up. Good way to catch tank fish. Fun.”
“Lots of fun when you’re sitting in the boat,” Kemar mumbled under his breath.
The anchor line snapped free, and the boat bounced and rolled. Kemar tripped over a bucket while Bao reached for the rope. The dislodged anchor slid along the bottom, plowing down sponges and corals, causing quite a disturbance below.
The coral crashed onto the sandy floor, producing plumes of smoky silt and debris. The residents of Makoona scattered instantly. There were several, however, stunned by the collapse of their homes, who hesitated before fleeing into the nearest shelter they could find. Fish flew into holes, hoping that they were deep, twisted, and uninhabited. Many of them knew what would happen next.
A minute or two later, the splash came. It was the unmistakable sound of a human disturbing the sea. Those already huddled into crevices squeezed into the deepest corners they could fit into, hoping to elude the man-tide’s venom. In one of those cracks, Binti’s home, the octopus had thrust her boneless body behind a smooth rock. She breathed softly, taking small, shallow breaths. Although her body’s sensitivity to chemical changes in the water generally proved to be a blessing, in this scenario, it wasn’t.
Her flesh burned and itched as the first minute traces of cyanide infiltrated her lair. The octopus hoped the level wouldn’t increase. She’d seen others who’d breathed the venom. Those who lived and weren’t taken away by the man-tide were left changed, and never for the better.
Binti remembered a shrimp who suddenly began behaving like a squid. It swam around at night in the deep open water looking for food that it could neither catch nor ingest. She also knew of an octopus who, after breathing the venom, spent the rest of its life disguised as a clam. Both the shrimp and the octopus quietly disappeared. Binti assumed that either the venom proved lethal over time or they starved to death.
The odds were that neither was eaten, because most would never knowingly eat a creature who’d breathed the venom, one who’d been sprayed. Otherwise, their sickness could become yours, and that wasn’t worth an easy meal.