An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant

by Neal Reilly, LeAnn

  ***

  The mermaid circled the canal over and over and over, long after a glaring Ana left the shore. She worried the water over the hapless sea star. A hot, foul stench rose off of it, poisoning the water for a tail’s length around it. Its death stank of cruel purpose, not natural release. She hovered over it for long seconds and then darted away toward the spot where the man last treaded water. Here, a different kind of echo altogether colored the water’s essence. It was soft, luminous, and warm still. When she’d had more than she could stand from the sea star’s final resting spot, she returned to the man’s echo and renewed herself.

  She’d hardly touched him last night. She’d found him after hours of searching along the coasts until she’d detected him on the northern shore. She’d drawn upon the dark energy of the earth and walked on temporary legs to his sleeping place. His sleep was hollow and yet heavy, devoid of nurturing dreams. He’d come from a far place where something had bound his soul, delicate as a sooty tern chick, in a filament as light and unbreakable as whale sinew. She tested this binding, finding that it had loosened a bit. There was hope then. She could send him dreams and free him entirely.

  She lay next to him and sent visions into him as he slept. His dark hair covered her cheek and tickled her nose. She nuzzled the musky hollow beneath his arm. He smelled rich, his salty body excretions becoming his own human cologne, the breath of plants, and cool night air. He smelled like the promise of life. Next to his sharp odor, the mer males she knew smelled faint and diffuse, pale and unreal.

  In the time between night and day, before the sky lightens with the sun’s approach, the mermaid drew away from his warm, dry body. He sighed and she watched his sleeping face as long as she dared. When the shifting light sharpened his features, she stole away to the ocean. A gossamer thread connected them now. It was enough. She could trace him, could follow where he went.

  She’d followed him to the place where she’d left him the day before. That’s when she realized that he was looking for her. The gossamer thread binding them grew a little sturdier, a little more permanent. His thoughts were open to her and she urged him into the water. He came, bringing the lifeless sea star. She felt his pity and sorrow for the small animal and it moved her. When he lowered its husk, she sent it away on the current. She couldn’t restrain herself any longer and she swam around him, running hidden hands along his thighs and up his flank. He radiated heat. She wanted it to weld them.

  As soon as he sensed this, she backed away and they began to splash and roll. His deep laugh surprised her. She’d never heard laughter quite like it before and that too captured her. If she could elicit that again and again it would never be enough.

  When he said, “Where’s my lady del mar when I need her?” she knew that it was time to reveal herself.

  At that moment, the old woman spoke. The mermaid’s glamour wavered, but it held steady under the old woman’s jagged gaze. The gossamer thread linking her and the man attenuated and flattened but didn’t break. Heart skipping, she swam between him and the old woman, who came closer to the water, squatted, fingered bits of shell. The old woman radiated menace. Then she asked the man the unthinkable.

  “Don’t believe in mermaids, do you? Why not? Maybe one is swimming right beside you. Close to us vile humans, eh?” The old woman laughed, a sound of broken shells tossed on stone. The mermaid knew that she laughed at both of them. When the man wriggled behind her, she looked back at him. She recognized embarrassment. And denial.

  Disconcerted, the mermaid swam to a safe distance where she observed as the man spoke to the old woman, saw him stop and scrutinize her search. She felt his perplexity when the old woman reached the rock where the sea star had lain. Unlike the stranger to whom she’d given her heart, this search troubled the mermaid. It troubled her a great deal.

  Four

  On Monday morning John awakened with an implacable urge to go to the cay across Luís Peña Canal, an urge that went far beyond any desire to be alone on his own private rock, beyond the fear of the ocean crouching in his brain stem. It had all the force of ravenous hunger, of raging thirst, of insatiable lust. After nearly drowning, he would have put off coming back to the dive shop to schedule diving lessons—his stated reason for coming to Culebra—except that he needed to rent a kayak today to quell this urge.

  So he returned to Chris’s Sunken Reef Dive Shop, a dusty storefront carpeted in beige and lined on one side with racks of snorkels, masks, and flippers, as soon as the shop opened, which happened to be ten a.m. Chris, a slouching tanned man with a phone cradled between jaw and shoulder, waved him in before disappearing into the back room. While he waited, John studied the shop more carefully than he had on Saturday. An assortment of artifacts—links of rusty chain, several spikes embedded in worm-eaten planking, and disintegrating portholes—studded the opposite wall along with other less certain items. What appeared to be a palm-size, dark-orange cannonball served as star to a solar system that included ancient handles and a dozen verdigris lengths of metal that may have been fasteners (of what, John had no clue) before the sea laid claim to them. The real treasure, presumably from Chris’s underwater adventures, resided in a glass case that divided the shop. Inside, three dark gray plates—pewter, John guessed—lay in state along with flat oval gold rings and several heavy coins stamped with a cross surrounded by lions and what looked like castle towers. An emerald, the size of a teardrop, and flakes of gold held the place of honor in the center of the case.

  John tapped his fingers against the smudged glass, his lips compressed and his chest tight. Chris had been friendly and chatty on Saturday, saying it was good to see someone from the States in the off-season, and told John that his diving schedule was wide open for the next two weeks. John knew that getting certified to dive was more important than satisfying an insane need to spend the day on a deserted cay, but he just couldn’t think beyond renting a kayak. Would this genial guy deny him one after he confessed that he’d lost the snorkeling gear in Luís Peña Canal?

  He found out two minutes later when Chris, his mutt Murphy at his heels, strolled through the doorway from the back office. He carried a flat wooden box that looked like it had been rescued from the wreck of a Spanish galleon. John would love to see what was inside.

  “Hey,” Chris said. He set the box on the counter between them. “I thought I’d see you today.”

  That made John nervous. “Why?”

  Chris pursed his lips, opened the box. It contained receipts for the shop. John’s disappointment couldn’t overshadow his anxiety at Chris’s next words, however. “I saw the flyer at Isla Encantada. I figured you lost the gear.”

  John closed his eyes, took a breath, squared his shoulders, and looked at Chris. “Yes, I did.”

  Chris shook his head slightly. Sighed. Then he pulled out the top receipt and noted something on it. “Shoulda made you wear a vest. I’m gonna have to charge you for the gear.”

  For the first time since the near-drowning, John felt like an idiot. “I still have these.” He held out the mesh bag that stored the gear and the lone flipper.

  Chris accepted them, his face thoughtful. “Well, I can use the mesh bag, but no one’s lost a leg to shark bite in years.” He grinned at John’s dumbfounded look and laid the items aside. “A new set will cost me seventy dollars.”

  “No problem.” John handed Chris a credit card, simultaneously relieved that his stupidity was out in the open and angry with himself for the cost. And then he remembered that the cost had nearly been his life and he let the anger go. Instead, while Chris swiped the card, he screwed up his courage. Time to ask. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into renting me a kayak?”

  Chris dropped the card machine into the box and shut it with a satisfying snick. He studied John while scratching his stubbly chin. “Kayaking alone? Depends. Where you plan to go?”

  That was the best John could hope for. At least Chris hadn’t said no outright.

  “To the cay across the
canal.” He paused, took a breath. “Listen, I’ve been white-water kayaking with friends since high school. The trip to the cay will be a piece of cake after all the rapids I’ve gone over.”

  Chris nodded. “I believe you, but I’m gonna need to know what happened the other day, before I take you out in open water. That is, if you still wanna dive.”

  John looked out the window. He’d gotten the kayak, but he still needed the lessons. All the coursework and confined diving in Pittsburgh meant nothing without the open-water dives. What else could he say about his accident? He returned his gaze to the lanky instructor and then looked down at the glass case. The emerald winked at him.

  “I have these attacks sometimes. They’ve always been at night before so I didn’t expect this one.”

  Chris’s large eyes grew larger. “Attacks? Like your heart? Man, that’s not something I think we should mess with.”

  John’s mouth went dry. How would he make what happened sound mundane? “No, nothing like that. I just wake up sometimes feeling like the room is going to swallow me.” He sounded weak. He spread his fingers on the counter, forced an easy grin and some apology into his voice. “What can I say? Thought of my girlfriend and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Got some water down my gullet and suddenly I was drowning.”

  Chris frowned. “Tell the truth, that makes me a little nervous.” He turned, pulled a thick navy binder down from a shelf behind him, and plopped it onto the counter between them. “But it’s probably covered under the standard release form.”

  John nodded. He waited while Chris considered the situation out loud.

  “You won’t be diving alone, of course.”

  “Right.” John nodded again.

  “And you gotta do well on my quiz before we go out.”

  “No problem.” John knew he could ace any written test—he always did well on paper.

  Chris scratched his chin again. It sounded like sandpaper. After what seemed like forever but was probably only ten seconds, he made up his mind.

  “If you start to feel that way again, give me a sign—hands at your throat works for me—and I’ll drag you up. Also, you gotta wear a full-face mask.” He waited for John’s nod before grinning. The lantern of his large white teeth lit up his long face. “Now that’s settled, I gotta ask: is it true that some woman pulled you out?”

  “Afraid so.” John shifted his feet, shrugged, and smiled. “Any idea who she was?”

  “Maybe. What’d she look like?” Chris’s eyes had taken on a funny light, especially given how serious he’d been only seconds before. Later, John would wonder uneasily if he’d misread Chris the whole time or if he’d turned into a whack job only after hearing John’s story.

  “Not sure. I was a little out of it.”

  “Did you see breasts?” Chris sounded eager; breasts might do that, but the fact that he’d even asked the question stunned John.

  “Y-yes,” he said. “Is that relevant?”

  Chris’s grin had grown excited. “Maybe. I’ve seen one or two of them but never so close to the island.”

  “Of who?” The change that had come over Chris surprised John. Worse yet, he couldn’t follow Chris’s narrative. “How many women swim alone and naked around here?”

  Chris blinked as though the question caught him by surprise. “Women? No women swim alone and naked around here.”

  John began to feel exasperated, but he pushed it down. It would do no good to let it out; who knows how Chris’s mood would shift. “I’m sorry. What are we talking about then?”

  Chris’s expression lightened. “The gente del mar. I’ve seen them several times.”

  “‘Gente del mar’? People of the sea?” Even when he translated it into English, John didn’t understand as quickly as he should. When he did, incredulity flickered through his thoughts, and then died down. He smiled. “I see you talked to Tomás. He teased me too.”

  Chris, who’d been staring out the window and muttering to himself, a little smile curling his mouth, stopped and focused on John. “No one’s teasing you. I have seen mermaids. And so have other Culebrenses. Pablo and Jorge, the guys who work on my boat, talk about seeing mermaids. …”

  “The oceans are such a huge mystery,” John said, choosing his words carefully.

  Chris’s smile faded. “You think I’m one of those people who believe in UFOs and the Bermuda Triangle, don’t you?”

  John couldn’t meet Chris’s eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

  Awkward silence padded the space between them. John looked down at the consent form that Chris had left on the counter. One man’s fish might be another’s mermaid. Who was he to decide? He looked at Chris, who watched him, shrugged again, and smiled.

  “A mermaid’s certainly better than a giant squid.”

  Chris smiled back. “I bet you see her again. I’d take you out, panic attacks and all, just for the chance to be with you when you do.”

  ***

  After leaving the dive shop, John spent the rest of the morning in Dewey. Chris, although he’d agreed to rent a kayak, had stipulated that he needed to check on John for his own peace of mind. What that meant was that John had to wait until tomorrow. So he shopped for supplies at the mercado, picking up a Caribbean soda made with tamarind syrup, peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a half a dozen oranges. He’d brought a camp stove and enamelware for some of his meals but only halfheartedly tossed four cans of beans into his basket. He’d suspected that camping would test his devotion to Zoë’s diet, but he hadn’t expected the dearth of good vegetarian convenience foods. He’d have to make do with fruit, imported chips and candy bars, and purified water from the main island. One good thing about Zoë’s visit in twelve days: breakfast came with their room at Tamarindo Estates.

  When he came out of the mercado, he stopped on the sidewalk, clutching his bag of supplies and blinking in the brilliance of the late morning. For perhaps the first time in recent memory, he had no agenda, no goal to accomplish or activity to pursue. Even the intense desire to go to Luís Peña had lost its edge. As he stood there, an unexpected tide of nostalgia surged in him. At 26, he couldn’t be justified in missing his youth, in missing the free hours frittered away during summer. Or weekends. Or holidays. The lazy, hazy time spent daydreaming on soft spring mornings instead of tapping away at his keyboard or reading a textbook. But he did miss his youth. More often than not, he turned away from the beckoning green world outside his graduate office. More often than not, he spent hours below ground in a bunker euphemistically called a research lab.

  He’d brought a book, of course, Lewis Thomas’s Late Night Thoughts on Listening to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony, but at the moment it seemed like pulling it out qualified as an assignment. A must-do, focused and probing. He wanted—no, he hungered for—diffuse, unplanned, open-ended wandering. After some time, a man pushed past him, lifting his reverie for an instant. Rubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to control his thoughts, he saw his bike and understood that he needed to get on and ride. Unlike his almost-frantic tour of the island yesterday, he pedaled only strongly enough to keep the bike going and gradually his thoughts unspooled into emptiness.

  His surroundings melted and merged into a living Impressionist artwork, a stained-glass filter that blocked out details of baked asphalt and dusty scrub. He’d lost two hours this way when a nagging ache in the pit of his stomach brought him back to the needs of his body. In his moving meditation, he’d managed to bike back to town—a very good thing because the back of his neck and his forearms had started to burn even though he’d slathered them with sun block.

  He walked slowly into a deli, blinking his dazzled eyes in the sudden dimness. A plump, middle-aged American woman in an apron stood muttering with a clipboard before a cooler. She glanced up and smiled; her large eyes and upswept wrinkles promised old-fashioned hospitality and good cheer. She piled shredded carrots on top of a mound of hummus and feta, jabbed an olive-adorned toothpick into the sprouted-grain bun, and grabbed a
large handful of plantain chips to wedge into the basket next to his sandwich. Seeing him settled at a table, she returned to her inventory and left him to his book.

  John read through the heat of the afternoon, sucking in Thomas’s essays with all the fervor of a man dying of thirst. Here was a kindred mind, a scientist and music lover driven beyond the myopic world of hypothesis, controlled setting, calibrated instruments, and precise measurements. To life beyond lab specimens. Even though Thomas’s palpable fear of a nuclear holocaust no longer held the urgency it must have once excited, his genuine sense of wonder at the beautiful complexity of the natural world more than made up for its appearance in the lead essay. His willingness to tackle the dark side of modern technology, to pull back and consider the intricate connections among humans, life, and science both gratified and disturbed John.

  He left the deli, stuffed in body and in thought. This time when he pedaled toward Punta Soldado at the tip of the southern peninsula, coasting on the downhill stretches, he returned again to Thomas’s observations about the Earth. At the end of the paved road, he left his bike at the top of a steep hill and picked his way down a rutted dirt path to the rocky beach. He snapped a few photos and then sat down on a boulder near the water. The sun hung low in the sky, its reflection a golden fractal.

  After a minute or two, he dug the essays from his backpack and flipped again to a sentiment that had grabbed him:

  Of all celestial bodies within reach or view, as far as we can see, out to the edge, the most wonderful and marvelous and mysterious is turning out to be our own planet earth. There is nothing to match it anywhere, not yet anyway.

  Lewis Thomas was right, of course: the Earth was one of the seven wonders of the modern world, one hidden beneath the feet of all those urban souls who tramped unconsciously upon its skin, forever busy with their self-important tasks. His own vision had long been clouded, his own soul long troubled. On impulse, he rose and climbed back up the hill where he could look out at the blue horizon and marvel at its vastness. No one noticed it, this vastness, sitting inside a cubicle or walking along a sidewalk surrounded by houses or office buildings. But here, where there was nothing to obscure his vision, to bring the world down to his size, it was clear just how wide the sky was and just how small he was.