by Ellery Queen
The two men watched as the huge fish passed by, almost within touching distance. The eyes in its large round head were cold and deadly, and the enormous pectoral fins, tipped with white, spread like wings from its body. At the side of the head, just behind the gill slits, a remora had fastened its sucker to the shark’s skin, and several striped pilotfish swam just ahead of the cruelly grinning mouth. The monster tail, a wicked scythe of skin and cartilage, swept slowly from side to side, propelling the streamlined, twelve-foot body swiftly through the water. It passed the raft, made a wide turn, and resumed its place, circling again.
“I—I’ve never seen any fish that big,” Tiedeman whispered.
“It’s a whitetip,” Croft said, “and one of the bigger ones. Carcharhinus longimanus is the Latin name—the one Jacques Cousteau calls ‘Lord of the Long Arms’ because of those big pectoral fins.”
“If it goes for the raft we won’t have a chance.”
“It was probably just on a tour of inspection. But we’re lucky there are a lot of smaller fish in these waters. I doubt that the sharks will attack us unless they get hungry—or unless they’re provoked.”
“Provoked?”
“Yeah. Irregular splashing will usually bring them running—the shark think it’s a wounded fish. You’ll notice I’ve been pulling on the oars with a slow steady stroke. I’d suggest you do the same when it’s your turn to row. And keep your arms and legs out of the water. They’d look like small fish following us—just the thing for a quick snack.”
“Don’t worry,” Tiedeman said, his face pale. “I want to keep just as far from those things as I can. Anything else I should know?”
“Well, blood in the water will attract them from a long way off. So be careful with that knife of yours and don’t—”
“Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, one night, sailed off—sailed off—” Dabney suddenly sat bolt upright in the rear of the raft, staring vacantly out to sea. His mumbling trailed away as he turned toward Croft and Tiedeman, an idiot’s grin on his face.
“He’s delirious again,” Croft said as the pilot, his strength exhausted, dropped into the bottom of the raft. “I wish I knew what to do for him. That arm looks worse every hour.”
“Croft?” Tiedeman’s voice became low. “About Dabney. You know, don’t you, that there are only six cans of food left.”
“So? What’s that got to do with Dabney?”
“We might be out here for days, even for weeks. It’s impossible for us to do any fishing with those sharks around, and I don’t see any sign of rain clouds.”
“Oh, I think we’ll come out of this all right. There’ll be planes looking for us. In fact, they’re probably in the air right now. After all, Dabney filed a flight plan to Broome.”
“But they won’t know where to look. That storm could have blown us anywhere.”
“What’s all this got to do with Dabney?”
“He can’t take his turn at the oars, can he? He’s too helpless to do anything. Besides, that arm of his looks gangrenous already. He’ll be certain to die in a day or two, no matter what we do. So I just thought we might—”
“What are you suggesting, Tiedeman?” Croft demanded. “Throw him to the sharks or just let him starve to death? Or maybe you’d like to practise a little discreet cannibalism. Just what, exactly, did you have in mind?”
“Dammit, I just thought the wisest thing would be to—”
“To murder him, Tiedeman? That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? Well, I’m not having any. Dabney will get his regular share of the rations as long as they hold out. After that we’ll try to figure out some other way of getting food and water.”
“And who put you in charge, black boy?” Tiedeman snarled. “What gives you the right to make all the decisions around here?”
Croft bowed his head and then raised it slowly. “I should kill you for what you just said,” he murmured slowly, “but that would make me as bad as you. And as for my right to be in charge, it’s a simple matter of physical strength. I could break you in two any time I felt like it. And if you try anything with Dabney I might do just that. Now take the oars. I need some rest.”
Late that afternoon the plane came over. Tiedeman was the first to hear the drone of the motors and he shouted to Croft, who was attending to Dabney.
“Wave something!” Croft yelled. “Use your shirt. Try to attract their attention.”
The small plane was flying about a hundred yards above the water, perhaps a half mile away. The two men shouted hoarsely and waved scraps of cloth. The sound of the plane’s motors became louder and louder. Then they began to fade away as, without changing speed or direction, it headed toward the distant horizon.
Tiedeman, tired by his efforts, slumped into the bottom of the raft. “They didn’t see us,” he croaked. “They didn’t see us. I—I’ve got to have water, Croft.” He looked longingly into the sea.
“Don’t try it, Tiedeman,” Croft warned. “You know what salt water can do to you.”
“How about opening a can?” asked the engineer. “Just one.”
“Not until tomorrow. And if we cut down to two cans of food for the three of us we can make them last an extra day.”
The food allowance cut by one-third! Tiedeman looked hatefully at the unconscious form of Dabney.
The sun was still above the horizon when Croft, exhausted by the rowing and the lack of food and water, turned the oars over to Tiedeman and moved to the front of the raft. Curling his huge body into a ball he fell asleep almost immediately.
Less than an hour later he was awakened by a shouting. He opened his eyes, straightened his aching body, and looked about. Tiedeman had apparently fallen asleep over the oars. That was all right. The sun had nearly set and it would be impossible to find directions in the dark. The shout must have come from Dabney.
But Dabney was not in the raft!
Croft heard a thrashing in the water off to his left. He turned. The little pilot was in the water about 50 feet away, shouting gibberish and flailing his arms to keep his head above the surface. Croft also saw that the three sharks had broken their ring around the raft and had formed a smaller circle around Dabney.
Frantically Croft looked for a piece of rope or something to throw to the man in the water. Finding nothing, he pushed Tiedeman to one side and grasped the oars. Even as he did this, Blynken’s notched fin disappeared from view. There was a sudden shrill scream from Dabney as the shark struck him somewhere below the surface. The last thing Croft saw was the man’s arms, upraised as if pleading for mercy, before he was savagely yanked down into the sea.
The sharks seemed to go mad. They raced through the water like silver torpedoes, biting at the thing that had once been Dabney, as well as at each other. Once Croft felt the bump of a huge body striking the raft from underneath, and he rowed hard to move away from the area where the sharks were finishing their grisly meal. Then, overcome by shock, hunger, and thirst, he buried his head in his hands and sobbed loudly.
The following morning Croft and Tiedeman shared a can of tomatoes. Croft ate first, emptying the can of half its contents, and then handed the rest to Tiedeman, who sucked greedily at the juicy redness. All too soon they were finished, and there was nothing to do for the rest of the day except to keep rowing and watching the incessant circling of the sharks.
“Croft,” Tiedeman moaned, “now that Dabney’s gone, couldn’t we open another can? There’ll be more for each of us now.”
“I’ll think about it,” Croft replied. “Maybe tonight.” He looked steadily at his companion. “What happened to Dabney, Tiedeman?” he asked suddenly.
“I dunno. I was asleep, same as you. In fact, it wasn’t until you shoved me that I woke up. I’d imagine, though, that the fever finally got to him and he started wriggling around. Being out of his head he fell out of the raft—the sides aren’t very high. By the time he realized where he was—in the water—it was too late.”
“Or maybe he had some help ge
tting into the water,” Croft said grimly. “I haven’t forgotten the way you were talking yesterday.”
“Hey, wait a minute. Do you think I’d—”
“I think you’d do anything to get another can of that food back there.” Croft pointed to the crate in the rear of the raft. “And there was something about Dabney—just before he went under. Something odd. I wish I could remember what it was.”
“Look, maybe I was a little crazy myself yesterday. But I wouldn’t push anybody to those sharks. What do you think I am, Croft?”
“What I think you are and what I can prove are two different things,” was the reply. “But okay, it could have happened by accident, I suppose. Just don’t try seeing that I have an ‘accident,’ too, or I won’t be the one who ends up in the water.”
“Croft, I swear I never—”
“Save your breath. It’s your turn to row.”
The morning passed slowly, the two men changing off at the oars at what they judged were hourly intervals. As the sun reached its zenith Croft turned the oars over to Tiedeman and went to the rear of the raft to rest.
He tried to sleep, but the hot sun, reflecting from the water, sent flashes of light even through his closed eyelids. He kept thinking of Dabney, out there in the water, and of that awful moment when he disappeared from view. There was something wrong somewhere, but Croft couldn’t put his finger on it. He shuddered, thinking of a wounded whale he’d once seen attacked by sharks in the Pacific. The sharks would streak in with open jaws and bite down on the living flesh. Then they’d jerk their tails wildly, whipping their great bodies until they’d ripped off a piece of meat the size of a basketball.
He peered over the side of the raft, trying to get his mind off the morbid memory of Dabney’s death. One of the striped pilotfish had apparently abandoned its shark and adopted the raft. Only a little thicker than Croft’s thumb, the pilotfish darted toward the stern of the raft and then away again. It continued the darting for several minutes.
Croft frowned. Odd. Usually such fish kept a regular distance from a shark or whatever they elected to accompany. But this fish looked as if it were being attracted by something. It couldn’t be the oars; they were too far away. Then what—
Croft looked over the side of the raft. There it was. Something caught in the rope that ran around the raft’s outer edge. A white streamer of a thing that fluttered and waved in the water. He pulled at it and brought it aboard.
He stared at the white thing draped across his hands for several seconds before the full significance of what he was holding came to him.
A mighty rage welled up in the black man, banishing all the weakness and discomfort he had experienced in the past few days. “Tiedeman!” he yelled, his voice roaring across the water. “You killed him, Tiedeman. You killed Dabney!”
Tiedeman looked up, startled. Pulling an oar free of the rowlock he held it in front of him protectively. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “It was an accident.”
“It’s no good,” Croft said, shaking his head. “You see, I remember what was different about Dabney’s appearance just as the sharks got him. He raised both arms just as he was dragged under.”
“So?”
“So there was no bandage on his right arm. It was all swollen, but there was no bandage on it!”
“What does that prove? Maybe the knot came untied, or maybe it was worn through and unwound in the water.”
Croft held up the white cloth in his hand. “Here’s the bandage. Apparently it got caught on the rope around the raft when Dabney went over. When you pushed him.”
“Look, the bandage came untied and got hooked on the rope. So what?”
“The knot’s still in the bandage. See.” He held the strip of cloth closer. “And the ends here—they aren’t worn through. They were cut. And you’re the only one in the raft with a knife.”
Croft threw the bandage to the bottom of the raft and stared with open hatred at Tiedeman. “It wasn’t enough just to push Dabney into the water, was it?” he snarled. “You had to cut off the bandage and start the wound bleeding again. That would be sure to attract the sharks, just the way I told you it would. And all for an extra can or two of food. Tiedeman, I think it’s time you got a closer look yourself at Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.”
Croft stood up, towering over the seated Tiedeman. He stretched out his arms. At that moment, swift as a striking snake, Tiedeman brought up the aluminum oar. It caught Croft full in the chest. The huge man stumbled backward. The edge of the raft caught his legs, and, with arms outstretched, he fell back into the water. Wynken was the first shark to leave the circle.
In the water Croft looked up at the man looming over him. Quickly he made a surface dive under the raft. Tiedeman darted glances from side to side. Croft could come up anywhere. Tiedeman had to be ready. Jamming his hand into his pocket he pulled out the Swiss army knife, and his fingers clawed at the blades. The awl was the first to pop into view.
Something bumped at the front of the raft.
Tiedeman scrambled forward just as a dark hand reached over the raft’s rounded side. “Tiedeman!” Croft yelled. “The sharks! They’re coming. Help me! Help me!”
“I’ll help you, all right.” Raising the knife in his clenched fist, Tiedeman brought down the sharp point of the awl. The slender shaft of metal pierced through skin and flesh as if through butter.
The awl went completely through Croft’s hand. But it did not stop there. Half an inch of it punched a neat hole in the rubberized skin of the raft. As Croft’s hand slid away, still transfixed by the knife, Tiedeman heard the hissing of escaping gas and quickly pressed a finger over the hold. The hissing stopped.
Something larger and stronger than Croft struck the underside of the raft and almost upended it. Desperately Tiedeman pressed harder against the hole. Ten feet away Croft made a last effort to reach safety. One arm was raised to begin swimming.
And then a gigantic shadow appeared below the swimming man. Croft did not scream; he simply vanished. A red stain billowed out through the water as the shadowy things below fed once more.
Finally it was over. The sharks resumed their inexorable circling, and Tiedeman continued to plug the leak in the raft with his finger. Once he took his finger away for a fraction of a second and the gas rushed out, the raft becoming perceptibly softer.
As the afternoon wore on, Tiedeman looked longingly at the crate of food at the other end of the raft. There was a patch kit back there somewhere, too. He calculated distances. How long would it take for him to scrabble his way to the rear of the raft, get the patch kit, and bring it forward? Thirty seconds? In that time the raft would have exhausted its precious supply of gas and be completely deflated.
The food was also denied to him. Even if he had the time to reach a can, he now had no way of opening it. So he would starve—or perhaps become too weak from thirst. Even a short nap would be his last.
For the small part of his remaining life he would be condemned to sit in the blazing sun, without food or water, pressing his index finger tightly over the tiny hole.
And, still circling the raft, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod waited, waited.
Jerrold Phaon
Hunting Season
This is the 374th “first story” published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine (at the time of this publication the number has passed 450). . .an unusual “first story”—unusual in its quality and in its subtle, sophisticated theme. . .
The author, Jerrold Phaon (a pseudonym), was 23 when he submitted “Hunting Season.” An English teacher in Allentown, Pa., he is a graduate of Penn State University and working on his Master’s Degree. He is married, and his wife and he have two children, a girl and a boy. They live in a rural village “on the first ridge of the Pocono Mountains.”
The “Phaons” are avid campers and hikers, and enjoy most winter sports. Mr. Phaon drives 50 miles a day to and from work in all weather. “It isn’t a very exciting or glamorous life, but then, as
I said, I like to live quietly”—and in spare time he writes stories. . .Watch this “quiet man”—he has things to say. . .
“I don’t know why you even bother,” Mildred McKay told her husband. “Every year it’s the same thing—you drag out that damn gun and clean it at my table and get that foul-smelling mess all over.”
“It’s not a gun,” Harry answered. “It’s a rifle. A thirty-oh-six.” He wiped the barrel with the polishing cloth he had been using, then lifted the rifle to his shoulder and sighted across the kitchen at his wife. “Bang! You’re dead,” he said.
Mildred turned around at the sink. “Don’t point that gun at me,” she said.
“Bang Bang Bang,” he said. He laughed and lowered the rifle and cradled it in his lap. “I keep telling you, my dear. It’s a rifle. Rifle.” He lifted his eyes from the rifle and looked at his wife. Mildred had gone back to her dishes.
“Don’t make any difference to me,” she said. “Guns, rifles, peashooters. They’re dangerous. I don’t like them in my house.”
“When I was in the Marines,” McKay began, “we didn’t dare call our weapon a gun. For three years of the war my rifle was the best friend I had. The only friend I had,” he added.
“You’d think that after carrying one of them things around for three years you’d of had enough to last a man a lifetime. I can’t see it myself. What it is men get out of hunting.”
“A man learns a lot of strange things about himself during wartime,” McKay said. “He learns that man is a predatory animal. A man will kill to stay alive, but more importantly, he will kill for the pure and simple fun of it. It satisfies this primitive urge that’s in every one of us. It’s an instinct that is set loose in a most uninhibited manner during wartime, then has to be locked up again and kept inside our so-called civilized philosophy: namely, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ It’s one reason why there are so many murders following a war. And also, by the way, why so many men take up hunting. It’s a way for them to vent their frustrations. A man is never freer in his soul as when he is taking a life.”