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Shallow Waters

Page 3

by Anita Kopacz


  I’m momentarily paralyzed with fright. I cannot rescue her while I hold her helpless child in my arms. Suddenly masses of villagers plunge into the water and immediately sink. I can barely hold on to the child as bodies drop into the depths all around me. I hear the pirates yell and hit above us, and even though I know there are atrocities on board, I feel a sense of relief that the terrible men are preventing the rest of the villagers from jumping to deaths of their own.

  I hold the baby to my chest, contemplating his awful fate. I’m terrified of the evils that await him on board, but I know I must get him back on the ship, into the hands of someone who will care for him. I watch as the bodies of the villagers grotesquely bob and bounce in the mild ocean waves.

  I hear a whisper from above. I look up to see the woman who was with Obatala leaning over the side. She lowers a long rope. I tie it around the baby and kiss him on the forehead. He is beautiful, a child who should be celebrated with a proper birth ceremony. But bitter is his fate. What will they feed him? His mother’s milk lies with her in the salty waters of the sea. I watch with concern as I send him toward a bleak—even if less so than the one that might have been—future. I notice that the woman has a slight spark in her eyes as she lifts the infant over the rail.

  Though these fleeting moments sustain me, the journey continues to be arduous. One grim day, as I am swimming a short distance away from the ships to fetch food, I see a cluster of distinctive shapes. Ominously familiar, the sharks are out and circling a large kill. I cannot make out the maimed victim, perhaps a seal or even the dead body of one of the villagers. I have to make my way to the ships before they are diverted from their prey by my presence.

  “No fear, no fear,” I chant to myself as I swim toward the ships. Any hint of panic and the sharks will home in on me. My tail twitches involuntarily. The great whites can sense my fear and begin their pursuit. My pace quickens. I remember seeing a shiny silver rope dangling from the front of the third ship. Though I am relatively close, the sharks are gaining.

  I propel myself out of the water with all the strength I have left. I fly through the air and grab the rope. The momentum of my thrust flings me headfirst into the side of the ship. The impact nearly causes me to lose my grip. The rope is harder than I had imagined, like a bone or rock, and extremely slippery. The water bubbles below. Three shark fins surface and circle.

  A pirate yells and points toward the wheel of beasts. I’m hanging under the bow of the ship, so he does not notice me. The men approach the rail, aim their wooden weapons, and blast at the circling threesome, killing the largest one.

  I cling to the hard linked rope with an intense will to live. Between the ravenous sharks and the barbaric pirates, my chances of survival are slim. I study the floating carcass in fear that others will arrive once they smell blood. Two men fling a large net into the water and retrieve the dead shark. The pirates rejoice as they begin to haul up their catch.

  My fingers are slipping, but I dare not drop into the water. As the waves crash against the hull of the ship, I attempt to compensate for the movement. My knuckles scrape on the weathered wood, and blood slowly seeps from the wounds. My fingers ache, but I welcome the pain because it keeps me focused on what I need to do to stay alive.

  My arms shake from holding my weight. I stare into the shark’s lifeless eye as it passes near me with the jerky movements of the pirates’ net. As soon as they haul the animal on board, I catapult myself off the rope and dive deep into the sea.

  * * *

  I begin to question why I followed these strange vessels. I can barely even muster up the energy to appreciate the boy who once saved me, the boy who now looks more like an old man. An anger within me stews as I think about Obatala. Why do I love this man? Who is he? Why am I following him? What made me do this?

  My thoughts are so dark that I don’t even notice the storm clouds’ approach. Lightning strikes the mainmast of the first ship. A brilliant fire breaks out, quickly consuming the sails. Obatala is on that ship! My resentments blow away with the black smoke curling from the canvas. The ship is struck again. The other vessels rush to the rescue, but pirates and captives alike abandon the ship to survive.

  There he is! Although his body has deteriorated, his muscles are still powerful as they propel him through the stark chill of the ocean. He is searching for me. I show myself to him, and he swims toward me. His scars seem deeper and more pronounced on his thinning frame.

  Our fingertips touch just before he has to return to the surface for air. The chaos around us gives us a moment to connect. He returns to me and gently touches my lips with his fingertips. I don’t blink. I don’t move. I want this moment to last forever. As he rushes to the surface again to catch his breath, a pirate throws a net over him and begins to haul him up. Our fingers intertwine through the webbing, but neither of us has the strength to fight anymore. We hold on until Obatala is pulled from my grasp and up out of the water, out of my reach once again.

  The final leg of the voyage can be compared only to what I’ve imagined of the last moments before death. I swim less and less. I cannot find the strength to float up for the occasional crumb or small batch of seaweed. The frayed rope I tie myself to every night rubs the scales and flesh from my hips. The few still connected to my tail dance merrily in the water and sunlight, a taunt standing in stark contrast to the all-consuming misery in my heart.

  On one endless day, just as my eyes are beginning to droop from weariness, my hip suddenly bumps the rear of the ship. We’ve stopped! The water around me is shallow. This is new land. Is this our final destination? What do I do now? I hadn’t conceived of my plan out of water.

  My fingers fumble to untie the rope, and I hide behind a large wooden post. Small boats begin the process of unloading the ships’ emaciated cargo. The once-proud villagers now barely have the strength to walk on their own two feet. I see Obatala among the group of prisoners being led off the ships and almost don’t recognize him. I want to cry out to him and hold his broken body. But I can’t move. Helpless, I watch as he and the other prisoners, all shackled together, shuffle slowly down the gangplank and onto the rough, rocky shore.

  I hold back my tears and swim stealthily to a dock, far enough to be out of sight. A memory of my mother flashes across my mind. She is drilling into me the process of becoming human: “We are the only ones left from our Mer village. You need to know every option you have to survive.” I listen to the memory as if it were my first time hearing her words. “It will take forty days and forty nights to complete the cocooning process. Make sure you do it somewhere safe, my little dolphin.” I can almost feel her cup my face and gently kiss my forehead. She was preparing me for this moment.

  A large walkway sits atop dozens of posts that rise above the water’s surface. I wrap my tired, injured body around a crusty pillar and use the last morsels of energy within to begin my transformation. Silk fibers emerge from the pores in my back and wrap themselves around me, creating a thin but rock-hard egg-shaped shield around my body.

  I now have to eject the water out of the womb I have created. I spin, using my tail for speed. The momentum created expels the remnants through a small hole in the top of the cocoon, which peeks just above the water’s surface. When the whirling subsides, I become very still. With the water gone, I cup my hands and gently scrape the protective layer of mucus from my tail and use it to seal the inside walls of the cocoon, making sure to close off the hole at the top.

  Just as my mother promised, it does not take long for the thick substance to harden. My vision first blurs, and then I begin to see double. I continue to coat the walls despite my body’s desire to shut down. My eyelids finally close. The darkness is absolute.

  3

  THE AWAKENING

  I hear drumming and chanting, and although the rhythm is different from any I’ve heard at home, the sound is comforting. After breaking through the cocoon, I glance around, hoping to see Obatala’s beautiful smiling face. Instead, I look
into the strange but inquisitive and kind broad brown faces of the people gathered around me. Who are these people? Where am I? The strangers are looking at me almost lovingly, as if I were a newborn baby. Tears begin to well up in my eyes. Not only do I not know where I am, but who I have become is even more of a mystery.

  An old woman with straight white hair braided in two long plaits covers my naked body with a soft blanket that feels similar to the downy algae that my mother used. This strange woman embraces me, just as my mother would have. I awkwardly accept her affection, and as I lift my head, the old woman wipes the tears from my eyes. A young girl approaches, and out of an exquisitely beaded bag she wears around her waist she pulls a small carved wooden doll. She shyly offers it to me. I take it and study the painted designs. Then it occurs to me: the doll is a Mer! The little girl smiles and whispers, “Yemaya.” She sits by my side, gazes up at me with sweet expectation, points to herself, and says, “Ozata.”

  They know me! But how much do they know about me? No one has said my name since my parents died. They have witnessed my metamorphosis. I turn to the old woman. A knowing smile cracks across her shriveled face. I look up and see that the other people who were gathered around me have dispersed. Some are dancing to the drumming, and some have congregated around a fire, laughing and talking. The women are partially covered in brilliantly colored beaded cloth that they wear wrapped around their waists. The men and women both wear bright strands around their necks, wrists, and ankles. They also have elaborate headdresses adorned with beads and feathers. There is jubilation in the air.

  In the distance, beyond the dancers, I see structures that are very different from the homes Obatala and his people inhabited. They are tall and pointed, arranged in a semicircle around the edge of a large meadow filled with small yellow and pink flowers. The earth here is different from the white and gray sandy earth at home. This earth is damp, brown, pungent, and dense. I don’t smell the ocean. I am nowhere near the place I last saw Obatala.

  I am exhausted. The little girl, still by my side, tugs at the blanket that has been wrapped around me. She whispers my name again and gestures toward the dancers, as though encouraging me to join them. The old woman smiles at me, and I understand that I am safe. Something inside me also knows that after I have regained my strength, I will find Obatala again.

  The next day, the morning sun peeks through a rip in the tent that housed me for the night. The welcoming arms of this tribe have put my soul at ease in this strange new world. I look around at my small, warm space and see that a fine brown leather covering is laid out for me on the ground. My naked body is wrapped in a soft blanket made of a patchwork of downy fur. I put the leather covering over my body, push my head through the big hole in the top, and stretch my arms through the holes on either side. Still unsure of my new legs, I kneel unsteadily and pull the soft animal skin over me. Smoothing out the wrinkles, I admire the scalloped edge of the bottom of the covering, which reminds me of home and the seashells I used to collect. I am startled by the sound of tiny feet scampering back and forth outside my quarters.

  A small brown hand reaches in and sets down a clay bowl with some sort of food in it. Timidly, I reach for the bowl, and the tiny hand disappears as quickly as it appeared. I am alone once again. Still learning to move my long legs, I get them all tangled up as I attempt to grab the bowl and nearly knock it over in the process. I inspect its contents—a curious yellow mush. The color reminds me of the inside of a sea urchin, but the texture is rough. I scoop the food up with my fingers and revel in the experience of eating in my new form. Mer never use their noses to smell, and I realize now how it heightens the flavor of the food. Before my transformation, my nose seemed like a useless thing, but now I am in awe of its ability.

  I gulp down the last of the food. The little girl’s tiny hand reaches in again and grabs the empty bowl. Without thinking I leap up to follow her. I trip over my legs and almost land facedown more than once, but I am able to gain control enough to propel myself out of the tent. The young girl, Ozata, is running with the empty bowl in her hands through the center of the semicircle of tents. I am right behind her when she stops for a moment in front of a structure that is much larger than the tent I slept in. Her long black braids sway from side to side as she disappears into the folds of a painted canopy covering the opening.

  I see the elder woman standing off to the side of the large, rounded tent. She walks over to me and unexpectedly engulfs me in her delicate yet deceptively strong arms. She steadies me on my feet, reassuring me with a warm hug. Then, with extreme patience, she ushers me toward the tent opening and lifts the painted flap to reveal the dark entrance. Trails of scented smoke drift through the slit, momentarily obscuring my vision. Her gentle hands guide me into the middle of the whale-shaped structure as my vision slowly adjusts to the dim light within. I look around and notice the mighty wooden rods that hold the giant tent together.

  The woman motions for me to sit in the center of an animal-skin rug. I can feel its coarse yet comforting fur on the backs of my newly formed thighs. A younger woman emerges from the shadows and sits to my right, while the elder woman settles down on my left. They begin to recite words in a foreign tongue. After listening for a few minutes, I realize they are speaking two different languages.

  The elder woman turns to me and says, “Yemaya, I am speaking the language of my people. I am Cora, and this is my daughter, Amitola.”

  Amitola nods and begins to speak to me in the other language. “I speak to you in the tongue of the white man.”

  I freeze and stare at her, hearing the harsh tones of the pirates echo in my ears.

  Amitola continues, “The white man has taken over the land. Many of the elders have refused to speak their language, but in order for our people to survive, it is vital for us to understand what they are saying.”

  “I choose to speak the tongue of your people,” I conclude.

  Ozata runs in and jumps on Amitola’s lap. “Mama!”

  Amitola caresses Ozata’s back and continues to speak.

  “We must imbue you with the knowledge of both languages for your safety and survival.”

  I consider her words carefully. I know that she is right, so I concentrate on the language, listening deeply, taking in the new words and phrases quickly as I bend their sounds and grammar to my own.

  Amitola whispers something in Ozata’s ears as she squeezes her once more. Ozata giggles, shimmies out of her mother’s arms, and runs to the flap in the tent. A brief stream of sunlight captures her silhouette as she rushes out.

  “We consulted with the council to see your fate,” Cora says as she motions for a man, who has been standing in the corner, to come closer to us. As he approaches, I realize that he is dressed in the same garb as the village women.

  “They told us who you were and how to teach you the language of this land. You have the capacity to learn much faster than humans. We will be blessed by your presence for only a few days.” Cora speaks these words with no emotion. She continues, “Although you will get what you came for, there are many other things that color your path. The road will be long and hard.”

  Cora motions for the man to stand behind me. He is wearing a long leather dress with red and yellow beads crawling in intricate designs up his sleeves. He smells sweet, like he has soaked in flowers. I inhale deeply as he places his hands gently on my shoulders.

  “Now it is time for your medicine animal to contact you.”

  I’m confused but I do not interrupt Cora. She says that my medicine animal will help me understand my journey. It will give me clues along my path. She explains that everyone in the tribe has one, even Ozata. Cora hands me a small wooden cup filled with a pungent liquid.

  Shivering with fear and anticipation, I choke down the liquid and ask, “What is my fate?”

  “We know why you are here on our land. It is not by chance that you were delivered into our hands, and we are meant to assist you on your journey. But you must d
iscover your own fate for yourself. The medicine will help you see clearly.”

  Cora picks up a small bundle that looks like dried weeds wrapped securely in field grass. She ignites the tip of the bundle in the fire. She removes it and then extinguishes the flames, but the end continues to glow and emit a heady, thick, musty sweet smoke. She hands the bundle to the man standing behind me and he waves the smoking weeds over my head and around my body. I am mesmerized by the glowing embers and intoxicated by the smoke. I sneeze as he chants something I do not understand. He places the bundle in a seashell, much like the ones my father would fetch me, and then taps me three times gently but firmly between my eyebrows. I feel stunned, then fall deep within myself.

  My eyes roll to the back of my head, and my body becomes weightless as I awaken in a dream state. Ahead of me, a clear river swims through the forest, bathing lush vegetation in the shimmering reflection of the midday sun. There is no sign of humankind here. The tickle of damp grass teases my toes. I look down at my bare feet as I massage them into the moist earth.

  A stick snaps in the distance. I focus my attention on the noise. As I squint to sharpen my vision, I see Obatala. He notices and casually rubs the back of his neck. I begin to move toward him, but he turns away from me and runs. His pace is slow, as if he knows I will follow. I swipe at low-hanging branches and overgrown weeds as I chase him. I get close enough to see the three scars on the back of his neck. He stops, and we almost collide.

  I reach out and trace the scars with my fingers. My body begins to tingle, but before I can whisper his name, a deafening roar almost knocks me to the ground. I jerk my head around, but nothing is there. When I look back at Obatala, he’s gone.

 

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