warm.
Morris swam just ahead, just out of reach.
Nick wore his dive knife at his belt. He always wore his dive knife at his belt. As he swam, he noticed that hewas taking his knife out and holding it ready. It was a heavy knife, designed for prying rocks apart and cracking conch.
It would work best as a club, he was thinking. A club to be used for a sudden sharp blow from behind. That might be enough. If he called to Morris, then Morris would stop and Nick could catch him.
But his voice was not cooperating. Not yet: His hands held the knife ready,but he could not call out. Not yet.
He felt the change in water temperature as they passed into deeper water. He felt something—a swirl of water against his legs—as if something large were swimming past.
Morris disappeared from the water ahead of him. The water was smooth, with no sign of Morris’s bobbing head.
“Morris,” Nick called. “Morris.”
He saw them then. Dim shapes beneath the water.
Morris: slim, almost human. His father: man-shaped, but different. His arms were the wrong shape; his legs were too thick and muscular.
Morris was close enough to touch, but Nick did not strike. When Morris reached out and touched Nick’s hand with a cold, gentle touch, Nick released the knife and let it fall, watched it tumble toward the bottom.
Morris’s father turned in the water to look upat Nick and Nick read nothing in those inhuman eyes: cold, dark, dispassionate. Black and uncaring as the eyes of a shark.
Nick saw Morris swim down and touch his father’s shoulder, urging him away into the darkness.
“Morris!” Nick called, knowing Morris could not hear him. He kicked with frantic energy, not caring that his knife was gone. He did not want to stop Morris. He wanted to go withMorris and swim with the dolphins and explore the sea.
There was darkness below him—cool, deep water. He could feel the tug of the currents. He swam, not conserving his energy, not caring. His kicks grew weaker. He looked down into the world of darkness and mystery and he sank below the surface almost gladly.
He felt a cold arm around his shoulders. He coughed up water when the arm dragged himto the surface. He coughed, took a breath that was half water, half air, coughed again. Dark water surged against his mask each time the arm dragged him forward. He choked and struggled, but the arm dragged him on.
One flailing leg bumped against coral, then against sand. Sand scraped against his back as he was dragged up the beach. His mask was ripped away and he turned on his side to retchand cough up seawater.
Morris squatted beside him with one cold webbed hand still on his shoulder. Nick focused on Morris’s face and on the black eyes that seemed as remote as mirrored lenses.
“Good-bye, Nick,” Morris said. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Good-bye.”
Morris’s hand lingered on Nick’s shoulder for an instant.
Then the young man stood and walked back to the sea.
Nick lay onhis back and looked up at the stars. After a time, he breathed more easily. He picked up Morris’s cap from where it lay on the beach and turned it in his hands, in a senseless repetitive motion.
He crawled further from the water and lay his head against the fallen log. He gazed at the stars and the sea, and thought about how he could write down his observations of Morris’s departure and Morris’sfather. No. He could not write it down, could not pin it down with words.
He did not need to write it down.
He put on the red baseball cap and pulled it low over his eyes. When he slept, with his head propped against the log, he dreamed only of the deep night that lay beneath the silver surface of the sea.
Touch of the Bear
T HE SPIRIT WHO takes the form of a she-bear has been sniffing around my hut for the past three nights. She cannot touch me; the bear claws that dangle from the thong around my neck are a powerful protection.
I sit in the meadow by my hut and chip the flint spearhead to create an edge.
Morris swam just ahead, just out of reach.
Nick wore his dive knife at his belt. He always wore his dive knife at his belt. As he swam, he noticed that hewas taking his knife out and holding it ready. It was a heavy knife, designed for prying rocks apart and cracking conch.
It would work best as a club, he was thinking. A club to be used for a sudden sharp blow from behind. That might be enough. If he called to Morris, then Morris would stop and Nick could catch him.
But his voice was not cooperating. Not yet: His hands held the knife ready,but he could not call out. Not yet.
He felt the change in water temperature as they passed into deeper water. He felt something—a swirl of water against his legs—as if something large were swimming past.
Morris disappeared from the water ahead of him. The water was smooth, with no sign of Morris’s bobbing head.
“Morris,” Nick called. “Morris.”
He saw them then. Dim shapes beneath the water.
Morris: slim, almost human. His father: man-shaped, but different. His arms were the wrong shape; his legs were too thick and muscular.
Morris was close enough to touch, but Nick did not strike. When Morris reached out and touched Nick’s hand with a cold, gentle touch, Nick released the knife and let it fall, watched it tumble toward the bottom.
Morris’s father turned in the water to look upat Nick and Nick read nothing in those inhuman eyes: cold, dark, dispassionate. Black and uncaring as the eyes of a shark.
Nick saw Morris swim down and touch his father’s shoulder, urging him away into the darkness.
“Morris!” Nick called, knowing Morris could not hear him. He kicked with frantic energy, not caring that his knife was gone. He did not want to stop Morris. He wanted to go withMorris and swim with the dolphins and explore the sea.
There was darkness below him—cool, deep water. He could feel the tug of the currents. He swam, not conserving his energy, not caring. His kicks grew weaker. He looked down into the world of darkness and mystery and he sank below the surface almost gladly.
He felt a cold arm around his shoulders. He coughed up water when the arm dragged himto the surface. He coughed, took a breath that was half water, half air, coughed again. Dark water surged against his mask each time the arm dragged him forward. He choked and struggled, but the arm dragged him on.
One flailing leg bumped against coral, then against sand. Sand scraped against his back as he was dragged up the beach. His mask was ripped away and he turned on his side to retchand cough up seawater.
Morris squatted beside him with one cold webbed hand still on his shoulder. Nick focused on Morris’s face and on the black eyes that seemed as remote as mirrored lenses.
“Good-bye, Nick,” Morris said. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Good-bye.”
Morris’s hand lingered on Nick’s shoulder for an instant.
Then the young man stood and walked back to the sea.
Nick lay onhis back and looked up at the stars. After a time, he breathed more easily. He picked up Morris’s cap from where it lay on the beach and turned it in his hands, in a senseless repetitive motion.
He crawled further from the water and lay his head against the fallen log. He gazed at the stars and the sea, and thought about how he could write down his observations of Morris’s departure and Morris’sfather. No. He could not write it down, could not pin it down with words.
He did not need to write it down.
He put on the red baseball cap and pulled it low over his eyes. When he slept, with his head propped against the log, he dreamed only of the deep night that lay beneath the silver surface of the sea.
Touch of the Bear
T HE SPIRIT WHO takes the form of a she-bear has been sniffing around my hut for the past three nights. She cannot touch me; the bear claws that dangle from the thong around my neck are a powerful protection.
I sit in the meadow by my hut and chip the flint spearhead to create an edge.
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