The Girl of the Sea of Cortez (25 page)

“She better not.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Shut up.”

“What about the net? We said …”

“Forget it. She’s beaten. She’s given up.”

“Then what’s …?”

“Forget it, I said. Watch this.” Jo scooped a handful of
rancid fish guts from the pool of oily water at the stern of the boat below the motor and cocked his arm and flung the mess toward Paloma. It fell several feet short of the pirogue. Instantly, a pack of sergeant majors materialized and devoured it.

Paloma did nothing, said nothing, in no way acknowledged the gesture.

“See?” Jo said to the others. “She won’t do anything. We’ve talked. She knows what’s what. Now: Look through the glass and tell me if they’re still there.”

Manolo put the viewing box on the surface of the sea and looked down. “Right there. They haven’t moved. God! Look at them all! We won’t get ’em all in this boat.”

“Then we’ll tow ’em home in the net. Tomorrow we better bring a barge out here. This is too good.”

Though Jo did not look at Paloma as he spoke, she knew he was speaking for her ears, taunting her.

But still she said and did nothing, for she didn’t know what she could say, or what she could do. If her silence annoyed any of them, that was fine; speaking could only strip away the mystery about why she was there. Perhaps if they became genuinely angry they would make a mistake and lose their net or stagger clumsily and capsize their boat … But these were fantasies, idle wishes, hopeless hopes.

Their net was cast and was sinking, and they were concentrating on each foot of fiber to make sure it didn’t foul against anything or snarl itself into a tangle. When it was all the way out, they would let it sit for a few minutes before hauling it in—to give ample time for masses of fish to wander into the trap.

Paloma felt a faint touch of pressure on her knees, a slight surge that lifted her pirogue an inch, no more, and let it settle again. It might have been the wake of a distant boat, but
there were no boats in the distance; it might have been the wave from a breaching animal, but no animal had breached hereby; it might have been the weakening signature of a long-distance seismic wave, but that she would see travel on the surface and lift Jo’s boat, too.

Only her boat had moved, which meant that whatever was happening to cause the change in the water pressure was happening directly beneath her.

She cocked her head over the side of the pirogue and back-paddled so she would have a better angle on the water below. All the water looked black, which didn’t strike her as peculiar until she realized that the water farther away was its normal blue.

Then she knew immediately what had fooled her eyes, and she smiled to herself. The manta had returned. It was lying a few feet below the surface, and the black carpet of its back was so close that it seemed to extend to the horizon.

Then, silently, she reprimanded herself, for there was no reason to believe it was the same manta ray. There were many manta rays around seamounts, and she had chanced to paddle her boat into the vicinity where one was cruising, and it had probably noticed the shadow her pirogue had cast and had moved over to take cool shelter in it. Rays that came to the surface in the heat of the day often took refuge beneath a ship or a dock, for direct sunlight quickly became uncomfortable. It was a simple, instinctive, animal thing to do, and for Paloma to attribute more or different sensibilities to so primitive an animal she knew to be folly.

But she wanted to be positive nonetheless, so she pitched her anchor overboard and let the line pay free from the pirogue, then held her mask to her face and bent over and put the faceplate on the water.

It could not be the same manta. There was no wound, no
sore, no shredded flesh. Yet there was something strange about the area around the left horn. It looked dented or nicked, as if there had been an injury some time ago. Could there be two enormous mantas on the same seamount with an injury in the same place? She could not believe it possible, so she decided to go down and look.

The fishermen still had their backs to her, were still setting their net, so they did not notice when Paloma slipped over the side and took a few deep breaths and disappeared.

When the net was set a moment later, however, one of them turned around and nudged Jo to show him the empty pirogue. All Jo said was, “Give me the glass.”

As soon as Paloma was underwater she knew it was the same manta, no question. But the wound looked ancient. The flesh had grown together—probably, Paloma thought with pride, because I packed it so tightly and took off the ragged pieces. All that remained were scars, and an indentation behind the horn, and a crease where the ropes had gouged deep into the flesh. There was no blood, no seepage, and as Paloma stroked the animal she saw that the abused flesh had even begun to regenerate the protective mucus that covered the rest of the body.

The manta lay perfectly quiet as Paloma’s hands explored the injured horn, and against all her knowledge and all of Jobim’s reasoned arguments she began to believe that the manta had returned, like a child revisiting a doctor, to show Paloma how successful her treatment had been. She knew it was stupid and impossible and not worthy of someone who respected the sea, but she believed it nevertheless.

Her body triggered the first familiar alarms to send her to the surface, and she resented them and dismissed them and pretended she was a fish, until the second set of alarms forced her to leave the manta. She looked down as she ascended,
hoping the manta would remain until she could return, and because she did not look up she did not see that Jo had moved his boat. It now lay beside her pirogue, almost touching it.

She had taken a couple of breaths and cleared her mask before she felt the presence of the other boat and looked up and saw Jo standing in the bow of the motorboat, holding his harpoon.

“Bring him up,” Jo said sharply.

“What?”

“Bring the devilfish up.”

“What are you talking about? I can’t bring him up.”

“Yes you can. Do what you do and bring him up.”

“I can’t! But even if I could, why?”

“He has to weigh two tons. Good money.”

“Money? For a
manta
?”

“A silver coin for every hundredweight. Cat food.”

Paloma thought he was simply teasing her, insulting her for the amusement of his mates. “How would you get it home?”

“Tow it. You’ll see.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Bring it up!” Jo said. “Now!” He raised the harpoon over his head, threatening not Paloma so much, nor the manta ray, as in a gesture of defiance.

Paloma could feel, in her legs, movement in the water below. She looked down through her mask and saw that the manta was flexing its wings—not moving yet but about to. She felt a spasm of fear, for the manta could be about to come up on its own, and if it surfaced anywhere near Jo’s boat—as sometimes they did out of playfulness or curiosity—Jo would surely plunge his harpoon into the animal and nothing she could do would help it.

The dart on the end of the harpoon was hinged: Moving
forward, during the throw and as it sank into flesh, it would lie flush with the shaft of the harpoon itself. But when the harpooner set it, by pulling the shaft away and tugging on the rope, the dart would spring open into a horizontal, and where it had gained a smooth entry it would find no exit at all. The harder the rope was pulled, the firmer the dart was set.

The manta would never know what had happened.

It would have come to the surface unaware of danger and would have felt sudden, searing pain and would try to flee. Jo would give it line, would let it run, holding the rope just taut enough to keep the dart set and hurt the manta and tire it as it pulled the boat after it. Gradually, Jo would increase the pressure, hoping to make the manta bleed, which would tire it further, knowing that now every time the manta sounded deep the pain would be worse and so it would tend to stay near the surface.

After a while, the manta would stop its struggle and would lie exhausted on the surface, exploding in a brief flurry of panic only when the boat drew near. Little by little, Jo would pull in the line, and let it out again if the manta struggled, and pull it in again until finally the manta had no more fight. Then Jo would draw the boat right to the manta and would either beat it on the head with a club until he found its brain and stunned it so its gills could be slit and it would bleed to death, or he would find a way to tie a rope around the animal so it could be dragged backward through the water until it drowned.

If the manta came up on its own, it would be dead before this day was done.

Quickly Paloma hyperventilated, and Jo, thinking she was obeying him, instructed Manolo to hold his legs and steady him so that when the giant rose to the surface his throw would be true.

Paloma dived to the manta. It had raised its wings, and she could see the motion begin that would sweep the wings down again and drive the animal up, for it was angled upward, its head higher than its tail. She went directly to the horn on the right side, wrapping her arms around it and pressing down hard, willing even to cause it pain if that would make it roll down and away and free from people.

The animal stopped its rise and gently bent its head down and to the right, in perfect response to Paloma’s hands. Together they began a graceful roll to the bottom.

Paloma felt something quick and sudden in the water, and she turned her head and saw Jo’s harpoon hanging by its rope a foot from her head. Cast in fury and frustration, powered by the arm of one enraged, it had been driven six or eight feet into the water.

The thought flashed through her mind that a stronger arm might have struck her with the harpoon, and that thought was followed by the knowledge that a truly strong man would never have flung the harpoon.

The harpoon hung for a second, then was retrieved.

Paloma released her grip on the horn. The manta eased out of its roll and leveled off at a depth of perhaps a dozen feet. Still moving away from the boats, it started to rise. Paloma would have to breathe soon, so she did not try to stop the manta’s ascent. If it rose to within a couple of feet of the surface, she could drop off there and dash up and gulp air and hope to return to the manta before it began a new loop toward the deep. She wanted to guide it as far away from the boats as she could, and then she would drop off for good and know that it was safe, for with his net down Jo could not haul his anchor and start his engine and give chase.

Paloma had one hand on the manta’s upper lip and one on its wing, and her legs and feet flew free as the manta banked
and dipped and soared, changing direction on apparent whim but coming closer and closer to the surface. Paloma had no idea where she was, but she felt sure that the animal had changed course so many times that it must have traveled far from the boats.

Then, as the surface swept closer and changed from a blue veil to the shimmering luster of wet glass, she saw the looming figure of Jo, standing in the bow of his boat, harpoon poised above his head.

The manta had brought Paloma back to where it had found her. It had let her guide it on a wide, eccentric circle, had changed direction at random, for in the memory of its brain there must be stored a signal that told it how to return her to where she belonged.

She lurched forward, tried to grab a horn and push it down and drive the manta under again, but it was too late. The manta broke through the surface, not in a jump but like a turtle coming up for air. And it kept flying, moving its wings just beneath the surface, carrying Paloma on its back, carrying her straight at the boats.

Looking over the hunch of the wing, along the horns, Paloma saw Jo as he for the first time saw that Paloma was riding on the back of the beast. His hands jerked and his eyes widened and he let out an involuntary shriek of surprise and took an involuntary step backward, forgetting that his legs were gripped by Manolo. He started to fall, determined to throw the harpoon, flung out his arms, let go the harpoon and sprawled on his back in the boat.

The harpoon arced up into the air, askew, and Paloma saw it strike the water butt-first and heard Jo howl in pain and rage, before the manta once more dipped its horns, as Paloma took a breath and together they dived beneath the surface of the sea.

They went under the boat. Paloma did not try to guide the manta, for she wanted it to go away on its own, and she would not try to turn it unless it seemed to be heading for the boats. She thought of dropping off, but sensed that it would come back for her, wherever she was.

The manta was going deep, almost straight down. Ahead of its wings Paloma saw two streaks, and she realized that they were not shafts of sunlight but the lines that connected Jo’s boat to the net. The manta passed between the lines and continued straight down, toward what Paloma could now see as a misty hump near the top of the seamount—the net itself, surrounding a clot of hundreds, thousands of frantic fish.

If the manta did not see the net and turn, it would foul in the net and wound itself again, and perhaps foul Paloma in it as well, and if she became tangled she would surely drown. She tried to turn the manta, but it would not turn. It was flying as hard and as fast as it could, directly at the net.

It was in the last fraction of a second that Paloma knew that the manta did see the net, did know where it was going, knew what it was doing. The immense ball of trapped animals loomed out of the dusty fog, and just before chaos Paloma’s mind took note of how vivid were the eyes of the desperate fish.

With a last thrust of its great wings the manta plunged forward into the net.

On the surface, in the boat, the fishermen stood ready for the manta to surface again. They scanned the sea, searching for telltale bubbles or swirls. In the bow, Indio had his hand on the anchor line, prepared to pull the anchor up; in the stern, Manolo’s hand was on the starter cord of the motor. They could release their net and buoy it and leave it briefly if they had to, and they would if they were to harpoon the manta.