Brothers of the Sea Read online

  He was fifteen yards from her when she turned abruptly and caught sight of him. She started suddenly, but then she masked her surprise with a practiced ease. She stared down at him coolly for a moment, and then with a haughty toss of her head which flung her long golden hair across the side of her face, she turned away from him and stared out to sea once again.

  The boy faltered and almost came to a halt. He began to wish that he had never come. He clutched his speargun more tightly and with a great effort of will forced his legs to keep moving.

  It was foolish of you to think she would take notice of you, he told himself, and for the first time in his life he became conscious of the bright patches on his faded shorts. He halted directly below her.

  For a while the girl ignored him completely, as if she were quite unaware of his presence, staring seaward with a feigned preoccupation. She too had seen him before from a distance, and she knew who he was and all about him. In her mind she thought of him as “Limpleg.” The fact that he was illegitimate meant nothing, not here on the islands.

  When she believed that she had kept him waiting for the correct length of time she lowered her gaze with a studied air of cool detachment. She found herself looking squarely into his exquisitely shaded eyes, and something about them made her heart lurch. She took in the deep golden-brown color of his skin, and she saw the way his shoulders tapered down into the narrow flatness of his waist and stomach.

  But he’s beautiful, she thought incredulously, except for that limpy leg of his.

  Startled at the audacity of her thoughts she shut her mind to him hastily. Desperately she sought an avenue of escape. She became aware of his patched shorts and retreated thankfully. Her lip curled in delicate distaste: it was a really perfect imitation of the sophistication she had come to know from the films which were publicly screened once a month in the hall of the convent where she went to school. She was almost thirteen and a half years old.

  “Yes?” she inquired, and she was immensely gratified to hear the little touch of polite disdain she had injected into her voice coming out so perfectly.

  The boy gazed at her and fidgeted. He was shy and nervous, and he completely missed the contempt in her voice. He had expected her to be pretty, because long ago he had made up his mind about that, but he had never dreamed that any girl could be as lovely as she was. He stared at her face entranced, and from where he stood he could not help but notice the thrust of her small breasts which tightened up the front of her dress. He dropped his eyes in confusion and looked down at his feet, and as he did so he caught a fleeting glimpse of the curved softness of her touching thighs. He wanted to look again, tantalized by what he had already seen, but he thought that if he looked again she would know what he was doing and become angry. He began to wonder about the mysteriously thrilling secrets he would discover if he did look. He lifted his head suddenly, resolutely keeping his eyes on her face and refusing to let them stray.

  He stared at her dumbly, unable to think of anything to say. It was terrible. For a moment he was tempted to turn and run back the way he had come. He fought the desire with a stubborn obstinacy. He had made up his mind that he was going to speak to her, and nothing was going to move him until he had done it. His face began to redden with the shame and anger of his own inadequacy.

  The fingers of his left hand began to ache. He glanced down at them in puzzled surprise, and he saw that he was clutching the speargun so tightly that his knuckles looked like four bleached seashells lying in a line across his brown skin. He had forgotten about the gun, but becoming consciously aware of it gave him a sudden idea. He swung the speargun up and gestured with it, and he was glad then that he always kept the metal bright and clean and the harpoon point glisteningly sharp. It was the most expensive thing about him.

  “I I thought,” he blurted out, “that I would ask if you would like to come fishing with me.”

  He held his breath as he watched her, but then he breathed out shakily. He felt suddenly old and tired. He wanted to turn and walk away quickly, but he waited on, fascinated and stricken by the look which was coming to life on her face.

  The girl leaned forward eagerly. “I would—” She checked herself abruptly, but she could not stop the words from going through her mind.

  I would love to go fishing with you, she thought, looking into his strange-colored eyes, but she did not say any of it.

  She tossed her head insolently, and her long hair flew across her face again. She timed and executed the gesture so skillfully that it appeared to emphasize her momentary pause.

  “I would,” she repeated haughtily, “never think of going fishing with you.” She spoke in pure and uncorrupted French.

  The boy had to concentrate hard to understand her. He blushed painfully, but still he was unable to tear himself away. He stood his ground stubbornly, wondering at his own obstinacy.

  “But why?” he asked. “I have a good speargun, and I will let you use it first.”

  He felt a momentary shock when he realized what he had said, and he began to wish he had not spoken. In his mind he could see her firing it and missing and blunting the beautiful point of the harpoon on some great boulder of coral. And then pursuing the nightmare to the deeper water on the edge of the reef he saw her dropping his precious speargun and then he saw its wavering descent as it sank and vanished into the ever-darkening blue which sloped down the great hill on the seaward side of the reef.

  “I have a better one,” the girl replied scornfully. “It is worked with air and not with those silly rubbers which you have to keep stretching all the time.”

  “Even so,” the boy said doggedly, “I think I could still shoot more fish than you with my gun.”

  The girl swung her legs off the wall and stood up. She glared down at him angrily. “You could not!”

  The boy felt strangely calm and confident now. He understood the meaning of her anger, and it brought a smile to his face.

  “Bring your own gun,” he said easily. “And we will see who can shoot more fish.”

  “I will do no such thing!” the girl snapped indignantly.

  She cast around in her mind for a plausible excuse to evade the challenge and crush the gentle mockery in his eyes. She was becoming desperate when his patched shorts drew her attention once again.

  “You have no proper bathing suit,” she said tauntingly. “Do you expect me to swim in the water with you when you are dressed like a poor little black boy?”

  “Why not?” the boy answered calmly. “We are going to spear fish, and the fishes will not concern themselves with what we are wearing.”

  He smiled slowly and ironically, because he knew her sneering remarks were only a means of evading his challenge, but he smiled also to hide his own pain and humiliation.

  “When you can get a proper bathing suit to wear,” the girl said sarcastically, “I might change my mind and go with you and teach you how to shoot fish.”

  “I think you speak as you do only because you are frightened of being beaten in such a contest,” the boy said, and he felt his face begin to hurt with the smile that he was keeping on it.

  “It is not true!” she cried desperately, angrily.

  For one incredulous moment she stared at him. His eyes were level and steady, and there was a green tint in them which she had not seen before. She wondered if he could read her thoughts. She began to feel naked and quite exposed. Her mind fluttered like a dazed butterfly for a few seconds, but then anger and resentment came to her rescue.

  “I will never go fishing with you!” she shouted.

  She turned on her heel and flounced away. She took three steps and halted. She glanced hesitantly and warily over her shoulder, and then she jerked her head to the front as if she had been stung. He had been standing quite still, watching her, his body leaning a little to one side. His face was without expression, but his eyes were alive with pain and bewilderment. For some reason it made her furious.

  “Jambeclopante! Jambeclopante
! Jambeclopante!” she screamed, and she started running across the lawn towards the front of the big house, the anger and cruel laughter blending together in a sound that was sickening to hear.

  She had almost reached the glass-enclosed veranda when her mother pushed the door open and came down the steps onto the lawn. She moved with an easy grace. She was still a beautiful woman, and only on closer inspection could it be seen that her beauty was also the product of sorrow and resignation which had touched her gentle face.

  “Who were you calling to, Danielle?” she asked.

  The girl turned, and from where she stood she could just see the bobbing head and shoulders of the boy. As he walked farther out to sea more and more of him gradually became visible, and then finally she saw all of him and the little splashes of his feet as he waded through the water and out towards where the rocking pirogue lay anchored. She pointed silently.

  The woman nodded, as if in confirmation of something she had really known all the time but was unwilling to admit. She brushed a hand across her forehead, pushing at a tendril of windblown hair which kept falling across her face.

  “And did I hear you call him Limpleg?” she inquired softly.

  “Yes,” the girl said defiantly. “I called him jambeclopante.”

  The vehemence in her voice startled and surprised the woman. She studied her daughter, an expression of troubled curiosity on her face. She brushed again at the wisp of pale hair which kept falling across her face.

  “That was not a nice thing to say, my child,” she rebuked the girl gently.

  “But he is a limpleg!” the girl cried.

  The woman’s eyes flashed angrily for a moment, but then once again they became gray and mild. “Yes, my daughter, and it is a great enough burden to have, without you reminding him about it. I think you should apologize to him when he comes back from the sea.”

  “No!” The girl tossed her head and stared defiantly at her mother, but then her anger melted at the reproach and sadness which brimmed suddenly in the woman’s eyes.

  “He said he could shoot more fish than me,” she burst out. “And then when I said he could not he challenged me to go with him and see who could spear the most fishes.”

  A look of alarm crossed the woman’s face. She took in the swelling roundness of her daughter’s hips and the impatient thrusting of her young breasts. It shocked her a little to realize that her daughter was maturing so fast. It seemed only yesterday that she had been a little girl, and there had been no evidence than to indicate the startling changes which time would bring about in her awkward body. She shrugged mentally, and her face regained its tranquility. The girl was growing up, and there was nothing that could be done about it.

  On the contrary, she told herself. Since it is here now, it is a thing to be encouraged, and the force of it must be channeled in the right direction.

  “Why did you not accept his challenge?” the woman asked, regarding her daughter with sly amusement.

  “But Maman!” the girl protested. “He didn’t even have on a proper bathing suit.” She sniffed, and the little snuffle sounded very superior. “Only a pair of patched shorts.”

  “Did you tell him that?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, and I told him I would not go fishing with him unless he wore a proper suit, and he said that it was only an excuse because I was afraid to accept his challenge, and that the fishes would, not care about what he was wearing.”

  The woman laughed at her daughter’s indignation: it was a bright tinkle of sound, and it rang clear and true like the chime of a bell.

  “I’m sure I would agree with him about the fish,” she said, and then abruptly she shed her bantering lightness and her face became grave. “But tell me, Danielle,” she went on quietly, “do you think it is right to call his attention to his poorness and to use it as an excuse because you are afraid to accept his challenge? He might be poor, but from what I know of him he is a good boy, and he is a good fisherman like his father, and it is not his fault that he is poor. It is a hard life he leads, but he does not flinch from it, and this is a thing of more consequence than the clothes he wears on his body.”

  “Perhaps it is,” the girl retorted. “But I do not care.”

  “Or is it that you care too much?” the woman asked slyly.

  The girl started, and then she blushed with embarrassment. The woman laughed softly and triumphantly, and there was gentle amusement in her eyes. Seeing it, the girl stamped her foot furiously. The force of the impact made her small breasts jump.

  “I hate him!” she shouted. “I hate him!”

  “Perhaps if you went fishing with him you would begin to change your mind.”

  “I will never go fishing with him!” the girl cried, and there were tears of temper and humiliation in her eyes as she turned and ran into the house.

  The woman smiled tolerantly after her daughter. After a while she turned and looked out to sea. The boy was already poling the pirogue through the shallows, and as she watched him the sun burst suddenly from behind the clouds and the drops of water which fell from the long bamboo sprayed from the end of the pole like a glittering necklace of seashells.

  She turned away, and as she started for the house her forehead wrinkled in a frown of worry and her light gray eyes seemed to darken with a brooding sadness.

  FOR a long time after the girl had run off the boy stood and stared silently after her. He stood without moving, and nothing inside his mind moved either. His shoulders sagged suddenly. He breathed out harshly, and that was when he felt the terrible agony of a nameless pain come alive inside him. It hurt and cut like a knife, and it was so vast and overpowering that he, felt as if he were suffocating. He turned slowly and started trudging down the beach and out towards the sea.

  Jambeclopante, he thought chokingly, and the word echoed and reechoed inside his head with a frightening, rhythmic regularity.

  Limpleg… limpleg… limpleg.

  His fingers tightened round the stock of the speargun. He squeezed with a sudden fierce release of strength, and he went on squeezing till the pressure of his effort was so great that his whole arm began to shake. He stopped it then and straightened up, and he tried to walk without limping, coming down on the toes of his left foot instead of placing the foot flat on the ground. But the sand was too soft, and his toes sank into it, and the unaccustomed method of walking put him right off balance. He gave it up, walking on with his rolling limp, and then in a sudden burst of angry retaliation he began to limp even more heavily, exaggerating it till it became a comical travesty of his afflicted walk.

  He glanced back across his shoulder, but she was out of sight on the high ground beyond the wall, and all he could see were the glass windows on the second story of the big house. He resumed his normal walk, feeling better somehow for his spiteful little pretense at indifference. It did not worry him that she had not seen it: he was definitely feeling better, even though the pain had not gone away altogether.

  He walked on, and into his mind there came the memory of the first time he had worn his mask and gone into the sea. He had been under the water hundreds of times before, but everything had been dull and blurred and he had not been able to see clearly. And then there came the day when he put the mask on and slid beneath the surface of the sparkling sea, not really knowing what to expect, a tremulous and almost fearful anticipation bubbling up inside his throat. The crystal beauty of what he saw astonished him: he had never dreamed that it existed.

  Thinking about that first time took his breath away, and even now, which was months later, he had not got over the startling difference, and sometimes, to intensify his pleasure, he first opened his eyes underwater without the mask, and then immediately afterwards, nonchalantly, pretending to himself that he did not know what was in store for him, he would tug on the mask and float himself off into the water with his head held high and then jackknife suddenly, clawing his way under and deep down with one powerful sweep of his arms. It was like being born
again every time he did it, and there were some days when he wondered whether the world in which he lived had seemed to him as beautiful when he saw it for the first time. He did not think so, even though he had no recollection of the first time, because certainly there was nothing special to it now, and he knew it could not have changed all that much since the day he had been born.

  He moved diagonally across the beach, heading straight for where the pirogue lay in the shallow water thirty yards inside the deep channel which ran between the mainland and Ile aux Cerf. The island was small and rocky, rising steeply from the sea, the beaches strewn with boulders. To the right of it the water broke in a foaming white line across the coral reef which had grown to within a few feet of the surface of the sea. On the other side there was no indication of the reef. He knew it was there though, and as he limped along he pictured it in his mind. The top of it was forty feet down in some places, and it sloped steeply on the seaward side and fell away abruptly and ran down, vanishing into the dark blueness of the sea.

  He splashed through the tepid water of a tidal pool. Before he had gone far his quick eyes caught the flash of silver in the water. He froze instantly, and when the ripples had subsided he made out the shape of the small fish which lay unmoving at the far end of the shallow pool, its silver belly flat against the sand. He took a step forward, and then another, moving his feet through the water slowly so as to cause as little disturbance as possible. He pressed the trigger on the speargun, unlocking the harpoon. He began to slide it out, keeping his eyes on the motionless fish. When he had run it all the way out through the guides he slipped the mask off his right arm and took hold of it with his left hand. He gripped the harpoon in his right hand and, lowered the point slowly towards the water. It was still attached to the muzzle of the gun by the nylon line which was secured to the sliding ring on the shaft.