The Fifth Harmonic (22 page)

Keep your head, Burleigh.

Just waves . . . Pacific swells . . . nothing sexual about waves . . .

The spires of La Mano Hundiendo weren't quite the naked rock they seemed from the shore. A fuzz of brush crowned their tops, accented here and there with scraggly trees and slim cacti gesturing defiantly with fifteen-to-twenty-foot fingers. And beyond those tops, screaming gulls wheeled on the morning breeze like vultures waiting for something to die.

Ambrosio cut the engine as we rounded the north side of the thumb, and I spotted a carving on one of the flat surfaces: another of the crude, big-breasted, fat-bellied women I'd seen near the fire tines.

“The water tines are directly below that carving,” Maya said.

Thirty feet below . . .

I could do it. I had to do it. The hardest part might well be stripping off my clothes.

I hesitated, then said, “Oh, hell. Let's get this over with.”

I pulled off my hat and T-shirt, then stood and turned away from Maya and Ambrosio as I unbuttoned my shorts. I removed them and the jockeys beneath together. Wondering what Maya was thinking as she watched my skinny, lily-white butt, I faced the carving and took four slow, deep breaths. Then I dove in head first.

The saltwater bit my healing burns and stung my eyes when I opened them and squinted into the depths. I immediately began
stroking and kicking toward the bottom. The water was warm, blood warm, like the amniotic fluid of some giant womb.

I'd always loved the sea, had always been drawn to it. I'd been a water rat as a boy, one of those kids who'd go in and stay in until he was dragged out blue with cold. With scuba diving, no matter how large the group, I'd found a splendid isolation in the deeps: just me and the sea.

But now, naked, wet, and warm, I felt an even stronger bond. I was one with the sea. I felt as if I'd . . . come home.

I continued my descent, following the coral bedizened rock wall and waiting for a thermocline that never came—the water maintained its same blood-warm temperature all the way down. A rainbow of angelfish and clown fish made way for me. Popping, squeaking pressure built in my middle ears but I didn't want to break my stroke and risk wasting air to equalize them. I bore the steadily increasing pain. I wasn't going to be here long anyway.

The water was clear—not as clear as Cozumel's, but it had a good fifty feet of horizontal visibility. I spotted a wavering reflection below me. That had to be it.

My lungs started complaining then. I put more effort into my strokes and kicks, but I seemed to be swimming through molasses. Water plays tricks with light, and one of its favorites is making objects appear closer than they really are—just the opposite of the side-view mirror on your car.

I could see the underwater geode directly below, but my lungs were screaming for air now, the pressure driving ice picks into my ears, and I knew I wasn't going to make it the rest of the way. I turned and kicked toward the surface, aiming for the shadow of the dinghy and letting loose a stream of bubbles as I ascended.

When I broke the surface I clamped a hand on the boat's gunwale and clung there, gulping air.

Maya's face hovered over me, her expression hopeful.

I shook my head. “Found it,” I gasped, “but couldn't reach it. Have to try again.”

“Rest a moment first,” she said, and reached down to give me a hand back into the boat.

“In a minute,” I said.

I knew I'd have to get back into the boat. A surface dive wouldn't get me down to the tines—I needed the extra momentum of the leap from the boat. But I wasn't anxious to sit around nude as a jaybird up there while I caught my breath. Besides, the water was so warm and comfortable, I didn't care if I ever got out.

Finally, when I felt rested enough, I clambered up over the gunwale and immediately poised myself on the bow. I lined myself up with the carving, took four deep breaths, then plunged in again.

I had a better idea where I was going this time, and spotted the reflected light of the underwater geode soon after I opened my eyes. It beckoned from directly below. I stroked and kicked toward it with everything I had, but couldn't move as fast as I needed to. I was about ten feet from it when air hunger began hammering at my lungs again and I knew I wasn't going to make it. I forced another couple of kicks, got my outstretched hand to within about five feet of the geode, but couldn't go an inch farther. My air was gone.

Cursing my wimpy, inadequate lungs, I turned and kicked toward the surface with what little strength I had left. The need for air, the screaming urge to breathe was so strong I feared my mouth would open on its own and inhale water.

I was clawing upward, aiming for the dark wedge of the dinghy hovering above when another shadow intervened—about six feet long, blunt-snouted, swimming with a sinuous, almost serpentine motion. It moved off to my left as I rose past and I got a better look— slate gray body and black-tipped fins. I had a sense of it wheeling around to come back to me but I didn't pause to make sure. Sudden terror outstripped the air hunger already propelling me to the surface. I kicked like a madman. I had to get out of the water—now!

In a single motion I broke the surface, grabbed the gunwale, and scrambled over it without help. If the boat hadn't been right there I might have sprinted across the water to reach it. I tumbled onto the floorboards and crouched on my hands and knees, gasping hoarsely, not giving a damn that I was naked. Someone threw a blanket over me.

“What is wrong?” Maya said.

“Shark,” I managed. “Big one.”

Neither Ambrosio nor Maya spoke. Finally, when I'd caught my
breath, I sat up and faced them with the blanket wrapped around me.

“Did you reach the tine?” Maya said.

“No. I got close but not close enough. I don't . . . I don't know if I can do it.”

“You can do it, señor,” Ambrosio said. “Ambrosio will teach you.”

“That is a good idea,” Maya said. “Ambrosio is an excellent diver. We will go into shore and he can give you some pointers while we wait for the shark to go away.”

“Sounds good to me. But what makes you think it'll go away?”

“I have seen this shark before,” she said. “He tends to come and go and he has never hurt anyone.”

“You mean, not yet.”

“He will be gone later. It is a Maya word, you know.”

“Shark?”

“Yes. Only a few of our words have found their way into the languages of the world. That is one.”

Maya fell silent. She frowned as she tugged on her braids and stared at the carving on the rock wall.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“So little time. You must obtain your water tine today, for tomorrow we travel to
El Silvato del Diablo
for your air tine.”

“That means ‘something of the Devil’—what?”

“The Devil's Whistle. And you must return with that tine in time for the full moon two nights from now.”

“And if I don't?”

Her expression was grave. “Then all this will have been for nothing. You must bring all four tines to the holy place up there,” she said, pointing to the plateau behind the village.

I followed her point to the flat-topped mountain with its single tree. “Holy place?”

“Yes. Tradition has it that a branch of the World Tree grows there.”

“That tall skinny tree?”

“A ceiba tree. Some call it a silk-cotton tree, but my people call it
Yaxche
, the tree that holds up the world and the sky—the World Tree. They say the tree up there is a branch of the World Tree that has
broken through from below. You must go there with your tines and place yourself between Gaea and the moon when she is full.”

“That's a small window,” I said.

She nodded. “The moon is Gaea's barren daughter. When she is full, she draws Gaea's power toward her, like the tide. The human body is mostly water—
salt
water. We all harbor a small sea within. The human body and its spirit have tides like the sea. When you place yourself between Gaea and her daughter at the proper time, the moon will draw her mother's power through you. Gaea will fill you . . . and change you.” She looked away. “We will have only one chance.”

I knew what she was saying, or rather,
not
saying: Barring a miracle, this coming full moon would be my last.

Ambrosio and I spent much of the rest of the morning and early afternoon practicing breath-holding in the shallows. He could stay under an amazingly long time. But as for technique, he wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know. Practice, practice, practice, sure, but a large part seemed to be natural ability, which I didn't have.

By late afternoon I was as good as I was going to get, so we hopped back into the dinghy and returned to La Mano Hundiendo.

I made three more dives, all unsuccessful. As a matter of fact, none of them brought me as close as this morning's second dive.

“I don't think it's a matter of breath,” I told Maya as I sat panting in the boat. “I think it's strength. My muscles are too weak to take me deep enough before I run out of air.”

“Can you try once more?”

I shook my head. “No use. Each successive dive is worse than the one before it.”

Her crestfallen expression tempted me to change my mind, but then I glanced around and saw a gray, black-trimmed dorsal fin cut a winding path along the surface between us and the thumb.

“And besides, how could I concentrate on reaching the tines with
him around?”

We all watched the shark until it wandered away.

Maya said, “Very well. We will postpone the water tine. Instead, we will leave early tomorrow for El Silvato del Diablo and return tomorrow night. You can practice your breathing while we travel and then we will try again for the water tine on the last day before the full moon.”

“That sounds like a plan,” I said.

“But not as good as my original plan. I wanted you to have at least a full day's rest before you climbed to the holy place. Now that will be impossible.”

“Will I need all that rest?”

Her eyes locked on mine. “You will need every last ounce of your strength when you meet Gaea.”

Meet Gaea . . . I didn't believe in Gaea, but that didn't stop a chill from dancing down my spine.

All that time in the water had exhausted me, so after a liquid dinner I was ready to turn in. But I had to speak to Maya first. I asked her to come to my hut where I opened my duffel bag and pulled out the Kevorkian kit.

I explained what it was for.

“Why do you tell me this?” she said, staring at the IV solution bags, KCl ampoules, and coiled tubing as if they were poisonous vermin.

“Because . . .” I wasn't sure how to say it, but I had to settle this. “Because I may need your help with it when the time comes.”

“
When
the time comes?” she said. “That is your problem, Cecil. You do not believe, and because you do not believe, you have no hope.”

She was right—oh, how right she was. And today had brought that home to me more clearly than ever.

Each new day meant more tumor. I accepted that. But where
else besides my throat? Captain Carcinoma had its tentacles all through my body by now, eating me alive from the inside. That was why I was dropping pounds and losing inches. And more than just fat was disappearing. When cells—even tumor cells—shout for food, the body isn't particular about where it finds it. Fat cells are good storehouses of nutrients, but muscles cells also offer a rich supply. So I wasn't simply burning fat—I was losing muscle mass as well.

And that worried me the most.

“I'm wasting away, Maya. I've never been a terribly physical man, and I've spent my life in a sedentary profession. So no matter how much I practice breath holding—and I've got to admit Ambrosio has increased my hold time—I'm steadily losing the strength I need to propel me down to thirty feet. I'm losing this war, Maya, and you know it.”

“I know no such thing.” She looked away. “And even if I did, that doesn't mean I will help you kill yourself.”

“Hopefully it will never come to that,” I said. “But what if I hurt myself and can't insert the needle? That's all I'll need you to do— help me start the line flowing, and I'll take it from there.”