The Reef (23 page)

Arth jumped around on the spot like a child waiting for a trip. Despite his age, he was full of energy. He always took on new tasks with the excitement of a puppy. Manolin had always assumed that because Arth had no family to speak of, he became excited at any activity at all, and he could afford to apply his whole being into whatever project it was. He was always happy, always willing to throw himself into any job. You’d find him spending his free time with his head in a scientific journal, keen to further his knowledge in a way Manolin could identify with.

Forb disappeared around the back of a line of huts further in the village, then returned carrying several long poles and a bundle over his back. He placed them on the sand, handed a pole to each of the men.

‘These are your weapons, gentlemen. You may want to practice on a piece of fruit or something. Get some good practice in, as we don’t have too long until the hunting begins.’

The hunt, as Forb explained over an hour or so, was to start when the conch was sounded. From then on, no one was allowed to talk loudly. Only certain hand signals were to instruct what to do or where the hogs were. Forb led the group to the edges of the forest. A troop of natives ran into the darkness carrying blow pipes and darts. Manolin thought that they looked savage, with the body paint and weapons. He, too, seemed to take on a different persona-felt feral and he liked it. He liked the feeling that he was closer to nature, not necessarily in harmony with the rhythms of the island, but some way to understanding it. For him, something such as the hunt was essential on any voyage or travels. That was truly experiencing a culture. It was part of discovering the true essence of a people.

Years ago, when DeBrelt’s was a larger company, there were some scientists who never participated in cultural phenomena. They wanted food cooked to Eschan recipes. Their bedding was made of Eschan material. Their idea of surveying a territory did not include talking to the people, despite, as Manolin knew, that people were the best barometer of any land. Escha would always be there, so why bring it abroad?

‘Be careful,’ Forb said. He held the group back with the tip of his blow pipe. ‘These are poisonous.’ He held a bundle of blow darts. ‘Shoot them carefully when you see the hogs. We take as many as we can and we do it quietly. The hogs are large, and the males can be deadly. We had a child go missing one day, and his necklace was found near a colony of them. All that remained were bones-they’ll eat anything, so if you’re knocked unconscious that may well be the last we see of you. Any questions?’

Manolin shook his head.

‘Good, now let’s go, and remember: silence, else we’ll catch nothing. And we must be very quick. Those little blighters can run like you wouldn’t believe.’

They entered the forest. The native people ran into the trees. Arth, Jefry and Santiago stood in a line behind Forb and Manolin. Forb turned his head as he crouched and, bent double, trotted into the trees. Manolin turned, shrugged, then followed, crouching also. The others did the same.

The conch sounded and they ran through the trees. Manolin felt the humidity as sweat formed on his forehead and he ran despite this, being careful to make his footsteps light, and he watched Forb’s feet, stepping where he stepped, being careful not to show himself up. Santiago, Jefry and Arth were all trotting behind in single file, their blow pipes held high, their heads tilting from side to side. The natives were spreading out wide, their painted bodies hard to discern against the ferns that crowded him. Forb signalled for everyone to slow, then he indicated for the group to split. Jefry and Arth darted along a path to the right, and Santiago and Manolin to the left, along a small trail, following Forb and some of the other natives.

Small groups reflected the dappled sunlight in flashes as they skipped through the aromatic undergrowth, and his heart began beat alongside the drum that he could hear, low and powerful, and he jogged, eyes wide, behind the doctor into darker areas. Arth and Jefry vanished along an adjacent path, and Santiago was following, the sweat leaving streaks in the paint on his body as the older man struggled already in the humidity.

Whether it was the hunt or something else, everything around him felt wild.

Manolin had only seen a hog cooked and he did not know what he was looking for, but he turned left and right looking for movement that he thought would be his prey. He had only an inkling, from what the doctor had told him, that they were a reddish-brown colour, that they were about four feet long, wide at the shoulders, with powerful legs that, should the need occur, could cause a man some serious injury.

As he ran, Manolin glanced at the blow pipe, marvelled at the instrument, smiling as a primitive thrill raced through his body. He remembered his brief practice against the fruit on the beach, where he found his shot was accurate and deadly, whereas Santiago, who always assumed himself to be superior couldn’t strike the fruit in several goes.

Manolin and Santiago caught up with Forb, who was crouched behind a tree, his bald head seeming to glow with sweat, and the doctor was making a flurry of hand signals to a native was standing so close to a tree in the distance that Manolin could almost not see him.

Now that he had paused, he could hear a hummingbird. He turned to see its body hovering alongside what he thought were beautiful flowering plants. He did not recognise the species, nor could he see the bird’s wings. Next to the hummingbird he saw two trogons with their black and white tails a sharp contrast to the lianas that grew in a bright spot. He took two steps closer to Forb.

Forb leaned back, whispered, ‘Gnundo thinks that there are a cluster of hogs further up, about a five minute run.’ With that he ran again. Manolin and Santiago followed him, breathing heavily, struggling to draw the dense, hot air in, and there was colour in the canopy as birds stood on branches, looking down with curiosity as men sprinted under their homes.

The three of them ran, following the natives, their blow pipes in hand, through a clearing, the intense and burning sun. Manolin halted, turned to see Santiago resting his arm against a tree, hunched over, and his chest was rising and falling, his mouth wide open and his eyes slanting at the ends in despair.

Whether or not it was a primitive, competitive sensation, Manolin found this mildly amusing.

He cut his thoughts, scorned himself for laughing at the old man, who was clearly struggling. He thought that it was probably the feral nature of the hunt that made him wilder. But he realised it wasn’t. If he was feral then he wouldn’t think in such a way at all. A wilder side of him would make him support Santiago, support his own species, especially in a situation such as a hunt. It was the fact that he was a human that made him think this way, and he couldn’t blame the hunt nor the natives.

It was at that point that he realised the drumming had stopped. He couldn’t remember when it had.

He walked back to Santiago, helped him upright. ‘Come on, it’s about my turn to start paying you back in some way I suppose.’ He smiled.

Santiago nodded, his mouth wide open, and Manolin could hear the older man wheezing.

They walked to where he had seen Forb go, along a small trail that lead though a cluster of acacia trees, where branches had fallen, making the path difficult. It was a matter of minutes before they caught up with Forb again, who stood alongside some of the natives, peering over a large, branch, that Manolin could tell had only recently fallen because the colour of the wood inside was light.

Forb turned to see the foreigners catch up, nodded at their arrival. He stepped back towards them, and leaned into Manolin’s face. ‘They’re over there, back behind the trees. About twenty feet away. The other group should be around the other side, so it’ll be difficult for the hogs to escape.’

‘How many are there?’ Manolin whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead.

‘Seven. That could feed everyone for a while. If you want to have a go at shooting one, come alongside Mbuht and Gnundo. They wanted to wait for you two to fire first.’

‘Ah,’ Manolin said. ‘That’s good of them.’

Santiago nodded, still breathless

They approached Mbuht and Gnundo, who nodded a greeting as the foreigners arrived. They reached out to tap Manolin’s blow pipe, indicating the clearing where the hogs were. Manolin nodded and regarded Santiago, who had regained some composure. Manolin raised his long pipe, rested it on a fallen branch, long leaves providing ample camouflage. Santiago rested his alongside They looked down the weapons to the clearing, where, against the grass, seven hogs were standing. Their heads were down, their ears fallen forward over their faces. Manolin could see their tanned skin, marvelled at their size. He thought he couldn’t miss. Forb handed a dart to each of the men, careful to keep the poisoned end up. The men placed the slender darts, which were as thin as matchsticks, into the pipe, and, watching four natives along to their right do the same, placed their mouths to the pipe.

Manolin held the bamboo pipe with both hands underneath, like he had been shown, one hand further down the shaft than the other so that it was easy to control. He steered the pipe towards a hog, noting that Santiago was still doing the same. He looked to Forb who nodded. Manolin inhaled then gave a short, sharp blow then heard the natives follow suit.

Two of the hogs, the one he had been aiming at too, began to grunt deeply, and four other hogs lifted their heads, and turned to gallop through the forest and the natives reloaded and fired trying to get them and Manolin could hear the hooves thundering along the forest floor.

He and Santiago fired a second dart off into the forest, but they did not strike any hogs. Satisfied that he had struck one, at least, he and Forb walked into the clearing. The other natives had run off into the forest after the other hogs, bounding through the clearing and over the fallen branches with great ease.

Manolin noticed a silence around the clearing.

Forb, Manolin and Santiago approached the hogs before he heard a shout about thirty feet away. The three of them ran towards the direction of the sound. They stepped over the branches, through large leaf shrubs, and back into the forest the other side, and the shout came again. Manolin noticed the voice was Jefry’s.

When they arrived they found the rumel crouching over Arth, who lay on his back and was shaking in short spasms. Standing four inches up from his throat was a dart, the poisoned tip deep inside. The rumel’s blow pipe was on the floor next to him, the dart hanging out of the end.

Forb called through the forest. The sound of his voice was muffled by the density of plants. Seconds later one of the native women arrived, striding over ferns, and Forb reached for the conch in her hand. He put the shell to his lips and blew through one end, and the loud, horn-like sound echoed despite the dense foliage. He blew three times, each noise breaking through the roof of the forest. Then, he walked over Arth, dropping the conch to the floor. Manolin and Santiago fell to their knees, watching helplessly as Arth shook as if lightening was travelling through his body.

Jefry simply repeated the words, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ His eyes were slanted at the ends and he was gasping as if crying, but was too shocked to cry.

‘What happened, Jefry?’ Forb said, staring down at the dart. He reached his hand over the four inch spike. Using his forefinger and thumb, he plucked the dart from Arth, who jutted continuously. ‘I asked you what happened?’ He turned to face the rumel, who was sitting crossed legged next to Arth, his hands out in front, shaking.

‘I don’t know. We were with some of the natives one minute. Then they turned to run after some hogs and when I looked back Arth was on the floor.’

‘Hmm,’ Forb said, turning his attention back to Arth, who was groaning. Forb leaned in and saw traces of foam around the tiny wound. ‘Damn,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong?’ Manolin asked.

‘Yes, will he be okay?’ Santiago asked, shaking his head.

Forb said, ‘He’s dying.’

‘Fuck, no, please, no,’ Jefry said.

‘Look, I’ll see what I can do, but it isn’t looking good. You two stay here. Wash this wound with water-Thyumba has some in her bag.’

‘Where’re you going?’ Manolin asked.

‘To the ichthyocentaurs’ village. Maybe they’ve something. There’re only a couple of poisons on Arya, but I’m not entirely sure we have anything to cure them. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Manolin watched the doctor bound up the gentle wooded slope, run into the darkness of the forest. Santiago stood. A dark-skinned woman handed him a skin of water. He thanked her, leaned over Arth’s body, pouring the water over the wound. Manolin could hear fizzing as the water passed over the hole in Arth’s neck. Jefry ran his hands through his hair. No one said anything. Manolin’s eyes were fixed on the wound. He watched blood come to the surface then recede like a wave. Manolin was determined to help Arth as much as he could. He wanted to ease the suffering that was apparent on the rumel’s face. Manolin’s eyes were red with desperation.
Come on you old bugger,
Manolin thought.
Come on. We’ll have you out of this. Just hang in there.

Arth had died some time before the doctor returned. As Forb took long strides downhill, he could see the group standing, facing away from each other, with the exception of Jefry, who was standing with one hand on his hip and the other clutching his hair at the front of his head. His tail was still. Forb walked the last few yards, knowing what had happened. He thought it unlikely that anything could be done, but he was ever the optimist.