The beach marks the mouth of a small stream that has cut
itself a shallow channel through the collapsed steps of the cliff. It is not
large, perhaps thirty paces in length and a dozen paces at its widest. Behind
its low bulk the stream gathers in a small lagoon with a good growth of reeds
about it. I take a moment to investigate the silted waters and quickly see that
it contains a wealth of mudslumberers and murky brown scallifish; I even spot
the telltale scrapes where a turtle has come to lay its round fruits in the wet
earth.
'Sam! Sam! I got one!'
The distant voice sounds triumphant. I take a moment to tie
a knot in the rope that holds my trousers to my waist, to remind me to return
here to harvest this pool's wealth, then drop my bag in the reeds and creep to
the cliff-side, where bushes hug the rock and I can hide to witness the next
instalment of this ongoing japery.
The man on the beach is sitting back, resting his weight on
his arms. One of his legs – the upwind one – is stretched out ahead of him,
with the ankle swollen. His skin bears the marks of healing cuts, mainly on his
hands and feet, though a few longer scratches across his back and chest tell a
tale of missed balance among the healing pools that stretch between the sand and
the sea. Nothing about him suggests any serious damage, except for the style of
his face: his eyes wander from place to place and his jaw hangs loose in the
chin – the look of a man haunted by bad memories that peck at him like the axe
worries at the trunk of a tree.
'Sam, look! It's as long as my arm!'
The other man is coming closer now, ignoring the surf that
batters at his legs. He slips before I can focus on his prize, slamming into
the sharp rocks and breaking his stick. The fall seems to rouse the beach man
from his fretting: 'Marc? Marc?'
When the other man stands, he copies him. He grabs his own
spear from the sand and uses it as a crutch to lever himself to his feet. He
manages a couple of short strides before halting.
The fisher man is smiling now. He has recovered what remains
of his stick: 'I've still got it,' he shouts. 'We'll need something to cut it
and gut it.' In triumph he raises his prize above his head, swinging it around
its wooden tether.
I break cover without thought.
If the sight of my arrival shocks the sand man, I do not
notice it. All my attention is focussed on the man walking towards the beach,
and the Rappoe fish – still gasping and now enraged – that spins above his
head.
'Drop it!' I shout. 'Throw it and run!'
My voice stuns the man still. I increase my speed, now
dashing across the sandbar and into the surf. With its loss of momentum, the
fish on the stick begins to flex and wrench its body against the wood; barely a
hands-width separates its mouth from the man's wrist, and the tail is already
within striking distance of his head.
'Idiot!' I scream. 'Drop it now!'
The fish seems to grin as it wriggles down and arches its
tail back. In a fluid movement it puckers its spines free of their grooves
along its flank and ... thwack ...
empties its venoms into the inane grin that masks the man's face.
I am too late! I reach the man as he staggers, grasp the
stick from his hand and pull the fish free of his face. In a single movement I
hurl the triumphant Rappoe back into the waves, as far distant from me as I can
manage, and reach for the man's collapsing frame.
Already he fits, foam swirling from his lips.
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