It was likely that Joe Turkey was the oldest man on either Peolle or Ara. At least none of the natives doubted it. He knew the history of everyone and everything as far as anyone’s memory could reach. Some said he could remember as far back as the Great White Fleet, the United States Navy ships that had made the famous world tour at the turn of the century.
But Old Joe Turkey was not a man who stayed on the beach. Twice weekly he put to sea alone in his hand-built sailing dory, made sure the forty-year-old two-cylinder Johnson outboard would start, then shut it down and hoisted his single sail. The antique outboard motor was really not for general use. It was Joe’s sign of prestige, like his friend Lula’s electric washing machine in a house that had no power hookup. But it was there also because Joe was a careful man.
This night they sat around him at the fire to hear the story told again. It had been a good day, a very good day, and he was two hours away from his island with enough fish to make many weeks happy. Oh, there had been some boats missing and the stories had started, but Joe knew the ways of the people and had only nodded at the accounts without putting any belief in them at all. Twice, he himself had been nearly wrecked by migrating whales and some years ago something had torn the rudder right off the steel pins on the transom. On the night in question he had taken a big swig of beer from the last bottle in the ice chest and had set back with his arm around the tiller bar, watching the night close in. Ahead of him he could see the little yellow dots of light as the lamps were lit in the houses on Peolle.
He must have dozed. It had been a good day and a tiring one and he was old. But the tide was right and the wind was behind him and he knew any change of condition would awaken him. And he was right about that. He came awake with a start, his nose sniffing the air, suddenly alert because now there was no wind at all and he was sitting there behind a sail that hung totally limp in absolutely still air. Even the water seemed dead, with not enough swell to make the boat rock. The tidal drift had turned him sideways, still taking him toward Peolle, but so slowly it was hardly noticeable.
Still, there was nothing to worry about, was there? He could still see the lights of the island; the stars overhead were bright sparkles in a dense black sky and surely the wind had to start blowing again. Or, at the very least, he could always start his engine and be able to tell everyone how it took him safely home from such a great distance offshore.
So he lay back and watched the stars. He could smell the sea too. Whenever the wind stopped, the water gave off its heat and smelled different, as if the smells were coming from the very bottom, where it guarded all its secrets. Here and there he picked up the odor of a dead fish, its flotation bladder keeping it on the surface.
One by one, he picked out his favorite constellations, always amazed at their absolute steadiness in the universe. A faint rank odor made his nose twitch, a pungent fish smell like the red tide brings, but even that was not a new thing to him, so he went back to watching the stars again and felt the dory bob gently. Good, he thought, the wind must be picking up. But he looked at the sail and frowned. It was still limp, the silk streamer at the tip of the mast lying against it, unmoving.
The dory bobbed again and that smell seemed to be coming from the port side. Then Joe Turkey looked up and saw that his favorite star cluster that lay low on the horizon wasn’t there anymore. Oh, it was there, but he just couldn’t see it. Something was in the way, something blacker than black that was shielding the stars, and even while he looked it rose still further to blot out another segment of the night sky, and whatever it was began to breathe the horrible death smell down on him. All Joe Turkey could do was push the Johnson off its chock and try to get the cord wrapped around the flywheelwith hands that fumbled until sheer habit got everything set and he yanked the starter rope with all the strength he had. The Johnson spit, coughed and snapped into life and old Joe swung the dory toward Peolle and never even looked back until the self-contained gas tank went dry a quarter mile offshore.
But by then the wind had picked up and he docked, unloaded his fish and knew he had a story to end all stories on the island. Later, he would embellish it, but right now it was pretty good just as it was.
The islanders sat up close to Joe Turkey. Not only did they not want to miss any of his words, but his tone of voice, his inflections were as descriptive as his narration. No one spoke, not even a slight movement interrupted the moment.
Behind them Berger and Colbert were listening intently, their expressions bland. Only Chana showed any emotion at all, her face reflecting what she thought of native beliefs and their acceptance of strange stories.
Charlie Berger squashed his cigar butt out under his heel and glanced over at Chana. “Now that’s a firsthand account. What do you think?’
She tried to repress a smile. “Well, they haven’t got television.” She watched the small group, each one now adding something he had heard, seen or suspected, and they reminded her of when she was a child, listening to the stories someone told her on rainy days.
“You’re wrong,” Colbert told her abruptly.
“What?”
“Five years ago I would have turned you in for a retraining program, girl. Everything is showing in your face now. Quit that stupid simpering. Those are people there, maybe not as educated as you are, but they have their own ways and own knowledge that lets them survive in places that would wipe you out.”
Chana felt the fury eat her up and her mouth went dry. Colbert’s status was at least equal to hers and there was no way she could take him down for being so insufferable. But she knew he was right and said, “You don’t believe this bull, do you?”
“Why not?”
Deliberately, she took a deep breath, waited a moment until her composure was back and said, “Keep it on a scientific level, Col... sea monsters are figments of the imagination. Nothing, repeat nothing, eats boats.”
“What sinks them, then?” He was taunting her and she knew it, but she had to answer.
“There is a reason. There has to be a reason.”
“They get hit from the bottom in water nearly a mile deep, there is eyewitness evidence of something, so I guess there damn well has to be a reason, all right.” Colbert took his pouch out, refilled his pipe and lit it. “You have any answers?”
“I’m not guessing.”
“Then speculate.”
“Balls,” she said.
“Well, at least you’re beginning to sound like a sailor.”
Charlie Berger let out a muffled laugh and said, “Welcome back to the islands. It’s gonna do you good to get away from the political scene and live where the monsters do.”
“Listen, Charlie...”
“Oh, come on, young lady, take a little kidding. You can’t be serious every minute of your life.”
“The hell she can’t,” Colbert muttered.
The fat man gave them one of his best Sydney Greenstreet smiles. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah, really,” Chana told him nastily. She didn’t like being the only woman caught between two overbearing males.
“Then let’s go have a beer,” Berger said. “You can get serious again. Your friend Hooker came over an hour ago and you guys can have a reunion.”
Chapter Three
Hooker wondered why the hell he had bothered to take a bath. He was sweaty all over again and even though they had cleaned the boat out he still could smell something fishy. My shoes, he thought, damn canvas shoes always smell like fish.
“Hey, Alley...”
The bartender looked around.
“Fill me up, okay?”