Immortal Water Page 6

  The next morning they lie on the beach. Ross begins reading the first of Durant, ancient pre-history, and finds it hard going. He chafes at the inactivity. It is almost six months since he has stopped teaching but there were still things to do. He’d set his affairs in order buying annuities and medical plans, organizing the trip, puttering around the house at the few jobs remaining unfinished. He and Emily had looked after Justin while Robert and Anne went to Spain. He had kept himself busy.

  Now simply sitting troubles him. It has no purpose. On holidays he could relax with the knowledge that he would return to work. But now there is only a long, leisurely stretch into the distance. It feels like a vacuum.

  He leaves Emily and jogs on the beach: the casuarina trees waving like wind wands in the breeze, the wild sea oats clustered at the edge of the sand, the different hues of the sea. Once he stops to watch a sandpiper strutting along the shoreline. It is looking for food where the waves rush up. Each time a wave comes the little bird runs from the water, fretful of wetting its tiny feet. He laughs at it. He breathes in the sea air and feels the sun warm on his back. Simple things. They should be enough.

  When he returns he swims, showers and fixes lunch. After eating Emily wants to read. Ross tries Durant again. Nothing. He putters around looking for something to fix in the cottage but he has no tools. Emily glances up from her book. She looks disgruntled.

  “Ross, what’s the matter with you? You haven’t sat still for five minutes.”

  “That damn faucet needs tightening.”

  “We can live with it for a week.”

  “Maybe you can. The dripping last night drove me crazy!”

  “Well, right now you’re driving me crazy.”

  “What does that mean?” he mutters.

  “It means,” she says sharply, “we’ve been here one day and already you’re pacing about.”

  “Is that so?” He is not ready to back down on this. He doesn’t know why.

  “Look,” Emily says, sighing, “if you want to fix the faucet go into town and buy a wrench.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be perfectly fine.”

  “Don’t you want to come?”

  “No, Ross, I don’t. But I think you should go out for a while. I’m really not up to having a fight. You seem to need to have one.”

  “I just want to fix the faucet!” he says, raising his voice, not meaning to.

  “I don’t think that’s all there is to it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re bored.”

  “I’m not bored!”

  “You wanted to go to Captiva today.”

  “I suggested it. That’s all. Don’t make me feel guilty.”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” she says in the soft, even voice she uses to show disgust. “This discussion is going nowhere.”

  “I’ll go into town,” he replies, knowing she is right.

  He drives much further than he had intended, going nowhere in particular. He is angry with himself for being so foolish with Emily. She does not need his tantrums. But he is angry with her as well for having seen so easily through him. His nagging doubts have reduced him to glass, transparent to all but himself.

  What turns a man to glass?

  Everyone said he was lucky: the right time, the right place, the right age, that revered golden handshake—the wrong man to retire. And thoughts of retirement evoke Arthur Felder: long hair, jean jacket with ‘Suck!’ scrawled across the back and what do you do when you’re fifty-two and an eighteen-year-old tells you to fuck off? Ross did not hate him then, but he feared him. There were strategies for that kind of boy: guidance counsellors, a vice principal visit, just talking with him trying to gain his confidence. Ross couldn’t think of one that would work. He simply watched the boy self-destruct.

  People thought him to have been a good teacher, he knew, but they had known nothing of Arthur Felder. Ross told no one about him, not even Emily. And finally when Arthur was expelled for some offence against some other teacher ... that was the beginning ... when Ross first thought of leaving teaching. And while he remained he protected himself. The closeness he’d once shared with his students vanished. The History Club was disbanded. Those precious after class conferences dried up as Ross lost touch with young minds and their culture. His classes became dry affairs. He covered curriculum; nothing more. He seemed to be losing his powers. He seemed more insignificant every day.

  Five years later, just before he retired, Ross met Arthur in a grocery store. He was the meat manager. He had a wife and a little boy. He said the boy was a hellion. Ross hoped it was true; hoped the boy would do to his father what the father had done to him.

  And then Arthur told him he’d been his favourite teacher. Arthur was studying night school history. He needed a high school diploma to be promoted to store manager. But the history, he said, was for fun; from what Ross had given him.

  Ross recalled giving him nothing.

  Arthur was young and had a small future. It was enough for him. It was only just then that Ross came to hate Arthur Felder; because it had never really been his fault at all.

  He finds himself entering Sanibel village. He does not remember how he arrived or what he came for. The car clock tells him two hours have passed. Emily will be worried. He decides he’d better return to the cottage. He wheels into a parking lot to turn around. Across the street is a small, white house with a sign in front and a huge live oak in the yard. The big tree dapples the walls of the building. The sign tells him it is a library.

  A library will offer some peace.

  It is only two rooms, their walls lined with shelves. It is quiet, musty and empty but for a studious looking young woman with long, honey blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses. She glances up from her desk.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Hello,” Ross says, smiling to match her smile.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “No, just browsing,” he answers, shambling toward the stacks. Already he feels calmer.

  His eyes search the book spines with practised skill. His fingers touch titles softly. He moves quickly away from the fiction section. He has never liked fiction, never understood Emily’s need for novels.

  His preference is history: mapping humanity. It had led him into his own research. He remembers fondly the proud moment of the letter: a missive from the Quebec Historical Society; a promise to publish his work on early French Canada. They’d offered money. The money was unimportant. But when the article had come out there were telephone calls from professors. They were surprised Ross was merely a teacher. Merely a teacher. They’d laughed about that in the history office. Still, he was proud. He’d tried not to show it but it was there. He’d felt significant then.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the librarian’s voice intrudes. “I’ll have to close soon.”

  He has stayed too long. She does not know him. There is a wariness in her eyes.

  “Good Lord,” he says, smiling, trying to put her at ease, “what time is it?”

  “Nearly five o’clock. I really have to close up.”

  “I’m sorry. I just ...” He does not want this young woman to distrust him.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?” Her voice is uneasy.

  He is in the history section. Strange what habit can do. It gives him an idea, something to dispel her worry.

  “You see I’m a teacher, I mean a retired teacher, and I’m interested in local history.”

  “Oh?” she says. “On vacation?”

  “Kind of. Would you have something about the island itself?”

  “Of course. But you’re in the wrong section. We keep local history over here by the desk. We get quite a few requests for it.”

  “I’ll only be here a week. Perhaps something brief?”

  “Would you be interested in the original natives? There’s quite a lot on them: the Calusa. They even say Ponce de Leon landed here. Pine
Island, I think. And if you have time there’s lots to see.”

  Durant is too distant; too obvious a retirement task. He needs something closer to his current circumstance.

  “Really? Sounds intriguing miss ...”

  “My name’s Angela.”

  “And I’m Ross Porter. Nice to meet you, Angela.”

  “I just love local history.” She smiles again, her fears assuaged. “This book has maps of the area. You can actually go and see some of the things they mention.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, there’s Mound Key just south on the mainland and the Ding Darling Wildlife Preserve, right here on Sanibel. You can rent a canoe and go into the mangrove canals. I’ve done it myself. It’s quite safe. There are ancient shell mounds built by the Calusa hundreds of years ago and who knows” — she grins impishly — “you might even locate the fountain of youth old Ponce was supposed to be looking for.”

  “Angela,” he says, ignoring the little joke on his age, “you’ve just saved my marriage. I think this should do the trick perfectly.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Porter.”

  “I’m looking forward to this,” he says.

  He hurries home. He examines himself more objectively and finds Ross Porter a happier man. Angela has given him books; enough for a solid beginning. They sit on the front seat beside him. He pats them with that touch which others reserve for their pets. Still, he does not recognize their import, the new direction they have offered him or the places to which they will eventually guide him.

  This is a step, he tells himself.

  He does not feel so empty.

  When he returns he sees Emily on the veranda. She appears tense but as she watches him exit the car and walk spryly toward her, she smiles. She meets him halfway, as she always has.

  “Ross Porter, where in heaven’s name have you been?” She puts her hands on his shoulders and shakes them. “I’ve been sitting here hours! What are you laughing about?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” he says, “I just found the tools to fix that faucet.”

  “Oh,” she replies with a twinge of disappointment.

  “These!” He proffers the books.

  “How can you fix a faucet with those?”

  “By doing what you said. Ignore it,” he says, smiling. “I’m sorry, Em. I did all this planning for the trip and forgot myself. Oh, I thought the Durant would keep me occupied, but I felt kind of duty bound to read them.”

  “So what have you got?”

  “Histories.”

  “Naturally.” She pats his arm.

  “Local histories. I talked to a young woman in the Sanibel library ...”

  “Oh really?” She chuckles sardonically.

  “And she told me about some places to see. Remember when we went to Quebec ...”

  “Of course ...”

  “... To finish my research?”

  “It was wonderful.”

  “Well, we can do the same here! Oh, I won’t drag you along if you don’t want to go. But I’d love to share this. Look, I know it sounds foolish but I needed something.”

  She pauses a moment, then as they walk back to the cottage she puts her arm through his.

  “While you were gone I had time to think. I know all of this has been hard on you, Ross. I’m sorry I was so unpleasant before.”

  “No, it was me. The faucet thing was stupid.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It opened up things we hadn’t talked over.”

  “We will,” he says, not wanting to think of that now. “Would you like to read these books with me?”

  “Any novels on the subject?” she replies lightly, knowing him; his signals.

  “Well there might be. We could ask Angela.”

  “From the library?”

  “Yeah. This could be fun!”

  “It’s good to see you happy.”

  7

  This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.

  —GENESIS 2:23

  Spring — The Past

  For two days they followed a zigzag pattern in search of their lost sister ship, commanded by Cristoval de Sotomayor. The weather was kind and the winds kept up steadily from the southeast. Lookouts were posted and each night they hung lighted lamps from the crosstrees. At each turn of the glass they would fire a bombard, its thunder echoing across the waves, and listen for a return. There was none.

  The third day in the morning a school of dolphins joined them. The big fish frolicked around the ship leaping in mottled grey arcs, sometimes crossing its bow, sometimes cruising beside it. The ship’s company lined the decks to watch their strange sea dance. The dolphins sang to each other in a weird, clicking chatter which seemed to welcome the ship to their realm. They stayed an hour. When they veered away, Sotil was almost inclined to follow them in the hope they would lead him to his sister ship. One could never tell with dolphins. He smiled as he suggested this new course to his captain-general. The old man’s reply was curt.

  “Superstition. These fish are as likely to bring you over a reef as they are to lead you to Sotomayor. We have an agreement if you recall: a two-day search then return to San Salvador for rendezvous. Damn this storm! It’s brought another delay.”

  “We could stretch the search to three days, Don Juan,” the pilot said, surprised at his commander’s frustration. This was the man, after all, who taught patience. “Surely his pilot Miruelo might think the same. San Salvador is a long way back.”

  “Sotomayor will follow his orders to the letter. Now, set your course for San Salvador. We must wait a little longer, it seems, for our landfall. And as for these fish and your superstition, you should know better.”

  Strange words from a man who believes in a witch, Juan Ponce thought grimly of himself. Even as he spoke he noticed her on the after deck. She had come up to view the dolphins. She was of them, of all primitive nature, as wild and untamed and singular. He watched her closely for a moment, this woman so impervious to him. She sat in the sun, her hair tumbling over bare brown shoulders, she no longer deigned to wear Spanish clothing, as the wind tousled her tresses. Her dark eyes swept the sea. She smiled for some reason.

  Her name was Mayaimi, from the union of Calos and her mother. Her mother had been of the Timucua tribe, the Mayaimi clan, noble, though not royal as Calos of the Calusa. The Spaniard called her by another name, a name without grace or meaning, a name befitting the slave they had tried to make her. She never used it for, in her own mind, she was never a slave.

  The dolphins recalled her home. As she sat in the sun she remembered, for the first time in a very long time, the things she had put aside for Calos. At first it was small memories: weaving nets for fishing, gathering berries and roots from the land, collecting the shellfish which would become both food and lodging. After their insides were eaten the shells were piled and moulded to become the base for the tribe’s dwellings in the mangrove swamps. And then she recalled the house of Calos, big enough for a hundred to gather to hold the sacred ceremonies of the three souls. Men and women together: the women singing, the men wearing masks of beasts and birds to which all souls belonged, to which she would belong eventually after passing through water. All that she had given up. Then there were the things she had forced away.

  As if she would ever succumb to the foolish mumblings of the stinking monk who was always trying to persuade her to believe in a nothing; a common man ridiculed and slaughtered at the hands of his enemies on a wooden cross. That could not be a god. Even when the stinking monk spoke of threes: of father and son and spirit, they were not the right threes, they were nothing at all like the three who ruled all things. The monk had no notion that she was a sorceress: holy in her own way, noble in her birth, a woman who could commune with spirits, a sacrifice by Calos and a spy as well sent to discover the ways of the stinking Spanish.

  They did stink. They smelled of the animal meat they consumed so voraciously. Even before she had reached the huge cloud canoe they inhabited she had near
ly retched from the stench. And when they had stripped her and begun to abuse her, those things had bothered her less than their breath in her face.

  Then their chief, the big Spaniard she called him, had claimed her and taken her far across the sea to his home on the island of the slave people who served every Spanish whim: their pride wiped from them, their customs destroyed, their worth as a people reduced to nothing. When they tried to befriend her, she rebuffed them. When she was taken into those dank stone dwellings the Spanish seemed to prefer and forced into the confines of clothing which rubbed rough against the body, so different from the soft moss she had worn at home, she had not succumbed. When they had made her servile: scrubbing stone floors, sweeping stone walkways, laundering their stinking clothes, she had borne it all for Calos.

  As instructed, she had learned their stuttering language and eaten their cooked, tasteless vegetables and worn their stinking clothes and become a slave in their presence. But on her own she had kept certain things. She would find shellfish at the shoreline; she would gather new kinds of fruits and eat them; she would commune with the spirits who called faintly for her. Fortunately there was always plenty of fish for the servants who were seldom allowed any meat. Good. She affirmed to herself that she would not stink, not become one of them; not be their minion. And she held this all close to herself as she watched and waited and read the signs of the man who thought he owned her until she knew it was time to strike. It took years, but she was not a daughter of Calos for nothing. She had not been chosen by him for no reason. When the time came she had stalked the big Spaniard as she would a lizard within the swamp.

  As his situation diminished the Spaniard had become worn and tired despite his ridiculous pride. She had used that to her advantage. Her first real chance was to serve him his wine. A muttered threat to a dogsbody servant had allowed her access and then she’d told the big Spaniard the tale of the water. She could see in his slate grey eyes — eyes like a lizard — that at first he did not believe her but she had entranced him, becoming more familiar each day as his powers waned and his children grew sullen; until his wife was gone forever and then Mayaimi had gone to his bed and given him something his wife never had. And all the while she’d whispered: “Water.” And eventually he’d believed her, or at least his desperate pride had.