Shallcross: The Underwater Panthers, page 11
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you something Yuchee?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Orlander said you lost your mother recently. Are you okay?”
“Yes. I mean, sometimes. Where is your mother?”
“I lost my mother too, three years ago. She died of cancer. I know Yuchee. It’s hard isn’t it?” She reached over and took his hand. He was just fifteen, and his mother’s death had cut him open, but now a confusing feeling came, holding her hand felt like what his mother and a lover should feel like, he wasn’t really sure at his age. A girlfriend? She was his girlfriend.
They were standing under the owl’s nest when one of the owls appeared at the top of the tree and just stared at them. The owl was huge and the golden yellow eyes unforgettable. Yuchee looked down and saw all the white bones at the base. Then he looked at Eira, white as the bones on the ground. In his mind for an instant he saw his mother fly over the Milky Way again in the midst of the white stars, white as Eira and the bones on the ground.
“The whale is a girl like you. And it is beautiful like you,” Yuchee said to her.
“Thank you Yuchee. Some people might say it is strange like me.”
“They are jealous then. You are the only one. I was told once, there was a white allapattah, an alligator, in the Everglades, the only one, and it was considered a god, like the Breath Master himself.
“Or maybe a goddess.” Eira laughed.
“My father and the Seminoles would make you a goddess if you were born like you are to them.”
Eira looked at him. Her tactual blue eyes melted everything. “You’re sweet, you handsome Indian boy. I will be your goddess if you want.”
“Yes. I will worship you, like they worshiped the white allapattah.”
Sean MacKenzie Iponovich, his mother, was a Scot. Mary MacKenzie met Sean’s father in St. Petersburg, Russia as an exchange student. They married and Sean grew up speaking perfect English with a Scottish accent, and of course Russian. Sean’s mother taught English to Russian students in St. Petersburg and Sean went to the University there. The school and Mary’s influence made a scholar of her young son. She wanted him to be a teacher, but he could smell the sea as it blew in off the Baltic and it pulled him in and through it, like a salted star.
Though educated to the gills, it was gills he sought; so he became a commercial fisherman, and eventually the captain of some of his rich uncle’s boats that sometimes prowled the Georges Banks and waters two hundred miles off the eastern shores of the U.S. and Canada under the Russian flag—or even fished out of American ports closer in, under the American flag.
While in the North American waters this summer, Sean chose New Bedford, Massachusetts as a home port for both economic and romantic reasons—he was taken as a young man by the Melville novel, Moby Dick. The story had started in New Bedford, and New Bedford was the second largest fishing port in America just behind Anchorage, Alaska, and had many boats and processing plants in its harbor. He could have chosen Gloucester, Massachusetts, or another coastal city, but he wanted to walk the same streets Melville had as a young man; feel what Melville felt when he penned the immortal whale story.
And now, look what had come around—what were the lifetime odds a white whale of the larger species would show up near his port? Sean, like the book’s Captain Ahab, dreamed of catching the white prize that had appeared off the Massachusetts’s shore like the afflatus of Orthodox Catholic miracles. God or providence must have put it there for him he thought. It was the chance to make a lot of money and fulfill his romantic boyhood fantasies all at once.
When Sean got the news that the baby whale’s mother had died and the baby had been taken to the Westport River by the Americans, he had a Scottish/Russian tantrum that both races would have been proud of. He threw one man overboard into the harbor at the dock; he threw buckets, tools, dock lines, his shirt and jacket in the water while ranting spates of mordancy in both languages around the boat’s lower deck. It drew the attention of everyone on the boat and the dock. When he picked up a knife and cut his forearm, his first mate, Osip, wrapped his arms around him and held him until he promised to stop.
“What you doing Sean? You can no keep this. I not like when you get like this!” Osip said to him in his Russian pigeon English.
“They have the baby, they have the baby, the white calf,” Sean told him.
“Who have this baby Sean?”
“The Woods hole man, that Dr. Murphy. He has the calf in the cove next to his house.”
“Sean! It not done. We get baby. There is way. There a way must be.”
The rest of the afternoon they got drunk in the cabin of the Svetlana, and drew diagrams of their ideas to take the whale from Dr. Murphy’s cove, even if it meant someone was going to get hurt. “Be still, Sean,” Osip kept telling him, “There is way to do all things,” and Osip, a long time small-minded wrong number, covered in prison tattoos with larceny in his eyes, was a skilled back door bandit and a dangerous man.
~
At Dr. Murphy’s, everyone stood on the bank and watched as the calf was released in the cove. At first, the baby swam the edges of the bank which dropped off sharply to a depth of thirty feet, a cut that a glacier had opened in that deep shoreline with one of its huge frozen teeth millions of years ago. Next, the baby tried to push through the strong rope net strung across the mouth of the cove, but gave up and swam to the center again.
A tank truck with the small fish arrived. The fish were transferred to a much smaller tidal hole next to the cove with its own fine mesh net, covering the entrance to the river. Dr. Murphy said he would take the fish from this spot, put them in a special tank that allowed him to shock them with a low electrical current, then while they were partially stunned, throw them in the water with the baby whale and see if it would eat. After two days, the baby ate the stunned little fish. Word had gotten around and it was a big attraction. People in private boats came near the cove’s entrance trying to get a look at the white wonder, the talk of the area.
In the New Bedford harbor, Sean schemed, producing plan after plan to steal the whale from the cove and take it to the factory ship, the Svetlana, haul it into the flotation tank, then make the ten-day trip to the Baltic where a deal could be made for this one of a kind. And it had to be a good plan, not some small-boned scheme too quiet and useless.
~
At Deer Track Farm, as an adjunct to the new interest in whales, Arquette decided to show his summer guest the next-door town of New Bedford, only twenty-five minutes from the farm. Aubrey was taking in the country homes going by his passenger side window on the way into town. They were mostly wood frame, wood-shingle siding, with white trim—the Cape Cod look, a very different construct than the masonry and wood South Florida homes. There were no brave orange or blue walls with pink doors from Bahamian and Haitian influence, and the roof overhangs in New England were only twelve inches wide to let the sun in as much as possible for the winter months. Not like the Florida homes with their thirty-six-inch soffits to keep the tropical sun out, and their wraparound screened porches out of the mosquitos.
There were no masonry walls surrounding patios, lanais, loggias or swimming pools, and where there would have been bougainvillea, oleander, or Spanish bayonet, were beautiful blooming hydrangea, rhododendron, and an occasional spray of blooming white dogwood, but hardly any tin roofs. All good he thought, you build and design where you are—the latitude, the seasons.
When they were in downtown New Bedford, Arquette explained that at one time in its history, the city was the whaling capital of the world. Aubrey was reading all the Portuguese names of shops, law firms, and cafés as they drove down Union Street.
Arquette and Aubrey had known each other since they were children. When they were older, Arquette always seemed somewhat depressed and negative about most everything. Aubrey used to call him “The Great Crapehanger,” but now he had become very animated and upbeat lately since being told the whole story of slippers and the Underwater Panthers, and he seemed to have much more than a barstool appreciation for what the group was trying to do for the planet. It was like he had just fathered a baby recently and was passing out cigars, saying hello to people on the sidewalk, and springing his walk step up on his toes, like the nerd kid in everybody’s high school.
“Man, Arquette, is the whole town Portuguese?” Aubrey asked. “And slow down. You’re walking like a four-eyed asshole … like you’re Lucky La Rue.”
“The Portuguese? Sometimes I think so. They started coming here from the Azores a couple of hundred years ago to fish for cod and work on the whale ships, and some came ashore and never left.”
“You do know Christaine is Portuguese, and speaks it pretty good.”
“Yes. I do know that.”
On that same day, Sean was having lunch on the terrace at one of those cafés when he saw Aubrey and Freddie coming down the sidewalk side by side. Freddie was wearing a black, red, and gold Seminole shirt with various patterned appliques and colored linings, open at the collar. He had a quarter moon georgette silver necklace lying on his brown chest. His black hair was Indian-long down to his broad shoulders—he was a physical specimen still, even at his age.
For Sean it was like a vision. It was Ishmael and the exotic islander, Queequeg, right out of the Moby Dick novel; just the way Melville had described it in the book as the two men made their way around the streets of New Bedford a hundred and more years ago, getting stares from the Puritan locals. Sean spilled the food off his fork when he saw the two men. People were staring at Freddie today the way they did at Queequeg in Melville’s story.
Sean was so curious, he paid his check and began to follow them, walking far back so they wouldn’t see him. The men went into the town’s one-of-a-kind Whaling Museum with its munificent historical displays. Sean went in after them, going behind them room to room as they looked at all the pelagic exhibits of whale ships and chase boats, watching them when they were stopped and fixed on something.
He moved closer and got up the nerve to speak. “My, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a shirt like you’re wearing anywhere in the world,” he said to Freddie, “And I’ve been all over the world.”
Freddie turned. “Yes, the shirt is from my world, yes?”
“I see. I don’t mean to be nosy, but what world would that be?”
Freddie looked Sean up and down and stared for a moment at a pin Sean wore on the label of his jacket—the small foot of a creature.
“I am a Seminole Indian. From Florida, yes?”
“Ah, and this is the customary dress?”
“Sometimes. The patterns on the shirt mean different things. And the animal foot pinned to your jacket, is that from your world?”
“It is.”
“And what does it mean?”
“It is from the foot of a grouse. It represents a bond I have with someone I love, but I am away from right now. It is a good luck piece. The old Scottish Lords wore these when they were off fighting a war, and had to leave their family behind. It was a symbol of their devotion to that person. My mother and I wear these when I am off fishing for months.”
“I do not know this animal, this grouse.”
“The grouse is a bird from colder climates hunted in Europe—you said you were from Florida; I doubt the bird is there. Do you have any charms or good luck pieces from your tribe you wear?”
Freddie pointed down to his rattlesnake skin belt, and the wooden buckle with the small claw foot of a baby alligator lying flat on the surface. He lifted his hand. On a ring finger was a gold ring—the face of a tiger with a diamond in its teeth. Aubrey and Arquette just stood there nodding and being polite.
“I must say, when I first saw you, I was reminded of the white whale story, Moby Dick,” Sean said. “The narrator, Ishmael, befriends a man named Queequeg from the South Sea Islands and it all started right here in New Bedford. I saw you coming down the sidewalk in your unusual shirt and … well, you looked like Queequeg in the book, and I relived the story for a moment. Oh, I’m sorry; my name is Sean,” sticking out his hand. “I run my fishing boats out of the harbor here.”
“Freddie is my name. And my friends—Aubrey and Arquette.” They all shook.
“How often are you allowed to fish?” Arquette asked. “I heard the commercial fishing has been really restricted with tough catch allowances allotted lately.”
“Yes, it has been hard on everyone, but I guess we all knew it was coming. I am allowed to fish out of here on a limited basis as long as my boats bring what I catch back to this port to be processed by the local plants here; or if I process my own catch, I have to bring that in to be sold in the American markets. And speaking of white whales, have you heard about the capture of the white baby humpback that was recently saved after its mother died.”
“Yes. In fact a friend of mine, Dr. Murphy, has the baby in a cove for safekeeping at his place on the Westport River, until they can get it healthy and strong enough to be on its own,” Arquette said.
“I read that in the paper. You know this man?”
“Forever I know him. A friend of my father’s too.”
“I would give anything to see this baby, does this man allow that?”
“I doubt it at this time.”
“Well. Here is my card. If this man, this Dr. Murphy, ever needs live fish to feed this baby, I’d be glad to provide them free. I am allowed to fish my boats this whole week, and I have two boats with flotation tanks to keep fish alive. I’d do it just to see this baby, and for the sake of the whale population of course.”
Arquette took the card. They said goodbye.
“And remember, I said free fish,” Sean said smiling over his shoulder, hoping to inveigle his way into the project.
After the museum, they crossed the street to a microbrewery and drank a beer. “Who was that guy again?” Aubrey asked.
“Commercial fisherman,” Arquette said. Surprised he’s read Moby Dick. Sounded educated too.”
“He followed us.” Freddie said.
“How do you know that?” Arquette looked at him.
“Believe me. He knows that,” Aubrey said.
~
Over the next days, the thin eight-foot snake called a coachwhip, would come up on the cottage porch and Martha, its slipper, would report to Aubrey on the wellbeing of the two gators in Allens Pond. Martha preferred to have the snake live in the big barn hayloft rather than around the cottage; the weather was warm enough for the southern creature, and there was always a rat or two to eat and plenty of chipmunks.
Christaine was glad it stayed in the barn for now, and would cringe a little when the snake came to the porch and crawled into Aubrey’s lap. Coachwhips are dangerous looking, with their black heads and light brown bodies, two colors that signal death to small wildlife. The country folks have always believed they can wrap around your legs and whip you with the rest of their long tail.
When the snake did coil in Aubrey’s lap, he would talk to it like it was a person, while Christaine listened to what sounded like a one-sided conversation. Sometimes the two boys and Half Track would be there and see this, but they knew what was going on, and the code of silence that went with it. Of course if Half Track said anything to anyone outside of the group, they would just nod and blow it off to mental illness. Eventually Christaine got up the nerve to hold the snake and let it sit in her lap. Especially when Aubrey told her Martha wanted to talk to her through him about Christaine’s writing and that Christaine knew lots of Gypsy words.
~
Sean told Osip, his first mate, about his good fortune—meeting the Indian and the two men in the whaling museum. Now he would just hope this Dr. Murphy would either take him up on the offer of fish, or he could wheedle another way into the matters of the whale. He put his fingers around the grouse foot pin on his shirt. He could hear his mother with her Scottish accent telling him it was to protect him from the “withershins,” or the wrong direction—the clans all claimed it would bring a Scot good luck.
Dr. Murphy fed the whale every day at the same time. People continued to idle their boats off the mouth of the cove so they could see the white baby thrash through the water eating the stunned, slow, small fish. The Deer Track Farm people would show up now and then to see the feeding, and on one occasion Dr. Murphy was complaining about the trouble he was having getting fish from the area’s fish farms, and how they had almost doubled in price for ten different reasons.
Arquette told him about meeting the man in the museum, and gave the doctor the man’s card. “Honest Dr., he said he would provide the fish free just to see the baby and for the good of the project,” Arquette said.
“You mean free, free?”
“That’s what he said.”
So Dr. Murphy called Sean. They discussed the logistics and made a deal—Sean could spend all the time he wanted with the project if he provided the fish. Sean was jumping around the decks of the Svetlana hugging Osip, then they went below and he opened a bottle of Vodka.
“Now Osip, we have a chance! I will be able to get onto the property and figure out what our next move is. If we can pull it off, we will make a lot of money selling this white miracle to an aquarium.”
“But what will our plan be Sean?” Osip asked in Russian.
“It will be criminal. Daring.” Sean said in English, raised his glass and touched it to Osip’s. “And try to speak English Osip, you said you wanted to practice it while you are here.”
Sean met with the doctor the next evening, hoping to somehow glom onto the project. When the doctor tried to look into his eyes, all he could see and remember were the bones that framed them—so thick, prominent, a taller man with thick blond hair. They walked down the long lawn to see the whale calf embosomed by the cove. “And what have you done to close the mouth of the cove? Is that a net you have placed to do that?” Sean asked.
“Yes. Let’s walk out to the end of the point and you can get a better look.”
Sean was nervous. Not because he was with the doctor, but because he knew he was going to see this living thing up close, the one he had dreams about as a child. As they got to the end of the point, an albinal flash went through the water, then the whale surfaced in the middle of the cove and blew, right before she moved farther away and went under. Now he had seen the natant wonder up close. It was real. It was captured.
