An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant Read online

  There was nothing of the usual promise of a human artifact or any stories about the human world on this island. The mermaid nodded. It was the old woman’s price for keeping her secret.

  ***

  When John regained consciousness, he found a wizened old woman hunched over him holding what looked like a mini-bar liquor bottle. But its rank liquid was no whiskey that he’d ever smelled. Upon seeing her wild, white hair and a burning right eye in a face like a walnut, he sat up quickly. She chortled and hunkered down, her ragged skirt splayed across her bony knees.

  “So, you don’t like the smell? Strong it is. Just be glad you aren’t dead, then, and can smell it.” Her voice crackled. Her accent was odd, not like the locals.

  John shook his head, trying to clear the confusion that still hung over his thoughts. “Who …?”

  The old woman just sat there and looked at him. He cleared his throat and began again.

  “Who pulled me from the water?”

  “You were pulled from the water?”

  “Yes.” A cough interrupted him. “Almost drowned.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  He shifted his position on the rocky shore, bracing himself and pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Not he, she.”

  “She? Then you did see her?” The woman’s voice was sharp.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Not really.”

  The old woman at first said nothing; instead, she wrapped the top of the bottle with a bit of cloth and then tied that with a bit of string. She dropped this bottle into a bag that lay on the rocks behind her before turning to face him again.

  Finally, she spoke. “You were lying on the beach. You were breathing; you weren’t dead. That’s when I put my tincture under your nose.”

  John recalled the foul odor of the tincture, grateful that she hadn’t poured it down his throat. “Thanks.”

  “It’s little enough I did.” She shrugged. “If you want a doctor, there’s one in the pueblo, across the plaza from the dock. But you’re all right.”

  Without waiting for him to agree, she picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. She headed toward the east and the low-growing shrubs there. Not sure what he should do or say next, John sat watching her go. As she reached the edge of the rocks, the old woman turned for a parting shot.

  “You should thank God for your life.” She raised her chin toward the water of the canal and continued, “The ocean is as lethal as it’s lovely. You’d do well to remember.”

  She disappeared into the shrubs and darkening shadows, going who knew where. John, feeling chastised, sat for a long moment before studying the rocks near where he’d been lying. There was nothing to show how he’d gotten ashore, no footprints, no drag marks. No way of knowing where his rescuer had come from or gone to. Why hadn’t she stayed around?

  Two

  John leveraged himself to his feet before shaking gripped him. He sat down again, hard, on the stony shore. His heart seized up and he flushed hot and cold before it resumed beating. Turning to look at the canal, he thought that he saw his snorkel floating north but the fractured sunlight dazzled him and he couldn’t be sure. His second flipper and mask had disappeared into the deceptive water. The shaking intensified. He’d almost lost his life in an out-of-the-way corner of the Caribbean. The silence of the empty shore confirmed how fantastic his rescue had been.

  Maybe his rescuer was still close. The thought impelled him to his feet and a mad, yet fruitless, search of the scrub around the shore. Whatever girl? woman? superwoman? had pulled him to safety must have hightailed it along the path back to Carlos Rosario. Or maybe there was access from the nearby Tamarindo Estates. Zoë would have stood over him, hands on hips and smirk on lips, until he’d stumbled upright with his head hanging. Frustration filled him, drowning his shock. He couldn’t remember what she looked like. A bleary memory of long, wet hair that could have been any color swam across his mind’s eye, panning out into a clearer image of breasts, small and strangely vulnerable. If ever he saw those breasts again, he’d recognize his rescuer—and cover her up. Given that he wasn’t likely to see any other breasts than Zoë’s for the foreseeable future, his frustration magnified ten-fold.

  A nagging bladder drew him from his predicament and the mundane act of pissing behind a tree brought him back to himself. He felt as empty as the stony shoreline, as blank as the impervious waves, drained and hollow from his struggle. He couldn’t stand here all day, longing for an ephemeral sprite to reappear and finish saving him. Maybe he wanted some magical creature to enter his life so badly that he half-believed that she had, but nothing had changed from the time he’d gone under to the time he’d awakened on shore: the sun would still set tonight on dreamless sleep and tomorrow it would rise on unfulfilled fantasies.

  He looked around, trying to get his bearings. Directly opposite him rose the jagged outlines of a cay. He’d have to take the path back north toward Carlos Rosario where he’d left his gear. There was no way he was getting back into the water. He’d gone only a couple of feet along the path when a prickling sensation along his spine caused him to stop. Yet when he looked behind him, he saw nothing but the regular lapping of water on stone. No one watched him.

  By the time he returned to the Playa Flamenco campground, his frustration and emptiness had bottomed out into resignation. He was accustomed to the hilly terrain of Pittsburgh but had no stamina for Culebra’s dry heat or the uneven trail. His head hurt and his throat had constricted around a layer of dust. He’d earned a sunburn from going so long without a t-shirt. All he wanted now was air conditioning, low lights, and a cold drink. A shower was out of the question. He wouldn’t get one of those until Zoë arrived in two weeks and they stayed at Tamarindo Estates.

  Against all expectation, there weren’t any places to retreat to near here, not even a stand to buy a bottle of water or a soda. He’d known that Culebra was undeveloped, a “hidden jewel in the Caribbean,” but why hadn’t someone set up at least one thatched-roof shack with an ice tub filled with drinks and a hot-dog steamer? No wonder all those people on the ferry had lugged those huge coolers with them. One of the world’s ten best beaches and you were on your own. He’d hiked into wildernesses with more civilization.

  He consulted the island map that he’d gotten at the dive shop. The closest restaurant outside Dewey was at Tamarindo Estates, but it only opened on the weekend for lunch and dinner. He suspected that it was what passed for nice on Culebra. He didn’t want to wait two hours while covered in trail dust to order a beer there. Tamarindo Estates was the only place near where he’d almost drowned, but he couldn’t be sure that his rescuer had any connection to it. And really, what would he say? Any of your guests like to swim topless in the canal?

  There weren’t many other options. On the way back into town, there was only The Happy Landing Café near the airport. Beyond that, there appeared to be only two or three standalone eateries in Dewey. Either way, he was on foot. The prospect didn’t appeal to him, but he decided that he could kill a few birds with one weary trip: he’d rent a bike, report the lost gear, and get a beer and dinner. So he settled on Isla Encantada, which was back near the dive shop. It sounded more appealing anyway, even if Culebra had turned out to be far from enchanted.

  He regretted his decision to walk into Dewey after taking an hour to get there. If he hadn’t stopped at The Happy Landing Café for a bottle of water, he might have passed out along the way. A lone black stallion standing along the highway oddly tempted him, but when he took a step in its direction, it bolted.

  The bike shop owner had just stuck his key into the shop’s lock when John came limping up. He smiled and opened up anyway, chatting the whole time it took John to fill out a form and for him to swipe John’s credit card. John didn’t have the same luck with the dive shop, however. It was already closed even though it was only four-thirty in the afternoon. He didn’t mind. If he didn’t get a cold Medalla in the next ten minutes, he might combust and his ashes
float away on the wind over the harbor, Ensenada Honda. He was that dry.

  Isla Encantada had none of Señorita’s refinements. That is to say, it wasn’t pastel. It didn’t have strings of white Christmas lights and tropical flowers. There was no Hemingway doppelganger at the bar. The tables were wooden, their surfaces pockmarked and oiled by countless palms and fingers. It didn’t serve Nuevo Caribbean cuisine with thin-sliced plantain chips and entrees drizzled with garlic-scented sauce. No, Isla Encantada served traditional tostones, monstrous pastelillos de carne, paella teeming with shrimp and spiny lobster, and heavy arroz con dulce. This was a place Culebrense sons came to eat when they couldn’t eat their mother’s cooking. John, who wasn’t a Culebrense son but the boyfriend of a virulent vegetarian, restricted himself to estofado de garbanzos, a thick chickpea stew with pumpkin and cabbage. He washed it down with Medalla and ice water. He tried to pace himself, but he drank more beer and water than he’d ever consumed at one sitting.

  He sank against his chair back and looked around the dim restaurant. A barrel-chested Culebrense with a hairy caterpillar of a mustache stood talking to a younger Culebrense behind the bar. Four young men sat at one of the ten tables in the dining area. A small dance floor with worn, sooty parquet took up the rest of the space. John grimaced at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall. He wondered what kind of musicians used the stands waiting in the corner.

  Too bad no lovely señoritas sat sipping sangria at the bar. Not that it mattered, anyway. He wasn’t as smooth as his friend Stefan. Or maybe not as carefree and immoral. He could never seek out a one-night stand, Zoë or no Zoë. At the thought of his girlfriend, John looked around the bar even though she wasn’t there. That’s when he saw the old woman at a table by the door. She nodded at him and raised her beer bottle. John nodded back and shifted his gaze away. Something about her gave him the willies.

  The barrel-chested man approached with a Medalla.

  “Hola, mi amigo. Medalla?” He didn’t wait for John’s answer, just set the bottle next to John’s empty. “May I?” He gestured to the chair across from John.

  John shrugged and nodded.

  “So, you like our island, señor?” The man had brought an extra Medalla for himself. He sipped it and waited.

  John shifted in his seat. His backside ached and he found himself thinking about the hard campground where he planned to sleep tonight. “I dunno. Haven’t seen much of it yet.”

  The big man nodded. “Not much to see, unless you like seabirds and turtles.”

  “Playa Flamenco as amazing as they say?”

  “Sí, señor. Not so much when the beachgoers from the mainland infest it like sand fleas. They will be gone tomorrow. Then you will see for yourself.”

  “Weekend only?”

  The man nodded. “My name is Tomás. I own Isla Encantada. You like my wife’s cooking, no?”

  “Sí.” John smiled, his first since he’d gotten to Culebra. “My name’s John.” They shook hands. “So, what’s there to do around here at night? Any good music?” He indicated the music stands with a sideways tilt of his head.

  “We have a four-piece group. A guitar and kettle drum. A trumpet. And maracas, of course. It’s the best on la isla. You stay and listen, no?”

  “Is there a lot of music on Culebra?”

  “Sometimes at Señorita’s. No one is there now.” Tomás sipped his beer. “We are muy rústico here, señor. There are more roosters and wild horses than turistas. I am the only one open past eleven on the weekend. An hour.”

  “Wow. Zoë’s gonna love that.”

  “Cómo?”

  “Oh, nothing.” He shrugged. “It’s not what I expected is all.”

  “You came to snorkel perhaps? The reefs, they bring many norteamericanos.”

  “Actually, I came to scuba dive. I’m going out over the Trench in a couple of weeks.”

  “Treasure hunting? The Trench is graveyard to many Spanish galleons.”

  “No, no. Too deep, amigo. It’s a research trip. Underwater geology.” John laughed. “Of course, I almost drowned in the canal today so maybe I shouldn’t go.”

  Tomás appeared shocked. “The canal? Luís Peña?”

  John nodded, sheepish. “Long story, Tomás. Never would have made it back to shore without somebody pulling me in.”

  Tomás frowned. “You snorkeled alone then? You are suerte, lucky, señor, that someone came along at the right time. As I have already said, not many turistas come here and the puertoriqueños stay on Playa Flamenco. The Culebrenses, they don’t often snorkel.”

  “Well, whoever she was, she saved my life.”

  Tomás started. “She? A woman pulled you from the canal?”

  “Yeah,” John laughed. “Must be some kind of superhero to pluck me out of the water and drag me to shore so fast.”

  Tomás looked thoughtful. “What did she look like, this woman?”

  “Don’t really know. My eyes were full of saltwater. I was throwing it up, too.” John paused. “Actually, now that you ask, I’m getting this distinct image of her.” He frowned heavily, concentrating on the startling and clear vision that popped into his mind.

  “She’s got outrageously curly hair”—here he demonstrated with two hands hovering around his head—“the color of an old penny and eyes the color of the shallows around Culebra. And …” here John hesitated, “and she didn’t have anything on. No shirt. No swimsuit. Nada.”

  “You saw her?” Tomás sounded excited. “You really saw this woman, señor?”

  John’s confusion mushroomed. “No. No.” Anger sharpened the edge of his voice and he shook his head. “Lo siento, Tomás. I’m not angry with you. It’s just that I know I didn’t see her clearly, but I have this distinct image of her. Like I already know her.”

  Tomás pursed his lips and nodded. He sipped his beer and then, his gaze directed at his beer label as though seeing for the first time, he asked, “What happened to her, Señor Juan? Did she tell you her name?”

  “That’s the odd thing. I passed out. When I woke up, she was gone. But that old woman—” John inclined his head toward the old woman, who sat smoking and reading a book—“was there. Stuck a foul-smelling liquid under my nose. Claims she found me on the shore, no one else there.”

  Tomás’s gaze slid toward Ana and back. “Ana?”

  “You know her?”

  “Yes, everyone knows Ana, señor. Some more than most. Some wish they knew her less.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Tomás kept his gaze on his hands, which were wrapped around his empty Medalla bottle. “Some say she is a bruja, a witch, señor.”

  John looked at the other man for a moment, trying to gauge his meaning. “You’re kidding? A witch?”

  Tomás shrugged. “One man’s superstition is another man’s explanation.”

  “She’s just some sort of herbalist. Crossed with a bag lady. Scary looking, but a witch?” John heard incredulity twist his voice.

  “Some say she is also del mar.”

  “‘Del mar’? ‘Of the sea’?”

  “This woman, the one who pulled you from the sea. Perhaps she was not altogether a woman.”

  “What’s that mean?” John studied the other man’s face but saw only seriousness in his eyes. “What else is there? A mermaid?” He laughed and looked away.

  Tomás looked at Ana. He picked at the label on his bottle and shook his head. “Sí, loco, loco. Just a crazy explanation for your mystery, Señor Juan. A story to tell your friends when you go home.”

  John frowned. “I’d rather know who she is, Tomás. I just don’t have any idea how to track her down.”

  “You could post a flyer here. Nearly everyone comes here at one time or another.”

  “A flyer?” John pursed his lips. “Sure. Why not?” He tilted the last of the beer into his mouth. “Time for me to head back to the campground. I’ll catch the music another time. Nearly drowning has worn me out. What I owe you
?”

  After he settled the bill—trying without success to pay the friendly Tomás for the last Medalla—John biked back to Playa Flamenco. The heat had fled with the sunset and a languor slowed his peddling. He passed a few Culebrenses enjoying the evening from their porches. They waved and called hello and he answered in kind. There were only a handful of cars on the road to the north, and none past the airport. The acrid smell of dry thorn acacia and asphalt subsided beneath the cool mineral scent of ocean water. The sky was the color of honeydew, oozing thousands of white seed-stars. Bougainvillea, its rich red muted, added mystery to the dusk. John thought the world looked unutterably lovely, tranquil and complete. He was alive and he had no one to thank. His gratitude wouldn’t stay inside though.

  “I’m alive!” he yelled into the gloaming. Startled horses whinnied and broke across the highway in front of him. He bellowed, a pure animal sound of pleasure, and coasted down an incline, his hands fluttering above his head.

  Later, as he lay listening to laughter from the weekenders still partying on the beach, he wondered again how he was going to find her, the vulnerable woman with the crazy hair and haunting eyes who’d saved him from drowning. He tossed on the sandy ground for more than an hour, replaying the rescue. Where was she, this woman del mar? Something tickled his thoughts and ran down his spine. He popped up in his sleeping bag. Again, he had the feeling that someone was watching him, but he could see nothing, just dark shapes of trees and snoring bodies. He strained his hearing, but only voices and waves reached him. He might have sat up half the night, waiting, but a breeze caressed his face. Its touch urged him to slide back down, to close his eyes, to dream.

  ***

  Ana climbed the hidden path beyond her house toward Playa Tamarindo. Overhead, sooty terns fluttered like kites without string. Before she reached the summit, her rooster crowed, but her sleepy hens would ignore him. They wouldn’t leave their straw-lined beds until she jostled them looking for eggs. She paused at a small stand of tamarind trees and studied the full-length pods hanging from the branches. Their pliant shells needed another six weeks to fill out with a sweet-sour pulp and become brittle enough to pluck. Given the number of pods, she’d have pulp for a dozen vials of diarrhea medicine, a jar of burn salve, and a vial of abortifacient—and still have enough to make three or four kegs of tamarind ale. If she didn’t harvest them quickly, the birds might feast on them first. Her cadre of laughing gulls forgot their training as messengers and spies every spring to gorge on ripe tamarind pods.