Friday Fiction: They Move Below (Part 1)

There's something fishy going on

Photo by Oliver Sjöström on Unsplash

Here’s this week’s Friday Fiction. Thanks to my paid subscribers, this post is open to everyone. This was the eponymous story from They Move Below.

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They Move Below

She ignored his swearing as he fixed whatever was wrong with the sails. Instead she looked out at the undulating blue which glowed in the sunlight. A shimmering surface. Unknown what lay below.

“I shoulda knowed he’d stiff me. Typical damn chink furreigner.” He banged a tool against the deck, making her flinch.

You only discover what’s underneath after you’ve dived in. And then it’s too late.

“We Burmese. Not chinks.”

“Chink, gook, burmen, same thing.” Damp patches spread under his arms and down the back of his short-sleeved shirt. He was clumsy, the spanner often slipping from the corroded bolt he was trying to tighten near the mast, something he had called a bird neck … no, gooseneck. “Don’tcha mean ta say Myanma? Ain’t you all proud nowadays?”

“That is literary, not spoken.”

“Just mincing words.” More cursing as he used brute force to adjust the fittings, kneeling and surrounded by tools. “Hey now, you just go on and enjoy yourself there,” he said, with a tone she thought might be sarcasm. “Nothing else ferrit, right?”

The anger steaming from him made it impossible to relax and enjoy it.

“I would help but I do not know much about boats.”

“You’re telling me you grew up by water without learnin’ a damn thing about boats? You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“My ah phay … my father …” But her voice faded out, and she looked up at the sky, shading her eyes with a forearm.

A dot which grew in size; it resolved into a speeding jet, low in the distance, roar of engines reaching them across the water. A machine’s screech breaking the natural peace. He stopped to watch it too. Soon it faded to a dwindling streak on the horizon.

“Military. Jest sabre rattlin’, pay it no mind,” he said. “We all so impressed now, we shakin’ in our boots. Still, ’tis mighty odd fer the M.A.F. ta be this fer away from Pathein. Wonder what’s got them all riled up? Lookin’ fer something?”

She gazed down at the water. A few strands of seaweed floated past, twisting hypnotically in motions caused by the boat’s passing. It was more calming to gaze at those than the clumps of plastic bottles and bags that had marked the surface as they’d first left the coast.

Her camera was heavy on its strap around her neck. She raised it to her eyes and used the viewfinder. Had to increase the shutter speed to cancel the boat’s motion; a small aperture; then focussed on the seaweed a few metres away. A click, and the wide-angle lens captured everything to the far distance in focus. This would be her remembrance.

“People are disappearing again,” she said, satisfied with what the small screen displayed. “Some say it is poisonous insects that live in jet suu – you call castor oil plants? Everyone is nervous lately. Others say it is the army. There have been lots of soldiers around, very busy, like angry click beetles.”

“Yep, that’s so.”

“Will other countries do anything? About missing people?”

A snort. “With all this demand fer Burma oil and gas, tain’t likely. They all know ifin Burma gets snubbed, they’ll jest cozy up even more to China. Ya dreaming, girl.”

“That’s why you are here?”

“Plenty of contracts once there’s military running things. When the tide rises, all the boats float higher, so they say. Hey, reach me that there.” He gestured at a tool. It was not far from him; he could reach if he stretched. She picked it up, heavy metal, adjustable teeth for gripping, and held it out.

“Don’tcha worry none, I ain’t gonna bite ya.” His hand brushed hers as he took the implement.

She retreated, while he scowled at the mast and returned to his adjustments. “This here boat is a piece of shit, that’s fer damn sure. Gotta be forty fuckin’ years old, ifin it’s a day. You can knock me over with a feather ifin that engine works ’tall. Better be hoping we don’t ever need it.”

“If it is so bad why did you take it? Did Maung intimidate you?”

“Na … don’t reckon Maung and his midget goons could bother me none.” He yanked hard on the sail, tightening something until his knuckles were white. “Jest … it was available. Anyway. What were you sayin’ about your papa afore?”

“He died at sea,” she replied. “Almost ten years ago today. We never found his body.”

He sighed. Looked down. Tightened another bolt. “And?”

“I was scared.” She leaned on the rail again, felt the boat’s movement as her own. The sea was always in motion. Restless, her stomach rolling with it. “But you get older and do not want to be scared any longer. They say you should face your demons. And now I am here it is not so bad. I am not superstitious, but … my mother talks of nat, the spirits. We make peace with them. Perhaps I am here for that.”

“You got on with your papa?”

“We … argued.”

“So you come all the ways out here to apologise?”

He would not understand. That topic was not for him, not for now. Another one. “I respect the sea,” she said, softly. It was so big, dominating the view on all sides. Bigger than land, deeper than mountains, darker than night in its secret depths. “So there is no hurry. I will take photographs. That is why I not mind sail problem. This experience, this time out here. I wish to save it. No, sorry: savour is the word I mean.”

He looked over his shoulder, caught her stare. Grinned. Stood and stretched. Wiped sweat from his sun-reddened brow. Stepped heavily over ropes and fishing tackle to reach her. “I hear ya. You and me, we’re out to sea, jest the two of us.”

She took a step back but her waist was against the metal handrail, could go no farther. He gripped her upper arms, slick skin on skin, leaned in and put his salty lips to hers before she unfroze, turned her head and twisted, struggled to move away. A look of annoyance on his face when he saw her angry expression. He let go.

“Oh, I see how it is. Teasing ta get what you want, then leaven a man high and dry. Don’t that jest take the cake. Leaves a man kinda aggravated.”

“It is not what I thought, what you said. You are old enough to –”

“Mebbe you’ll be a changing your mind along the way.”

Beware of a man’s shadow and a bee’s sting.

She watched him until he turned away. He held a finger to each nostril and snorted outwards, clearing his nose on the deck. It made her feel queasy. She noted the spot where he was stood. She would be careful where she stepped.

His anger was back as he snatched different tools. “I reckon you took me fer a fool. That ain’t respectful,” he said, without looking at her.

“I thought of you like an uncle.” Though he sounded like a child.

“Uncle!”

“That is a kind of respect. Just not what you mean.”

“And there was me, bein’ all sweet on the shy woman in the bar, spending wads of kyat on drinks and boats. Fooled me twice, girl. I should learn to read what’s really goin’ on behind those black eyes. And what you hidin’ under all them clothes when it’s so darn hot.” He flexed his meaty hands. It would be better to change the subject.

“Earlier you say you do contracts, big business. So you have a lot of money?”

“Depends on what you would call a lot. I’ve paid $20,000 ta hunt a lion in Zimbabwe, but there’s no way I could afford a black rhino.”

“You hunt the rare animals?”

“Don’t give me that look. Hunting is hunting. They’re all going anyway. The clock’s ticking on the greatest fire sale on Earth, and ifin I didn’t get in there I’d miss out. Jest like business. You seize opportunities when they come, or you lose.”

“You are not like I thought. When I met you.”

“Out at sea, in the wilds – that’s where a man’s a man. Pretty words don’t mean nothing. Actions speak louder then.”

“I liked the pretty words. Kind words.”

“Hardly likely ta get me all famous with those. Shit!”

Something had snapped off. He nursed his hand, red in the face. Tools and pieces of metal lay around him. It didn’t seem like he’d finished – in fact, everything appeared more broken than when he’d started.

She turned back to the sea, though she kept an ear on his movements. Unable to relax as she watched the ambiguous waters. Scary yet calming. Salty yet clean. Clear yet obscure. She was disoriented from the gentle undulations. The horizon seemed flat, but her body felt the motion, dissonant sensations. Always movement out here. Always things moving below.

Another clump of seaweed, larger, floated past. A green tangle like a sea giant’s wig. Ripples on the sea where it caressed the boat. She took more photos, wide views where the whole world seemed to be made of liquid. She noticed that the shade was brighter here, azure transparency – beyond, some distance away, the sea was darker.

“The water is a different colour,” she said.

“What?”

He wiped his palms on a rag and scrambled to the edge of the boat. Looked out across the water. Cursed. “We’ve been adriften.”

“How?”

He didn’t answer.

“It’s like a river of pale blue colour,” she said, pointing towards the horizon.

“We must be in a current. Warm stream, water of a different temperature, hotter’n the rest of the ocean. A sorta gyre. But there shouldna’ be nothing like this. No warning of one.” He looked off at the clouds which skidded along the horizon. “Damn, how long’ve we been driften?”

“Fast,” she said.

“Yeah, that I can see!”

“Is it bad?”

“Once in a while boats are found, everyone on board dead – some think they get pulled out and caught, lost in one of these currents washing into the Indian Ocean.”

“You are joking me?”

“Wish I was.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Mostly.” He scratched his chin. “Hell, I didn’t realise the current was so strong. I shoulda dropped that anchor.”

“Should have dropped …” Her skin was clammy with sudden sweat. The boat seemed to be turning round. “You told me you know these things! Know boats.”

“I got us here, didn’t I?”

“Is this a problem?” She realised she was rubbing the camera. Had to stop her hands from fidgeting, but felt her own sea of panic churning inside. “You can point back in the right direction?”

“Not so simple. Depends on the wind. Ifin we have ta resort to the engine we’re limited, and unless we’re spot on … Well, with the compass we can’t miss land eventually, but it might not be where we want ta be. Depends how fer we’ve moved, what direction. It’ll make distances a guessing game.” He picked up binoculars from amongst the tools. Scanned the horizon. She did the same with her naked eye and realised there was no sign of land.

“I don’t normally come out this fer,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I assumed we’d be fine, jest head back in the direction we came. This day-sailer’s not meant fer more. I swear I think we’re taking on water – don’tcha reckon we’re riding a bit low? Gotta be more than the usual bilge, or mebbe there’s a crack … Hey, don’t look at me like that. You’re jest as guilty here as me! You were only interested when I mentioned going out to sea.”

“I thought it would be safe!”

“This is jest bad luck.” He kicked the fishing rod he’d been using earlier, it tangled up in some netting. “It’s not my fault.”

She followed him to the cabin. There was only room for one at the controls unless you were willing to be very close. She stood nervously outside, arms folded. He checked the thing she knew was a compass, looked out of the window in one direction, frowning. Referred to his maps (no, charts, as he’d corrected her earlier), a thick finger drawing lines across them. She asked what he was doing but he swatted a dismissive hand in her direction, picked up the radio mouthpiece, turned it on, rotated a dial. There was a crackling noise. He spoke into the microphone, asked if anyone received him.

The radio hissed with static. He thumped the display, tried different channels, repeated his message; then after a few minutes banged the mouthpiece on a metal part of the cabin, hard, and let it drop.

“The darn thing must be broken. Or the battery’s failing.”

“You are rough with things. You could have broken it. You said it worked before?”

“Well, it did when I tested it on shore.”

“Can we use our phones?”

“Girl, you know nothing! They don’t work out at sea. No cell masts. That’s why boats have radios. Except this one … Mebbe it’s a question of range. What do these things work over? Fifteen miles max? Could be we’re further out than even …” He gazed at the horizon, long seconds passed; then he said with certainty: “No. It must be broken. Like everything else Maung rips me off with.”

“You blame luck. You blame Maung. But like many Americans, you do not blame yourself.”

“Could be true that I ain’t hit the right blame yet.” He narrowed his eyes. “But not me. You. You’re a Jonah. A curse that runs in the family. Bad luck ta have in a boat.”

“My father is nothing to do with today! Do not bring him into this.”

“I thought you’d be up fer a bit of superstition?” He tried the radio again. Repeated names and words. Almost frantic. Betraying himself.

“What if … there’s no-one to answer?” she asked.

He licked his lips. “Why you spouting off nonsense?”

“But it is so quiet out here. And the sky, it does not look real. You could imagine we are somewhere else.”

“Jest pray ta Buddha it stays quiet.”

“Why?”

“Pirates could be a danger if they were listening in. At least we’re not further West – or mebbe we are now? Godammit!”

He pushed past her, observed the sea. Huge bunched-up clouds sailed ahead of them, casting shadows onto the water’s surface as they piled up white and grey, towering over the world. Then she noticed that amongst the shadows were even larger patches of floating seaweed; it might be possible to walk on it in places, it grew so dense, apparently liking something about this strange liquid.

“Cumulus. You get them above warm waters. This ain’t normal. Not a good sign. We need ta get out.” He licked his lips again.

“You are scared, aren’t you?”

“I told you, you silly chink, I’m not scared of nothing! Your pissant army, your rip-off dealers, your silly fat gods, they can all take a flying fuck fer all I care. Ifin anyone should be scared, it’s you. Jest stay quiet and stop pissing me off.”

He checked the compass again. Barged past. Considered a small flag at the top of the mast as it fluttered, tendril-like, the material snapping back and forth. “Wind’s the wrong fucking way.” Back into the cockpit, turned on the engine. It erupted on the second try with a sputtering roar, deafening after the peace. The boat lurched forward, he looked through the front window and guided them around even greater masses of seaweed, inverted forests that reached down below them, falling into the gloom. He craned his head forward. Squinted.

“What in the hay is that there?” he asked.

She followed his eyes. There was a shape in water. Not seaweed this time. The texture was smooth. It was as big as some of the clumps though. Enough to dwarf the boat.

“Is it a whale?” she shouted over the noisy rattling of the diesel engine, watching the curve as the object moved and undulated lifelessly.

“No.” He changed direction to guide them nearer. “But I don’t know … fishing net? They’re often cut loose.” He pulled back on a metal lever and the engine dropped to a thrumming vibration she felt in her feet. They continued to move closer to the shape, slowly cutting through weed. He locked the wheel and left the cockpit to get a better view from the deck.

“It looks like a parachute,” she said. “It is flopping. Like a plastic.”

“Yep!” A crooked smiled, ugly but relieved. “That would make sense. Mebbe that’s what the plane was looking fer? Keep your eye out fer someone, in the water or on one of the seaweed rafts. Though they could be under the parachute. Drowned, in that case.” A glint in his eye as he regarded her. “Can you imagine that? Trapped underneath, struggling, tied up, unable ta get out as you run out of breath? Knowing you’re so close to air but can’t break through the tough surface.” She moved away from him, but he followed, his steps matching hers. “Then giving in, struggle over, drowning, sinking down into the colder, darker waters until you’re suspended, dangling from the canopy and driften till you’re eaten by fish.”

“Stop it!” She pressed her hands over her ears.

“No burial.”

“I said stop! STOP!” She reached the prow of the boat, could move no further, trapped between the water and him again, not sure which was worse. Looked for something to pick up, then saw beyond … and stared, wide-eyed.

“It’s not a parachute,” she whispered.

He clambered to the cockpit, stopped the engine, and the boat drifted the last few metres to the mound. They looked over the edge as it drew alongside, and her stomach clenched. Her guess had been true. It still didn’t make it any easier to believe.

It was more than ten metres across. Floating lifelessly, the gentle waves sometimes submerging it completely until it rose again, thick gelatinous body undulating, translucent under the water, but resembling a gluey putty when it rose above the waves. A stalk-like thread of tissue descended from the centre of the bell, surrounded by rope-like tentacles each thicker than a man’s arm. They sank into darkness further than she could see; a sensation of vertigo came over her, as if she was swaying on the edge of one of the tallest apartment buildings in Yangon, a memory she tried to drown because the sensations had terrified her; deep blue you could fall into so easily, ending it all, and light blue above, a sky that can’t hold you up –

Suddenly snatched by a big hand, pulled back.

“Watch out, you nearly tipped over the rail!” he said, snapping her back to mindfulness.

She looked down in horror at the bobbing giant as the boat’s sides brushed the edges of its bell, a dry rasping of compression. Once, a few years ago, she had looked at death. It was as empty as she was. In the end she had not leaped into it. She had chosen life instead. Face it, do not run. But it was always just a step away.

[SECOND AND FINAL PART NEXT WEEK]