took deep breaths and pulled for the bottom. Ten feet from the surface she stopped.
Something was wrong. The seamount had changed. She was disoriented. Was it her eyes? Had more time passed than she realized? Nothing looked the same. An entire section of the seamount seemed covered in black.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to stay calm, to sort through conflicting images. When she felt more composed, she opened her eyes and looked down again. And then she could see what had perplexed her. Not five feet away was the largest manta ray she had ever seen.
It was like a black cloak, or a big blanket that, from this short distance, blocked out most of her view of the seamount.
It was not only the proximity of the giant that had deceived her; it was also the fact that the animal was not moving at all. It was lying absolutely still in the water, as if suspended from an invisible ceiling. It did not look alive.
But it had to be alive, for how else would it have gotten there? Dead, it would have sunk to the bottom.
She dropped farther down, expecting the animal at any moment to shrug its wing and move away. But the manta continued to hover, motionless.
Her toes were within inches of the manta’s back, and now she could see nothing of the seamount below. It was like landing on a black field that extended almost as far as she could see. The ray had to be more than twenty feet across, for she judged that she could have lain down four times across its wings and still not covered them tip to tip.
This is the grandfather of all mantas, she thought. Why is it drifting around? Is it dying?
Paloma had to go up for air. Making as little stir as possible in the water, she floated up. As the distance between her and the manta grew, she gained perspective on the whole animal, and she could see that there was a reason it was not behaving normally. Long, thin things were trailing beneath and behind it.
Her face broke water. She breathed in and out several times, each breath a bit deeper than the last, drew one final breath that seemed to suck air down into her feet, and went down again.
The manta had not moved. This time she approached it from the front, and immediately she saw what was wrong.
Behind the “horn” on the left side, the animal’s flesh was torn in a broad, deep gash. Knotted ropes were embedded in the shredded flesh, their ends dangling loose, like tails.
The manta must have become fouled in a fisherman’s net, then panicked, and flailing frantically to get free, driven its great bulk against the taut ropes, forcing them to bite even deeper into its flesh. Finally, it had escaped—undoubtedly, Paloma thought, leaving an angry fisherman to curse his wretched fate and declare that all mantas were devilfish that deserved to die.
But the manta’s victory was illusory, for it was bound to die. Paloma had seen many wounded animals—cut or hooked or scraped or bitten—and she knew that in the sea there was no time of truce, there was no mercy.
The wound had weakened the manta, and because the ropes still festered in the open sore there had been no chance for healing to begin. Unable to pursue its food, the manta could not eat as much as it should. The less it ate, the weaker it would become; the weaker it became, the less it could eat.
Before long, the manta would begin to emit the silent signals of distress that would be received and interpreted byevery animal on the seamount—especially by the larger animals, the predators.
First would come the tiny, voracious fish, like the sergeant majors. The signals they interpreted would tell them that it was safe to ravage the bits of dying flesh in the open wound. They would swim on the wound, opening it further.
The manta would grow weaker still. Little by little, it would appear to be, and would become, less and less formidable. Its sensory transmitters, incapable of human guile, would continue to broadcast signals of increasing vulnerability. Inevitably, the manta
Something was wrong. The seamount had changed. She was disoriented. Was it her eyes? Had more time passed than she realized? Nothing looked the same. An entire section of the seamount seemed covered in black.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to stay calm, to sort through conflicting images. When she felt more composed, she opened her eyes and looked down again. And then she could see what had perplexed her. Not five feet away was the largest manta ray she had ever seen.
It was like a black cloak, or a big blanket that, from this short distance, blocked out most of her view of the seamount.
It was not only the proximity of the giant that had deceived her; it was also the fact that the animal was not moving at all. It was lying absolutely still in the water, as if suspended from an invisible ceiling. It did not look alive.
But it had to be alive, for how else would it have gotten there? Dead, it would have sunk to the bottom.
She dropped farther down, expecting the animal at any moment to shrug its wing and move away. But the manta continued to hover, motionless.
Her toes were within inches of the manta’s back, and now she could see nothing of the seamount below. It was like landing on a black field that extended almost as far as she could see. The ray had to be more than twenty feet across, for she judged that she could have lain down four times across its wings and still not covered them tip to tip.
This is the grandfather of all mantas, she thought. Why is it drifting around? Is it dying?
Paloma had to go up for air. Making as little stir as possible in the water, she floated up. As the distance between her and the manta grew, she gained perspective on the whole animal, and she could see that there was a reason it was not behaving normally. Long, thin things were trailing beneath and behind it.
Her face broke water. She breathed in and out several times, each breath a bit deeper than the last, drew one final breath that seemed to suck air down into her feet, and went down again.
The manta had not moved. This time she approached it from the front, and immediately she saw what was wrong.
Behind the “horn” on the left side, the animal’s flesh was torn in a broad, deep gash. Knotted ropes were embedded in the shredded flesh, their ends dangling loose, like tails.
The manta must have become fouled in a fisherman’s net, then panicked, and flailing frantically to get free, driven its great bulk against the taut ropes, forcing them to bite even deeper into its flesh. Finally, it had escaped—undoubtedly, Paloma thought, leaving an angry fisherman to curse his wretched fate and declare that all mantas were devilfish that deserved to die.
But the manta’s victory was illusory, for it was bound to die. Paloma had seen many wounded animals—cut or hooked or scraped or bitten—and she knew that in the sea there was no time of truce, there was no mercy.
The wound had weakened the manta, and because the ropes still festered in the open sore there had been no chance for healing to begin. Unable to pursue its food, the manta could not eat as much as it should. The less it ate, the weaker it would become; the weaker it became, the less it could eat.
Before long, the manta would begin to emit the silent signals of distress that would be received and interpreted byevery animal on the seamount—especially by the larger animals, the predators.
First would come the tiny, voracious fish, like the sergeant majors. The signals they interpreted would tell them that it was safe to ravage the bits of dying flesh in the open wound. They would swim on the wound, opening it further.
The manta would grow weaker still. Little by little, it would appear to be, and would become, less and less formidable. Its sensory transmitters, incapable of human guile, would continue to broadcast signals of increasing vulnerability. Inevitably, the manta
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