would be committing inadvertent suicide.
Sharks would begin to gather, circling at a distance, their receivers assessing each new signal, until one of them—particularly hungry, perhaps, or agitated or perhaps simply bold—would break the circle and dart in at the manta and tear away a ragged bite of meat.
The end would come quickly then, in an explosion of blood and a cloud of shreds of skin and sinew.
Paloma could hear the pulse in her temples as she swam down toward the manta. The animal knew she was there—the eye beneath the gaping wound followed her as she drew near—but it did not move.
Her momentum was carrying her past the manta, over its head. She put out a hand to stop herself, and her fingers curled around a hard ledge above the mouth and between the two horns. The flesh there felt firm—like a taut muscle—but slick, for it was coated with a natural mucous slime. The feeling didn’t startle Paloma, for she had touched many fish and had felt the same slime. It was a shield against bacteria and other things in the rich salt water that would cause illness or injury.
Jobim had taught her that if a fish you didn’t need wascaught in your net, and if you picked it up, intending to release it, you had to be careful that your fingers didn’t scrape away the protective coating from the fish’s skin. If the slime was removed, a sore might develop on that spot, or a burrowing creature might discover the opening and settle in and begin to gnaw away. A fish that had been handled too much before being released usually didn’t survive for long.
Apparently, the manta was no more startled by her touch than was Paloma. It did not bolt from her; it did not twitch or shudder or shake. It didn’t move. It just lay there, floating, suspended in midwater.
It has no fear of me, Paloma thought. And why should it? It knows no enemies. But I am a strange animal and I am touching this manta, and it is not a common occurrence in nature for one wild animal to allow another to touch like this. Still, mantas do put up with remoras stuck onto their bodies and dragging behind. Maybe, as far as this manta knows, I’m just a big remora.
A swift flow of water was holding Paloma horizontal, her flippers fluttering like a flag in a high wind. Somehow, the manta was managing to stay perfectly still in the strong current, without seeming to exert any effort at all. If Paloma were to let go, she would be swept away.
Now she reached with her other hand for the same ledge of muscle, and she tucked her knees up underneath her and knelt on the manta’s back. The skin was like a shark’s, not really skin but a carpet made up of millions of tiny toothlike things. They all faced to the rear, and so as Paloma’s hand stroked the skin from front to back, it felt as smooth as a greased ceramic bowl. But as her knees inched up, back to front, the manta’s skin, like coarse sandpaper, abraded them.
The terrible gash in the manta’s flesh was beside Paloma’sleft hand. Some of the knotted ropes were buried several inches deep. Most of the flesh was whitish-gray, but some was pink and some yellow.
Once, the year before Jobim had died, a strange organism had drifted over the seamount and attacked the schooling jacks, causing suppurating sores on their sides. Jobim had caught one of the jacks and shown it to Paloma, pointing out the different flesh tones of the ailing fish: White-gray was healthy, pink was inflamed, and yellow signaled the generation of a puslike substance that showed that the animal’s body had activated its defense mechanisms.
A few of the ropes snaked out of the manta’s wound and trailed behind, tugged by the rushing water. Does it feel pain? Paloma wondered. It must. That’s probably why it stays so still: Movement would tug the ropes harder and make them shift and wiggle, and that would hurt more.
Gripping the ledge tightly with her right hand, she let go with her left and reached for the rope snarled nearest to
Sharks would begin to gather, circling at a distance, their receivers assessing each new signal, until one of them—particularly hungry, perhaps, or agitated or perhaps simply bold—would break the circle and dart in at the manta and tear away a ragged bite of meat.
The end would come quickly then, in an explosion of blood and a cloud of shreds of skin and sinew.
Paloma could hear the pulse in her temples as she swam down toward the manta. The animal knew she was there—the eye beneath the gaping wound followed her as she drew near—but it did not move.
Her momentum was carrying her past the manta, over its head. She put out a hand to stop herself, and her fingers curled around a hard ledge above the mouth and between the two horns. The flesh there felt firm—like a taut muscle—but slick, for it was coated with a natural mucous slime. The feeling didn’t startle Paloma, for she had touched many fish and had felt the same slime. It was a shield against bacteria and other things in the rich salt water that would cause illness or injury.
Jobim had taught her that if a fish you didn’t need wascaught in your net, and if you picked it up, intending to release it, you had to be careful that your fingers didn’t scrape away the protective coating from the fish’s skin. If the slime was removed, a sore might develop on that spot, or a burrowing creature might discover the opening and settle in and begin to gnaw away. A fish that had been handled too much before being released usually didn’t survive for long.
Apparently, the manta was no more startled by her touch than was Paloma. It did not bolt from her; it did not twitch or shudder or shake. It didn’t move. It just lay there, floating, suspended in midwater.
It has no fear of me, Paloma thought. And why should it? It knows no enemies. But I am a strange animal and I am touching this manta, and it is not a common occurrence in nature for one wild animal to allow another to touch like this. Still, mantas do put up with remoras stuck onto their bodies and dragging behind. Maybe, as far as this manta knows, I’m just a big remora.
A swift flow of water was holding Paloma horizontal, her flippers fluttering like a flag in a high wind. Somehow, the manta was managing to stay perfectly still in the strong current, without seeming to exert any effort at all. If Paloma were to let go, she would be swept away.
Now she reached with her other hand for the same ledge of muscle, and she tucked her knees up underneath her and knelt on the manta’s back. The skin was like a shark’s, not really skin but a carpet made up of millions of tiny toothlike things. They all faced to the rear, and so as Paloma’s hand stroked the skin from front to back, it felt as smooth as a greased ceramic bowl. But as her knees inched up, back to front, the manta’s skin, like coarse sandpaper, abraded them.
The terrible gash in the manta’s flesh was beside Paloma’sleft hand. Some of the knotted ropes were buried several inches deep. Most of the flesh was whitish-gray, but some was pink and some yellow.
Once, the year before Jobim had died, a strange organism had drifted over the seamount and attacked the schooling jacks, causing suppurating sores on their sides. Jobim had caught one of the jacks and shown it to Paloma, pointing out the different flesh tones of the ailing fish: White-gray was healthy, pink was inflamed, and yellow signaled the generation of a puslike substance that showed that the animal’s body had activated its defense mechanisms.
A few of the ropes snaked out of the manta’s wound and trailed behind, tugged by the rushing water. Does it feel pain? Paloma wondered. It must. That’s probably why it stays so still: Movement would tug the ropes harder and make them shift and wiggle, and that would hurt more.
Gripping the ledge tightly with her right hand, she let go with her left and reached for the rope snarled nearest to
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