the
fish heads.
Christina looked down. Ten glassy eyes
stared back at her. She could feel the
contents of her stomach rising towards her
throat and swallowed only just in time to
stop the follow-through. Marco breathed
deeply and turned his head away.
'No takers?' asked Beck. 'Well, guys, if
you're not going to have yours, I certainly
will. If we leave them any longer they'll start
to ferment.'
Christina watched, frozen to the spot, as
Beck took one of the eyes from her cupped
hands. Then he threw back his head and,
with the eye pinched firmly between his
thumb and first finger, squeezed. A thin
watery fluid dripped onto his tongue. Then
he dropped the eye into his mouth and
began to chew. One at a time he picked up
two more eyes and repeated the process.
'That is absolutely disgusting,' said
Marco, trying hard not to gag. 'You're very
welcome to mine if you're still thirsty.'
'I wouldn't give up your share of anything,
Marco. You can't be squeamish if you
want to survive,' replied Beck. 'Wow, that
feels better,' he said, wiping his sleeve over
his mouth. He reached over to pick up
another of the fish eyes from Christina's
cupped hands. But this time Christina drew
her hands away.
'Mine, I think,' she said. Her voice
sounded fierce and determined. Transferring
the eyes to her left hand, she used
her right to pick up one of the jelly-like
discs, then threw back her head. And
squeezed. Keeping her eyes tight shut, she
grimaced as a dribble of fluid slid slowly
down the back of her throat. Then, keeping
her mouth wide open, she dropped the
shiny disc onto her tongue, lowered her
head and, without opening her eyes, began
to chew. Then she swallowed.
Beck watched her grimace as the slimy
goo slithered down her throat.
' Buen apetito! ' he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Beck gazed listlessly down into the glassy
stillness. It was late afternoon at the end of
their first day at sea and the wind had
dropped. The sail of the Bella Señora hung
lifeless from the mast, looking ominously
like a bed sheet once more.
After their five-star breakfast of raw fish
washed down with eyeball fluid and blood,
Beck had produced a little magic. A few teaspoons
of dew had collected overnight in
the folds at the bottom of the sail and the
crew had gratefully dampened their lips and
wiped away the taste of fish.
The fish livers had dried quickly in the
sun and they had smeared their exposed
skin with the thick droplets of oil that oozed
to the surface. For a while the breeze had
cooled their skin but the sun's brutal glare
was beginning to take its toll. The twins lay
dozing in the shadow of the mast. Marco
cradled a tin can which he had spotted
floating in the water and had managed to
pluck from the waves as they sailed by.
Inside lay the guts of the flying fish in a
putrefying mass.
Beck smiled. Marco was learning fast.
Gone now was the disgust of just a few
hours before. Anything that could help
them survive was precious. Including the
fish guts. But Beck's throat felt parched and
hunger was beginning to gnaw at his
stomach. The water looked so pure and cool
and tempting. He let his hand dangle for a
while in the silky stillness, longing to feel its
coolness on his lips.
But somewhere deep inside, alarm bells
were ringing. That way only madness lay.
Throughout history shipwrecked sailors had
been unable to resist the temptation to
drink sea water and had quickly gone
insane.
A grisly thought sprang into Beck's mind.
He remembered the day Uncle Al had taken
him to the Louvre, the famous art gallery in
Paris. The Mona Lisa , with its crowds of
jostling tourists, had not interested him.
Instead he sat for nearly an hour, staring at
a huge canvas that covered almost the entire
wall of one of the gallery's other rooms.
It was a painting called The Wreck of the Medusa by the artist Géricault. Uncle Al
told him the real-life story. A French ship
had been wrecked in a storm and some of
the crew had escaped on a raft. After several
weeks at sea the crew
fish heads.
Christina looked down. Ten glassy eyes
stared back at her. She could feel the
contents of her stomach rising towards her
throat and swallowed only just in time to
stop the follow-through. Marco breathed
deeply and turned his head away.
'No takers?' asked Beck. 'Well, guys, if
you're not going to have yours, I certainly
will. If we leave them any longer they'll start
to ferment.'
Christina watched, frozen to the spot, as
Beck took one of the eyes from her cupped
hands. Then he threw back his head and,
with the eye pinched firmly between his
thumb and first finger, squeezed. A thin
watery fluid dripped onto his tongue. Then
he dropped the eye into his mouth and
began to chew. One at a time he picked up
two more eyes and repeated the process.
'That is absolutely disgusting,' said
Marco, trying hard not to gag. 'You're very
welcome to mine if you're still thirsty.'
'I wouldn't give up your share of anything,
Marco. You can't be squeamish if you
want to survive,' replied Beck. 'Wow, that
feels better,' he said, wiping his sleeve over
his mouth. He reached over to pick up
another of the fish eyes from Christina's
cupped hands. But this time Christina drew
her hands away.
'Mine, I think,' she said. Her voice
sounded fierce and determined. Transferring
the eyes to her left hand, she used
her right to pick up one of the jelly-like
discs, then threw back her head. And
squeezed. Keeping her eyes tight shut, she
grimaced as a dribble of fluid slid slowly
down the back of her throat. Then, keeping
her mouth wide open, she dropped the
shiny disc onto her tongue, lowered her
head and, without opening her eyes, began
to chew. Then she swallowed.
Beck watched her grimace as the slimy
goo slithered down her throat.
' Buen apetito! ' he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Beck gazed listlessly down into the glassy
stillness. It was late afternoon at the end of
their first day at sea and the wind had
dropped. The sail of the Bella Señora hung
lifeless from the mast, looking ominously
like a bed sheet once more.
After their five-star breakfast of raw fish
washed down with eyeball fluid and blood,
Beck had produced a little magic. A few teaspoons
of dew had collected overnight in
the folds at the bottom of the sail and the
crew had gratefully dampened their lips and
wiped away the taste of fish.
The fish livers had dried quickly in the
sun and they had smeared their exposed
skin with the thick droplets of oil that oozed
to the surface. For a while the breeze had
cooled their skin but the sun's brutal glare
was beginning to take its toll. The twins lay
dozing in the shadow of the mast. Marco
cradled a tin can which he had spotted
floating in the water and had managed to
pluck from the waves as they sailed by.
Inside lay the guts of the flying fish in a
putrefying mass.
Beck smiled. Marco was learning fast.
Gone now was the disgust of just a few
hours before. Anything that could help
them survive was precious. Including the
fish guts. But Beck's throat felt parched and
hunger was beginning to gnaw at his
stomach. The water looked so pure and cool
and tempting. He let his hand dangle for a
while in the silky stillness, longing to feel its
coolness on his lips.
But somewhere deep inside, alarm bells
were ringing. That way only madness lay.
Throughout history shipwrecked sailors had
been unable to resist the temptation to
drink sea water and had quickly gone
insane.
A grisly thought sprang into Beck's mind.
He remembered the day Uncle Al had taken
him to the Louvre, the famous art gallery in
Paris. The Mona Lisa , with its crowds of
jostling tourists, had not interested him.
Instead he sat for nearly an hour, staring at
a huge canvas that covered almost the entire
wall of one of the gallery's other rooms.
It was a painting called The Wreck of the Medusa by the artist Géricault. Uncle Al
told him the real-life story. A French ship
had been wrecked in a storm and some of
the crew had escaped on a raft. After several
weeks at sea the crew
Similar Books
