Read Online The New Moon's Arms by Nalo Hopkinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nalo Hopkinson
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down on the too-hot rock. I was parched and woozy. The sweaty smell of the ocean was making me queasy. The coconut trees shook and rustled their laughter.
“Oh, God, beg you, do,” I muttered, “please let death come and take me this minute. I think is the only thing that will remove this taste from out my mouth.”
I’d glimpsed something when I leaned over the side of the rock. What?
Gingerly, I lifted my head and looked again.
You know what? People really do go cold with fright. There was a thing washed up on the sand, not too far from my rock. It was completely covered in seaweed, except for a brown hand poking through. I was down off the rock and moving in that direction before I knew it.
I stubbed my toe against something. I gave a yip of fear and leapt back. But it was no torn-off limb. It was my bottle, half-buried in the sand.
It could stay right there. Would be a cold day in hell before I could stand the smell of alcohol again.
The hand sticking out of the bladderwrack shroud was a child’s. My gut twisted again. I dropped to my knees and vomited into the sand.
I had another look. The still-wet seaweed glistened. I reached out a finger. My skin crawled. I couldn’t bring myself to touch the body. There was a piece of sea grape root sticking out of the sand not far away. I crawled over, wrenched it free, brought it back. I took a deep, shuddering breath and extended the stick. The tip of it trembled so wildly that it took a second before I could aim it. I made the tip of the stick touch one end of the seaweed lump. The opposite of where I figured its head was, if it still had a…no. I wasn’t going to think about that. My stomach agreed that it was a subject best left unexplored.
All I could feel was springy seaweed. Maybe I hadn’t pressed hard enough with the stick. I breathed again—a gasp, really—and poked a little deeper this time.
The body moved. This time, I jumped back about eight feet. My bladder gave a little squirt.
Now a small groan came from inside the seaweed. How badly had the sea broken the person inside?
The child moved slowly, pushed a second arm and a leg through the seaweed. At least those were working. That got me past fear. I rushed to the child’s side, started pulling the seaweed off it. “Are you hurt?” I said. “You all right?”
It was a boy, a little brown boy. He looked about two, maybe three years old. His clothing had been torn off by the sea, and his hair was a mess: shells and sand matted in it. And it was long so like a girl’s.
He started a thin, hiccoughing sob. I dragged the rest of the seaweed off him. He was cut and bruised all over. His ankle was puffy and discoloured. I touched it, and he screamed with pain. He looked at me with liquid eyes, his small brown face a mask of misery. He reached for his injured leg, and moaned when his own touch hurt.
He needed a hospital. And damn it all to hell, I didn’t have my cell phone. Nobody else around to help me. People didn’t come out to this beach plenty; too rocky, and the sand brown with mud from the mangroves.
There was an emergency phone installed near the middle of the beach. I couldn’t leave him here, alone and scared, while I went for help. Maybe I could move him? But suppose he had a broken rib and I made it worse by picking him up? I cursed myself for not bringing my cell phone. He was crying, his open mouth downturned and the sides of his tongue curling up, like babies’ tongues do.
“Help!” I scanned the beach, the bushes. Still nobody.
I would have to move him. “I going to pick you up, okay? I’ll be real careful.”
“Hello, hie!” someone shouted. “You need help?” A man was clambering out of the water.
“Yes, please! This child—he’s hurt!”
“I coming!” He was big. Had a kind of mixed look to him; black and Indian, maybe. He was wearing a garish red and black wetsuit and carrying a snorkel and fins. His thick middle jounced a little as he ran. He stopped in
“Oh, God, beg you, do,” I muttered, “please let death come and take me this minute. I think is the only thing that will remove this taste from out my mouth.”
I’d glimpsed something when I leaned over the side of the rock. What?
Gingerly, I lifted my head and looked again.
You know what? People really do go cold with fright. There was a thing washed up on the sand, not too far from my rock. It was completely covered in seaweed, except for a brown hand poking through. I was down off the rock and moving in that direction before I knew it.
I stubbed my toe against something. I gave a yip of fear and leapt back. But it was no torn-off limb. It was my bottle, half-buried in the sand.
It could stay right there. Would be a cold day in hell before I could stand the smell of alcohol again.
The hand sticking out of the bladderwrack shroud was a child’s. My gut twisted again. I dropped to my knees and vomited into the sand.
I had another look. The still-wet seaweed glistened. I reached out a finger. My skin crawled. I couldn’t bring myself to touch the body. There was a piece of sea grape root sticking out of the sand not far away. I crawled over, wrenched it free, brought it back. I took a deep, shuddering breath and extended the stick. The tip of it trembled so wildly that it took a second before I could aim it. I made the tip of the stick touch one end of the seaweed lump. The opposite of where I figured its head was, if it still had a…no. I wasn’t going to think about that. My stomach agreed that it was a subject best left unexplored.
All I could feel was springy seaweed. Maybe I hadn’t pressed hard enough with the stick. I breathed again—a gasp, really—and poked a little deeper this time.
The body moved. This time, I jumped back about eight feet. My bladder gave a little squirt.
Now a small groan came from inside the seaweed. How badly had the sea broken the person inside?
The child moved slowly, pushed a second arm and a leg through the seaweed. At least those were working. That got me past fear. I rushed to the child’s side, started pulling the seaweed off it. “Are you hurt?” I said. “You all right?”
It was a boy, a little brown boy. He looked about two, maybe three years old. His clothing had been torn off by the sea, and his hair was a mess: shells and sand matted in it. And it was long so like a girl’s.
He started a thin, hiccoughing sob. I dragged the rest of the seaweed off him. He was cut and bruised all over. His ankle was puffy and discoloured. I touched it, and he screamed with pain. He looked at me with liquid eyes, his small brown face a mask of misery. He reached for his injured leg, and moaned when his own touch hurt.
He needed a hospital. And damn it all to hell, I didn’t have my cell phone. Nobody else around to help me. People didn’t come out to this beach plenty; too rocky, and the sand brown with mud from the mangroves.
There was an emergency phone installed near the middle of the beach. I couldn’t leave him here, alone and scared, while I went for help. Maybe I could move him? But suppose he had a broken rib and I made it worse by picking him up? I cursed myself for not bringing my cell phone. He was crying, his open mouth downturned and the sides of his tongue curling up, like babies’ tongues do.
“Help!” I scanned the beach, the bushes. Still nobody.
I would have to move him. “I going to pick you up, okay? I’ll be real careful.”
“Hello, hie!” someone shouted. “You need help?” A man was clambering out of the water.
“Yes, please! This child—he’s hurt!”
“I coming!” He was big. Had a kind of mixed look to him; black and Indian, maybe. He was wearing a garish red and black wetsuit and carrying a snorkel and fins. His thick middle jounced a little as he ran. He stopped in
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