Toby Olson - Seaview

“The fourth in the line seemed overshadowed by this giant’s size and complexity, and as if to assert its own mastery, its head came up once, and its jaw, encased in a sheath of leather skin, showed itself, and its upper lip curled back, and I could see those yards of heavy white bone as the massive head stood for a moment straight up in the turbulence: a graceful sea-arch and a dark cave entrance. The force of the pilot turning the line seemed to suck water out, and the shore swell pulled back to sea in riptide, and sand bars came up, the small clear pools forming inshore, driving the heavy turbulence out and away from the few bathers, the water flooding away from them, until those up to their necks and bobbing were now no more than ankle deep and gazing seaward, their feet sunk in wet sand. And then the little naked and brown children were jumping up and dancing on the beach, and some were lifted on the shoulders of men and women, and the dolphins came.

“I picked out three to start with, one to each side of the far whale in the line, and one to his tail, a little back to avoid the hard banging of that fanned mass as it pounded the water down by the ton. Then another came and shot like a new metal barrel from a great depth and sailed in the air high over the back of the largest whale, sliding in on the other side with no splash, as if the water had parted for his entrance.

“Then there must have been fifty of them, males and females both. They came up in concert, as if a single complex of mind brought them. They formed loops and lines in the air, and they looked like elegant charms on some invisible bracelet of intention. Over and under the whales they went, and I could hear their fluted talking and their racial yells. Some stood on their tails and raced backward no more than ten feet in front of the whales’ heads, then flipped over and dived. And the whales too were talking and making a music, but their sounds were deep and foghorn-like and vibrant, like the largest of organ pipes. The dolphins sounded like piccolos in counterpoint, and it was as if the two languages were of the same root. The line moved along the shore slowly, and the sea was like a giant amphitheater, a massive musical progress taking place on it, clouds of sea birds creating a roof over it, the sea itself the soft stage. The bodies on the beach leaned toward the sea intently, and even the children stopped their movements, and all of the world seemed, for a time, changed …

“And then comes the Chiefie and his crew! And I am as if zonked at the sight. In a dozen boats and drifting down coast and turning in and dressed in full Injun regalia, the Chiefie standing in a prow, with headdress, face paint, and tomahawk!

O naked brothers, sisters, children, all jammed in from the sea and seaside cliff as if caught in ambuscade! And the pilot turned the line of whales seaward. It was as if they had prepared the coming of Chief Wingfoot and were now going, and behind them the dolphins fell into files of mimicry. I could no longer see their eyes. They came up, dived, and came up again behind the whales. They moved together, and I felt that they had given up thought then and were totally of a real magic, at one with their body motors, moving with natural and quiet grace toward their better world.

“But now the Chiefie was pilot, and his Quahog People boat boys were coming stately into the whales’ vacancy. The sea itself had come back in to shore, and old Chiefie’s boats were riding the returning swells. The Injuns began to pop over the gunnels and into the surf, waist deep, and pull the boats to beach. And the naked and dressed folk were moving again, but this time back and against the escarpment below the cliff. Indeed, old Injun visages were doing their number on them as of old. But when they hit the beach, the Chief stayed in the prow pulled up on the sand in surf and pointed to the bucks to head right and left and to turn boats over and get down behind them.

“And the dear Chipper and his cohort Sammy are watching all this with some intensity of eyeball and head connection, when — oh presage of darkness! — the Chipper hears the roar of horn and motor at his rear, and when he turns — O dear lady in cart! — the twenty or so and dreaded Devil’s Advocates on motorcycles, four abreast, scorching macadam, up to the lighthouse, where the Chip sees now the townie cruisers with gumball lights ablinking and the chubby and local coppers waiting with clubs withdrawn. His eyeballs are affixed there, but he has look enough to see more of the Chiefie’s redskins back of the hill and coming over the eighth fairway, over underground river below ground, creeping up in a line, and the Advocates peeling off before they reach the cruisers and cooking along the rough to the seaside of the sixth, right on toward your humble Chipper and Sam! And Chip’s eyes want a definite closing, for some of the beach folk are over the crest now, and the Advocates coming along it, driving them back, and hitting into a few, set aroll with bruises and sand scrapes. A woman is clipped head on and carried, with flabbergasted Advocate and motorcycle all in a slow twisting, over cliff and down to scatter souls struggling up, and the woman staggering to foothold on the scarpside sand to rap Advocate soundly with straw basket on groggy noggin.

“And mucho yelling and down-coast movement from the coppers at the cruisers then. And back to the left, on clubhouse road, I see three khaki jeeps and the troop truck coming, see Injuns hunkering down and digging in for action … Oh, oh scheiss ! grab the bag handle and skitter away, Sammy and Chipper running to the sixth tee and over the shoulder catch old townie constables hot on Advocates’ heels, some stopping to aid Skin Beachers, others running in pursuit with clubs waving, and behind them, the troop truck unloading, Injuns and Air Force boys in standoff, and the press corps arriving with wheel screech and old war horse photographers jumping out and already snapping. And then, the Devil’s Advocates’ air flyers acomin’! Dark and shadow-laden bike boys hanging from huge rigid wings and drifting high out over the sea, coming around lighthouse promontory point, such monstrous birds! and dipping slowly down from the sky and approaching cliffside, heading our way. And the Chipper then has quick and acute recognition of the Advocates’ diversionary ploy. Their motorcycle force turns into the sixth fairway, forms wagon-train circle, chains and clubs revealed now, waiting the coppers’ coming, while the flyers drift, free and unopposed, along the escarpment, bringing the promise of yet more chaos!

“Sammy hits down quick into the brush, and the Chipper brings eyes up from him and sees the final and distant whale swells, a spout, hint of the magic bracelet, the distant sky of birds, the place of horizon. He reaches out for it, wanting to be there, but it is no good of course. Hears roars to his left, landward, cries, and in the air the slap and shadow of dark wings above him, and the Chipper is finally fast in cutting out! … And, well, here I am, and I am possessed with no more breath for message.”

His arms dropped to his sides, coming down from the animated, jerky, and sometimes strangely graceful gestures. The Chair and Costa gaped; they had understood the words but were having trouble comprehending the import of the events. Campbell moved in to get down to specifics, rough casualty counts, and the possible current state of things. His hand came up in a gesture intended to keep the others quiet as he moved toward Chip.

Melinda saw it first and saw Campbell catch it in the corner of his eye and stop and turn. She pressed in and behind Allen’s shoulder, as Campbell fell back, bringing the barrel of the weapon up. A wing tip came first and threw a shadow down over the carts and the five figures. There was still no sun, and a shadow did not seem possible, but it was there, hard edged and huge, cutting its shape in the fairway where it met the apron, cooling the wet ground, causing the grass blades to flatten out. The tip was directly above the thin spire of the flagstick on the upper green, and the limp red flag came up and rippled out, showing its white number three. There was then a torque movement, as if the wing tip had been driven through by the flagstick, a slight turning that brought the tip of the other wing into view, and then the whole thing rose up, showing its expanse of underbelly to them. Their heads were craned back, their necks exposed, and they felt as one might feel lying in an open casket in an open grave, a uniformly dark sky above him, no clouds, the edges of the grave hole framing the vacant and still picture. And then a thing of movement entering the picture, at his feet, known first by feel, and coming up to where it moved into his vision, and his wishing for the higher vacant view, as the dark wings and the oblong body of some death flyer moved up and hovered and became still in the air above him.