Peter stepped back, swept his arm down to knock the man’s hand away, and shouldered his way past. Then he ran.
He pounded his legs on the dirt and pumped his arms as if racing for a finish line. A visceral fear spread through him. In his panic he dropped the shell of embers. The disk wrapped in his shirt banged on his back, but Peter did not slow. He had no idea how fast the manisaurs were, but doubtless they were faster than a running man. He had read that a human’s superpower was endurance, not speed. Across the beach. To the water’s edge. Escape might be possible by swimming. Birds flew but, unless they were penguins, birds were rubbish swimmers. Or ducks, or seagulls. Perhaps they were good swimmers after all. But manisaurs were not water birds — they weren’t even birds. No wings.
Very glad of the protection his sailing boots gave on the stony path, Peter ran across the narrow beach, and splashed into the water up to his knees. Then he dove, pulling deep underwater, where he kicked and stroked hidden from view. With lungs about to burst he broke the surface and swam for all he was worth. Soon though he flagged. He was fit and capable in the water, and could swim essentially forever, but not this mad dash. His heart thundered in his ears, but now from exertion as much as fear. He risked a look back to the shore. The manisaur prowled the waters edge, while the old man sat watching from the forest. He had been right — the manisaurs were not keen swimmers.
Amazing they ever hunted mantas in the sea then.
The bag bumped his shoulder. Remarkably the disk had stayed on his back, even if he had dropped his fire. All plans were lost. One hundred meters from shore, in the thick warm water of the deep blue lagoon, he was safe for now. But with no way home.
‘They know I’m here now. Probably even before I found them. They must have seen my footprints.’
Peter grew truly frightened now as despair clenched his gut. He took in a mouthful of water to wash it clear, then spat it out.
Something bumped his leg and he jumped, impossible as it seemed when floating. A fish, a shark. There were more dangers than manisaurs in this place. He had no time to think as something rose up in the water and lifted him into the air
A manta. And it had not gummed him to death. Instead he found himself sprawled on its back amongst slick fur, muscles moved under the skin. A warmth with a depth like a hug spread through him. He moved to roll off the animal, to return to the water. But instead rolled over until he was chest down, reached forward, and placed his hands to steady himself on the leading edge of the… arms, wings, body? The manta snorted air and a spray rose up from a blowhole in front of him. Up close his saviour was like a furry whale-wing-thing. And it filled him with joy. Why would he want to jump away?
When one second he had known terror, now came amazement, and a strange sense of rightness about it all. As if this was where he was meant to be. Even the rush from the manisaur had to happen in order to arrive here. Now. On the back of…
‘A friend.’
Peter could not explain it. The feelings were involuntary, but rationally he knew such emotions took time to develop. He could not deny the feelings.
Then the manta moved beneath his body. It’s muscles bunched and slid under him. He had ridden a horse once, and this was like that, but more. Water slipped around him, then over him, and he took a breath as they ducked under.
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He held on for dear life, but his hands slipped from their grip. He popped to the surface, and treaded water. His arms waved, and legs flicked to keep his head above the surface.
On the beach the manisaur had retreated and now sat next to the old man. Watching.
The manta bumped his leg. Peter made a few strokes as the manta slipped under him once more. With a firmer grip Peter took a breath, the manta shivered a little beneath him as if to shake him loose so Peter relaxed his hold. The manta bunched again and they slid through the water. Peter wondered where they were going, but it still seemed the right thing to do. There came that feeling again — of safety. This time the manta stayed on the surface so Peter released his breath, and relaxed. The rush of water sprayed up from his chest into his face and he spluttered. One hand slipped free and he almost fell. Then his foot met a hard ridge on the manta's back and he steadied himself.
Now one hand gripped the leading edge of the wing as it flexed, his head rested on his own shoulder, out of the rush of water. The manta bunched its muscles and they moved fast across the surface, the wings flicked water from their tips at the top of the stroke. He adjusted his foot on the ridge. It was not quite a fin, and it seemed hard, not like he would have imagined a dolphin’s fin to be like.
He craned his head back to look back to the island. The beach glowed a warm rose color as evening approached. The manisaur had stood up now and studied him it seemed. Its eyes were large black circles — like a pair of binoculars. He guessed the manisaurs had better eyesight, so Peter stuck his tongue out at it. The old man had disappeared. There was no way to really know if running had been a good thing to do. It had certainly felt right at the time. The manisaur turned away then and disappeared into the darkening forest. Peter was glad he was no longer the subject of that piercing gaze.
The manta had made a direct path away from the beach. Occasionally it would dip lower in the water but for the most part it seemed to make an effort to keep Peter safe on its back. Peter rolled over to the other side and switched hands. The manta’s motion adjusted to help, in a sort of roll.
‘What am I going to do? Now I’m marooned even worse than before.’ But there was a purpose in the manta’s flight. It was not swimming aimlessly but straight from the beach towards…
Peter could see now their destination was an outer island, one of the many on the edge of the reef. This was where the slavers had rowed, and he considered if that was why the manta was taking him there. Soon though they reached the shelving waters close to the beach. The island was wider than he had thought, with a bay within a shallow stretch of water formed by a crescent of white sand. There were no rocks, no high mountain. Just trees, palms, and sand. Peter slid off into the chest high water. The manta bumped its face on his back as if urging him on. Peter turned and regarded his saviour. It still appeared much like a manta ray except that it had the face of something like… a bat. A wide mouth spread under large eyes. When Peter reached his hand out the manta bumped its snout against his palm. A snort erupted from the blowhole on the top of its head. Peter felt then heard a hum — almost a purr. Across the manta’s face the skin was soft and warm, it shaded into grey-black fur shot with subtle iridescence. And yet the fur was not quite like that of a seal, or a wet dog. It was a bit like his hair straggled after a shower — not feather shaped, but long and thin, like fur. Furry fur, as if each hair had the worst split-ends ever.
‘They’re feathers. But… like a penguins. Sort of.’ He remembered the rescued little blue penguins at the Antarctic Center back home. That was almost the same color, but these fur-feathers were shot with iridescence.
The manta slipped away from him then, into deeper water where it raced back and forth in the dog-like manner Peter seen before. Then a high leap. The slap was like the worst ever belly flop.
‘Hello there.’
Peter whirled around. Behind him a girl stood outlined by the sun that spun golden highlights in her dark hair and kept the details of her face hidden. Shadows stretched through the water from her long legs where she stood ankle deep in the roiling sea. Her arms held crossed over her chest — the only clothing she wore was a pair of baggy green swim shorts.
‘Umm. Hi,’ said Peter. Then it struck him — she had spoken English.
‘Can I use your shirt?’ she said.
Peter’s face burned hot then.
The girl grinned, until she laughed.