Free Invasive Species by Joseph Wallace Page B

became the coast of an island, a distant beach. Behind the beach they could see a jumble of houses painted in bright colors and, farther away, the gleaming white and pink towers of tourist hotels.
    The captain pulled back on the engine, left it rumbling just strongly enough to keep the boat in place, bumping in the gentle swells flowing out from the island. “We will make land after dark,” he said.
    So they waited, watching the sun sink and the big jet planes coasting into the airport.
    Mariama sat with the mother and daughter. The little girl was worse. Though she seemed to be awake, and would nod or shake her head when asked questions, she rarely opened her eyes.
    When the sun dipped below the horizon, the captain aimed the
Sophe
at the beach. The houses and hotels were lit like stars, constellations, and still the jets came in from Portugal and England and Italy. The same countries that supplied boats and planes to keep Africans out of the Canary Islands sent thousands of their own citizens to the same place.
    The woman looked down at her daughter, then back up. “Will you help us get to shore?”
    Mariama paused and then said, “Yes. Of course.”
    The woman’s smile reflected the light of the hotels, the silvery water. “Then we will finally be safe.”
    Mariama thought, No.
    No, we won’t.
    *   *   *
    WHEN THEY WERE perhaps fifty feet from the beach, the captain brought the boat to a halt. Over the subdued mutter of the idling engine, they could hear music. But the beach itself seemed deserted.
    â€œThe tide is low, and the water is shallow,” the captain said. “I cannot go in any farther.”
    One by one, stiff on their feet, the men and women clambered over the side of the little fishing boat and splashed into the water. Some made little sounds of fear as they went, but none hesitated. They could see their goal just ahead.
    No one said good-bye.
    Soon just the three of them and the captain remained on board. “Hurry!” he said. “Or I will take you back with me.”
    Mariama went over first, landing in warm, calm water that reached barely to her waist. The woman, struggling, lifted her daughter over the railing and into her arms. Getting a grip on the limp figure, Mariama felt the girl’s rounded, swollen belly bump against her side.
    She thought:
If I were truly brave, I would drop you now. I would swim away and let you drown.
    It would be a blessing.
    Instead she kept the girl’s head above the surface as the mother splashed into the water. Then, together, they made their slow way through the placid ocean and up onto the beach.
    *   *   *
    TWO HOURS LATER Mariama had showered and changed into a colorful print skirt and a dark blue blouse and was sitting in the living room of a small house in Fuerteventura. The house’s residents—mother, father, and five daughters—perched on chairs and the sofa and stared at her.
    They were making sure she was eating well, as they’d promised Mariama’s father they would.
    Seydou Honso might have been confined to Senegal, but he still had plenty of friends elsewhere, including here. People who owed him allegiance (or favors) and were willing to hide his refugee daughter from the authorities and make sure she was dressed and fed.
    Especially if Seydou paid, which he had. Money needed no passport to travel.
    Mariama was grateful, but impatient. She wanted to move on right away. The sick girl on the boat had shown her how much she needed to hurry.
    But the family told her that her transport onward wouldn’t be departing for three days. There was nothing they could do to speed it up. And anyway, as the mother pointed out, she would do no good if she died from exhaustion or starvation on the way.
    So she stayed, and she rested, and she ate well. The fish-and-tomato stew they called tieboudienne, the baobab drink bouyi, and other Senegalese specialties that