Free The New Moon's Arms by Nalo Hopkinson Page B

his book. His face was a little less grim now. “So, you came down to the beach, at about what o’clock, you would say?”
    “Maybe six-twenty?” I lied.
    “And where you were when you discovered the child?”
    “On that rock over there.” I needed water. My head was spinning.
    “So, you were lying on top of a big, flat rock with Mr.—?”
    “Goonan,” said Hector. “But I wasn’t—”
    Shit. “No, he wasn’t—”
    “I wasn’t with her. I was snorkeling. Didn’t see her until later. I was just heading back to my boat when I heard her calling for help.”
    “And what condition was he in when you found him?”
    “He was under a pile of seaweed.”
    “You know what kind of seaweed?”
    “Bladderwrack, I think. It’s still over there. I could show you.”
    “In a bit, ma’am. Any jellyfish were around the area?”
    I couldn’t remember. My head was spinning. “No, I don’t think so.” I felt queasy. “Anybody have drinking water?”
    “Here.” Hector held out a water bottle wrapped in a screaming-red neoprene sleeve. He had unclipped it from the waist of his suit. The sleeve matched the suit perfectly. “I been drinking from it,” he said. “Sorry.”
    “I not fussy.”
    “Evidently,” Gene grumbled. Fuck him. I grabbed the water bottle and sucked in huge mouthfuls. The water was warm and stale, but to me, it tasted wonderful. My stomach began to settle.
    “He was conscious when you found him?” Gene asked me. “Or not?”
    “I… I not sure. All I saw was a lump of seaweed, you know? He was under it. When I poked it, he moved.”
    Gene nodded, turned to Mr. Goonan. “That tallies with your memory of the events?”
    “I wasn’t there when she found him.”
    Gene pressed his lips together. Scribble, scribble. Bastard! He been trying to see if he could catch Hector in a lie! “And you are?” asked Gene.
    “Hector Goonan. I lecture at you-wee Mona. I’m visiting Cayaba.”
    Mona campus, University of the West Indies. Yes, I had marked the Jamaican accent.
    “And you lecture in what, Mr. Goonan?”
    “Marine biology.”
    I took another swig of water. The sudden movement of my head brought on another wave of nausea. “Excuse me,” I managed to choke out. I ran behind the rock and puked.
    “You all right?” It was Hector. Gene was with him.
    “I’m fine. Something I dra… I ate.” I washed my mouth out with more of Goonan’s water. Spat. I stuck out a hand. “Somebody help me up?” They both leapt forward, almost crashing into each other in the process. Gene made it to my hand first. He helped me to my feet.
    “You sure you’re fine?” asked Gene.
    “Yes. You were right. A drink of water can work wonders.”
    His face went frozen. “Then will you show me exactly where you found the child, please?”
    Oh, my overquick mouth. “Over here,” I said.
    The headache had faded to a sullen, low gonging. The smell of the sea wasn’t making me so queasy any more. The storm had washed up the usual detritus; plastic drink bottles, shivered timbers, a shredded shirt embedded in the sand. The scrap of cloth was bright pink, with a pattern of hibiscuses and dancing girls. Just looking at it made my head want to start pounding again. Give thanks, no one would be wearing that monstrosity any more. One less piece of tasteless tourist attire gaudying up Cayaba. We came upon my bottle sticking up out of the sand. Gene pulled it free, sniffed at the neck of the bottle. I pretended I didn’t recognise it. When we reached the seaweed, Gene knelt and prodded at it. Hector and I stood out of his way.
    I drank again from the water bottle in its garish sleeve. Plain water to give me plain courage. For it was time to be honest with myself. To survive all the shame this world will throw at you, you have to hold yourself tall, look your accuser straight in the eye. Even if it’s your own face looking back at you.
    You know the story about Old Joe, the slave who helped dig all those people out