THE RIVALS AND THE DEVIL FISH

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLII, Issue 20587, 28 November 1936, Page 9 (Supplement)

THE RIVALS AND THE DEVIL FISH

By

ION L. IDRIESS

AUSTRALIA’S MOST POPULAR WRITER

An actual incident which happened beneath the surface of the coral seas The devil-fish are really the great sea-bat, which hunt in schools of from a dozen to sixty.

BILLY BANNER plodded along on the floor of the sea. He was happy, this lone human, working in the relentless water world. To the animate life of that world he appeared a monstrous, unfamiliar thing, therefore not to be treated with contempt. As with heavy solemnity he appeared through the luminous gloom, his dome-like helmet looked like the head of some beast of prey. That the sea things sensed he was; a dangerous beast like themselves, and left him alone, though an odd shadow watched him with dreadful eyes that flashed green Billy plodded on, methodically yet warily, content that he was armoured within rubber and brass, yet not treating

the denizens of this underworld with any undue familiarity for he knew that among them were some liable to call his bluff at any moment. The sea bottom here was gravelly sand, with occasional coral patches peeping amongst the sea-gardens, areas of grasses, delicately coloured, with strands sometimes fathoms long, fine as a girl’s hair. And plant growths of shapes that must have been conceived in a devil’s garden, but of colours that surely were mixed in heaven.

Billy paused, his mind momentarily “up above” where many leagues away the wind warmly swayed the grasses in a homestead naddock. Down here the grasses were also swaying, but coldly if gently. No sweet lullaby of insects, no scent of flowers, no sheen of sun. Just a ghostly tremor amidst greenish gloom. Billy grunted disapprovingly. Every second is precious to the diver search-

ing the ocean-bed for shell. If he daydreams down there he is liable to be put to sleep for ever. So Billy plodded on. A “nigger-head” tall as himself loomed up, like an immense mushroom. As Billy drew closer its unusual shape lured him right up to it. He stared, then suddenly smiled, lor on the smooth coral “head” was roughly but plainly scratched a list, some in Eng-

lish choracters, some in Japanese, some in Malay: “Tanaka loves Echu. Rimadie loves Doolas. Guichi loves Keo. Tangona loves Percesima.” Again Billy visioned things. An old man fig-tree in a sunny Australian town; its bark scarred deeply with the names and initials of lovers. He hesitated; then, clumsily stooping, picked up a trochus-shell: “Why not? She mightn’t like her name in company with those of Malays. But, bless it all! No matter what the colour, love the world over i. all the same—even at the bottom of the sea.” With the pointed shell-end he scratched deeply: Billy loves Celia. You may not think so, but it’s a fact. Some corals are rounded and smooth as a petrified cheese might be. And it is easily possible to scratch your name on them at the bottom of the sea; and that scratch remains visible and readable for many days. A few days later, just before they screwed down his helmet, Billy glanced casually around. He always insisted on this last glance, for—who knows? Little Cairncross Island lay hazily distant; the sky was hot and the sea like glass. Overhead, a frigatebird volplaned and a gull, a silver fish in its beak, somersaulted frantically to avoid the pirate. Drifting down with the tide came the Winsome Lass, and by the lines Billy saw that their diver was overboard, no doubt drift-

ing too, suspended just above the bottom, searching the depths until he should signal shell. “Pity these Japanese can’t mind their own business,” grumbled Billy as the big helmet cased him in. “Sure as they spy a boat working they must nose alongside to see what’s doing. Japanese diver, too, I suppose.” Billy had been working this “ground” for a fortnight now, and doing well, for though small in area, it was dotted with shell.

“No chance now of working out the patch ourselves,” scowled the tender at the oncoming craft. Billy scowled back through his face-glass, then disappeared in a foam of silver bubbles.

Down in the silent world he picked up an odd shell, weed-covered, and fervently hoped one would hold a Christmas-box. It was ages since he'd handled a decent pearl. Just like kids and their lucky dips, this pearl-shelling was. Every dip might hold a treasure; any shell a pearl. Life itself was a lucky dip.

It seemed that his laden boots, more than his will, drew him towards the nigger-head. When it bulged eerily close, he decided to gaze on her name again.

“Cold comfort,” he chuckled, “love at the bottom of the sea. Lor’ love a duck, even the waters of the ocean can’t cool it out of a man’s system. Who’d have thought it of me!” Gingerly he skirted a hole, its lip camouflaged by weeping ferns of the sea. The slight delay annoyed him. ‘Pity the sea didn't fall through its own holes,” he groused. “A man woulti

be able to pick up pearl-shell in a Ford then. My word, that Japanese has got me real nettled, right enough.” He lumbered through the luminous gloom like an elephantine shadow. A rainbow-fish pursued by a larger fisn crashed against his face-glass and registered the shock of its life. So did Billy. Often things come suddenly, and all are magnified down below. But dismay awaited him by the niggerhead, for boldly scratched below his

heart’s confession ran the. legend: Celia loves Harry. Quaint perplexity followed Billy’s dismay; then anger. But he knew that air and water-pressure play scurvy tricks with a heated man’s head down below, not caring what damage is done to his heart.

What did it mean, anyhow? He gazed upward in shocked surprise as a monstrous form sagged right atop of him. Billy shouldered back against

the nigger-head as the descending diver noiselessly grounded. Both men glared behind their thick face-glass; there was something ominous in the eyes of the newcomer as he whipped out a knife. In startled alarm Billy jerked back his air-pipe and also freed his steel, the ludicrous idea of two such monsters fighting on the seafloor did not strike him then. What were they going to fight about anyway? Rellevedly he watched the stranger to scratch: “Are you Billy Banner?” Billy nodded within his big domed helmet. "She’s my girl!” scratched the stranger, and pointed his knife at “Celia!” Billy scratched “Liar!” They breathed heavily and glared behind their face-glasses; then jerked back and up in grotesque alarm as a black pall clouded the sea. They would have sped straight up to the surface if they could, for real fear gripped them. Cruising in mid-water, casually nosing the air-pipes, was a diamondfish, the dreaded devil-fish of the native divers, its mouth set in a malicious grin. With its ton weight of fighting strength it clove through the water as if the sea were fashioned for its exclusive pleasure. Its playfulness is its terror. It may gambol around a diver as a cat a mouse, and leave him with nothing but a heart attack. But in the whim of the moment it may hook the air-pipe between its “horns” and bolt with it and the pendant diver, as a child whips a playstring through its fingers. From near the eyes of the big fellow stubby “horns” projected. Both men gazed up in sickly fascination, while the fish played gently and with a beautiful rhythm in its dreamy movements, nosing first one (Concluded on following Page)