Jonathan Carr
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Turtle Bay
Bermuda Islands, 1609
The crescent-shaped beach, plugged at each end by mangrove swamps, was full. A multitude of more than fifty brindled shells, each wider than a bishop’s table and streaked vermilion round the edges, was spread out below in a general assembly. From beneath their paved carapaces, the patterns on them arranged in perfect symmetry, protruded tubular wrinkled heads, greyish-white and whiskery. And as I watched them turn those soft, leathered skulls from side to side, flat brown eyes alert and wary beneath the protection of long padded brows, I understood what Lizbeth had meant. There was a sleepy wisdom to the way they looked out at the world, and at each other.
I lay on the cliff edge for a long time, admiring the patterns of those shells, the intricacy of their old weaved bone, the way the pavings ridged the spine and fell away in planes and indentations towards cupped sections that ran round the edge. I would have liked to run my fingers over their crusted surface, tap them for an echo, bend down and wink respectfully at one of those turtles direct in the eye.
But I feared disturbing them and the place I had found was a perfect vantage point for drawing, if a bit precarious. My fingers were shaking with excitement as I took out my black lead, cleared a flat surface for the sheet of vellum, selected the biggest turtle I could see, and began to draw.
I worked for an hour or two. The more progress I made, the more convinced I became that from the tips of my fingers had been born the best counterfeit of a turtle ever seen in black lead anywhere in the known world. A living breathing creature was looking back at me from the page. It was as if she had a life as unique as my own. And from the solemn, patient look in her eyes she might even have been in possession of a soul. I had never drawn anything as vital as this before, nothing that represented so vividly the truth of what a living creature was.
I added the final touches of shading, and traced the last line. Soon, I was daydreaming. Ah, what a look of surprise, what joy there would be on Lizbeth’s face when I handed it to her.
But the daydream did not last.
From below, suddenly, came a strange, frantic tapping sound.
Dropping my picture, I leaned over and discovered there was confusion on the beach. The turtles were clacking all together. Some made high-pitched whistling calls that could have been cries of warning. With heads moving unusually fast, bills grinding sideways and eyes churned cloudy, their four fins kicked up the sand beneath them – first the hind, then the fore - to raise the massive galley-patch each one carried. They were rising unwieldy, in sedate panic, and heading in disarray towards the water.
What had disturbed them? I could see nothing unusual. The sea was flat, the wind had barely stirred, the trees were still. Overhead, the sun was sliding unimpeded round a smooth blue sky. It was the kind of day on which nothing should go wrong.