The Ocean Carries Your Voice

This short story won third place in Santiago Canyon College’s annual writing contest.

Martina grabbed the last of her groceries and went up to the cashier. She had checked already to make sure she had everything she needed but she made sure to check her list again. Onions, carrots, potatoes, salmon, and flour. Yes, she had everything. The elderly woman at the cash register held out a pale wrinkly hand to accept the pesos that Martina had taken out. She checked her change and sighed. She had spent more money than she had wanted to, the price of fish had gone up again. Martina smiled at the older woman, “Gracias”. 

“De nada niña, te veo el Domingo,” the cashier said in a gruff voice. 

Martina nodded and affirmed that she would at mass this Sunday. With everything going on, practically everyone from town was going to one of the few churches located nearby. Her mother always said that people sought out God during the hard times, then forget about Him during the good times. And these times were definitely not good.

Martina secured her groceries in her fists and began her long trek to the other side of town. The docks of Puerto Deseado were fairly busy this morning, some fishermen that had gone out at dawn were already back, their nets full of brown trout and pink salmon. She could smell the fish in the air and hear the slushing sounds coming from the boats. She made sure to keep her eyes ahead or on the beach, smelling the cleaning process was one thing, but seeing fish guts was not something she wanted to deal with this morning. She had always had a weak stomach and still had a long way to go before she got back home. 

The atmosphere of her town in the providence of Santa Cruz, Argentina was still tense. She could feel it around her, in the air, in the people. They seemed hopeless. Ever since they had heard about the surrender some weeks before on June 14th everything had changed. No-one stopped to chat with her, everyone would keep their eyes on the ground as they hurried to their destination. Usually, on Saturday, boys would be on the main street playing soccer in their ripped shoes. Girls would linger in front of the boutique windows on the nicer side of town, wishing they could afford that luxurious looking ivory sweater. But there were no cries of children screaming "¡gol!", or the giggles of teenagers, the men listening to the radio while grumbling about money and work, or the gossip of neighbors. Everyone was silent. Wondering what would happen next. Wondering if their loved ones had perished. Wondering about their own survival. 

It didn’t help that some people had yet to hear from their loved ones, whether they had been fighting in the war or sailing as civilians. The Formosa had been one of the civilian cargo ships that had been hit by an airstrike on accident. No one knew whether the sailors on board had survived or not. Whether the ship had reached its destination or sunk. For all they knew, those men could be laying at the bottom of a merciless ocean. 

Martina shifted the thin plastic bags in her hands and stopped by the shore. The fog from this morning had not yet lifted, making the ocean look like a steaming pot of boiling water. The mysterious blue-grey water shimmered in the dim sunlight and each wave glimmered like dark satin as it hit the muddy beach. Pearly white foam collected at the shore, lacing through the glossy water in a delicate pattern. It was beautiful really, but it was hard to find the beauty in anything lately when so many of her people had died because of the whims of politicians. 

Martina set down her grocery bags and tied her coat closer to her body. She had brought the beige scarf her Abuela had knitted for her, but it was doing little to subdue the chill that was seeping into her bones. She wished that she could afford a new sweater, the one she had on was thin from constant use, and the once bright green color was faded. Even with all the layers she wore, it seemed impossible to get warm. Martina took one more look at the dancing waves just a couple feet away from her. The ocean only gave her horrible morbid thoughts these days. Like how horrible it would be to drown. Lungs burning as they filled with saltwater, the body lost to the sea forever. She shivered and picked up her bags. She shouldn’t think of these things. She needed to get home and get started on lunch, her parents would be back soon with her little brothers and she had promised them a hot lentil stew to fight the cold day. 

Martina followed the old path back to the small family cottage just at the bottom of a hill. It was an old concrete structure, made of heavy bricks and accentuated with a few weather-stained windows. Behind their small home, they had a nice garden that would grow plenty of vegetables in the spring and summer months but would freeze up fairly quickly in the cold weather. Even her mother’s carefully pruned rose bushes had wilted and dried up. Martina took out her key and twisted it into the doorknob. She shifted it harshly and pushed it open, the sticky hinges creaking rather loudly as she walked in. Martina set the groceries on the small counter by the stove and began to make the stew. 

She usually didn’t mind cooking, but today it seemed like a never-ending chore. It seemed like an eternity had passed by when she finished peeling and chopping all the vegetables. She took out the busted pot her mom kept at the back of the bottom cabinet and threw in some butter and the chunks of beef. She seared them until they were brown and crispy and filled the pot with homemade beef broth. By the time she put in all the vegetables and the lentils, the whole house smelled of the food cooking in the kitchen. It was a wonderful thing, to have a roof over her head and food for her belly. Not everyone was as lucky as her. 

Martina would have stayed inside to do some schoolwork, but her mind was distracted today. She couldn’t focus even when she tried. After some failed attempts at finishing her math homework, she decided to take a walk. Her family hadn’t returned yet, so she had some time to herself. No one lived near their cottage, and the only sounds she could hear came from the sea birds and the crashing waves nearby. She stepped outside and turned to the other side of the hill, looking out into the pale horizon. The sky was a strange color today, the clouds were thin and wispy, making the lid of the world appear not quite blue, but not quite grey either. She wandered farther away from her home until a strange shape in the distance caught her eye. Martina looked back, but she was completely alone here, and she had always been a victim of her curiosity. As she tried to make out the shape in the distance, she rubbed her numb hands together, wishing she had remembered to wear her wool mittens. She couldn’t quite make out what the thing was, but it seemed to be smoking. She gasped and her breath frosted in the cool air. Whatever the object was, it was on fire. 

Martina ran as fast as she could in her alpargatas, almost slipping more than once on the moist dirt underneath her feet. As she approached the object, she realized she still couldn’t make out what it was. A boat? No, it seemed more like a plane… but a very small one. Thick black smoke rose from it and it stung her nose. The burning metal smelled horrible, an acidic chemical odor that made her cough. She was wary to get too close to it at first since she was worried it would explode at any second. It wasn’t until she saw the pilot, passed out under it that she approached it. Martina carefully neared the man, he seemed to be wearing a uniform, but it was tattered, covered in blood, ash, and broken glass. The stranger’s light hair had turned dark from the dirt and rubble, and his face was smeared in blood and sweat. 

She carefully set her hand on the man’s chest and realized that he was still breathing. The plane made a loud groaning sound as some liquid leaked from the side. Martina realized she needed to work quickly if she was going to save this man. He wore a coat like the one of a soldier, but she had never seen the uniform of a pilot. Maybe he wasn't a soldier But why would a commercial airline pilot fly such a small plane? He could be a rich man that did this as some type of hobby. Her father always said that rich people did strange things to amuse themselves. Martina hooked her thin arms underneath the man’s armpits and managed to drag him a safe distance away from the plane. She huffed and sat down on the sand, trying to catch her breath when the seal on his hat caught her eye. She gasped and dragged herself away from the man. She had seen that symbol on the news before. It was on the uniforms of the British royal air force. 

 The man on the ground moaned but kept still and Martina didn’t think twice before running back to the cottage. It made sense now, the plane, the strange uniform. He was a British soldier. Martina burst into her home and headed straight for her parent’s bedroom. Underneath the mattress on her father’s side, her hands gripped a rifle and magazine. She checked the barrel and swung it over her shoulder. Her heart was pounding against her chest and her mind was racing. She wasn’t too sure what she was going to do, but the anger that was fueling her wasn’t making any sense. By the time she reached the plane again, it was completely engulfed in orange flames. She could feel the warmth of the fire from where she stood. Martina stayed a safe distance away, keeping her eyes on the man. He had turned over on his stomach but wasn’t making any sounds. 

In the distance, she could hear some men approaching them. They had seen the smoke. Martina knew she could not let the man get away. He very well could be responsible for her people’s death. This man could have been the one that killed the butcher's son. She would have to hold him here until the men came and decided what they wanted to do with him. Slowly, Martina raised her father’s rifle and aimed it at the man. Just as she laid her finger on the trigger, a pair of dark cobalt eyes met her own. 

“Wait! Don’t shoot!” The man groaned.

Martina stepped back in surprise but kept her aim. She wasn’t a good shot but if she needed to, she would take her chances. The pilot got up to his knees, his hand clutching his right side. His other hand went up towards her, “Please, don’t shoot.” 

 Martina had been studying English all throughout high school and although she wasn’t very good at speaking it, she understood him well enough, “you are British soldier. Tell me why I not kill you?” 

The man slowly got up and Martina realized that he was younger than she had first thought him. In the distance, the men’s voices were getting louder. The pilot heard them too and looked at her with a frantic expression, “are those men from your town? Please you need to hide me, if they find me, they’ll kill me.” 

Martina raised an eyebrow, “And why would they let you live? You come from las Malvinas, no?” 

“Yes,” he gasped and stepped forward, “Please... don't kill me, I was just following orders... don't shoot.” 

“Stay back!” her heart began to beat violently in her chest, the voices were getting louder and she even recognized some of them. Would they really kill him even after the surrender? Did this man deserve to die for just following orders? Isn’t that what her people had done? 

The man took another step toward her and she flinched, “Stay back!” 

His pleading eyes were tearing a hole into her soul, “Please, you need to help me. They will kill me if you don't.” 

Martina looked over her shoulder and then back at the man, her hands were getting sweaty and she felt as if the gun would slip under her reach, “There’s nowhere to hide you. The nearest house is at least a mile away.” 

Not counting the abandoned shed boatshed nearby, a voice in her head said. The man slumped onto the ground and Martina was struggling to breathe.

“You pretend dead.”

 “What?” 

“Lie down, and close eyes. Pretend you die!” She hissed as the man quickly obeyed her orders. He took one more look at her before he closed his eyes. Martina took in a deep breath and held the pistol steady in between her hands then pulled the trigger.