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Hamilton Arts & Letters
Ann Eriksson
C H A P T E R 1
The killer whale lay on its side on a shell beach, tied to a log with nylon rope, the shadow of the dorsal fin a shimmering triangle on the wet sand. The scavengers were already gathering. A flock of gulls rose squawking from the hulk at the approach of the boat and crew, and an eagle flapped into the air from a rocky outcrop at the top of the islet. Over the mountains to the east, the sun crested, shedding a pale yellow light over the body.
Glen cut the engine and let the boat glide into a patch of seaweed and gravel. One of the crew jumped over the side with the bowline to secure the boat while the rest gathered equipment: bins of sampling gear, a chainsaw and gas, coolers full of dry ice, canisters of liquid nitrogen. Along with a faint odour of decomposition, an air of celebration hung over the operation, as if they were attending a party instead of a necropsy, the death of most whales an unobserved event at sea.
Glen waded through the shallows in his rubber boots with his colleague and oldest friend, Colin, the two men heading straight for the carcass. Colin, as head of cetacean research at the marine science centre, had received a call from a fisherman about the beached killer whale on an islet off the outer coast. Glen and the rest of the crew rendezvoused with him late in the day, and they had driven through the night, towing the boat and trailer, arriving at the remote community where they launched before first light.
Bella, Glen’s Chesapeake Bay retriever, sniffed at the dark bulk of the whale. A blanket of sand flies and beach fleas rose in a skittish frenzy. Glen called her off and she returned to his side and then, at a hand gesture from her master, dug out a depression in the sand and turned a circle twice before settling in with a sigh, her muzzle on her front paws, brows twitching as she watched Glen study the whale.
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