Part 1 (1/2)

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THE HEIRESS of WATER.

A NOVEL.

by Sandra Rodriguez Barron.

A NOTE TO THE READER.

The tropical oceans contain over five hundred different species of cone snails. Conus Conus prey upon other marine organisms by firing venoms that can induce paralysis or death in seconds. Some species are so lethal that they can kill a human adult in a matter of hours. prey upon other marine organisms by firing venoms that can induce paralysis or death in seconds. Some species are so lethal that they can kill a human adult in a matter of hours.

In recent years, scientists have discovered that cone venom has extraordinary pharmacological qualities. Each species of cone snail contains an a.r.s.enal of peptides (small protein fragments) that exhibit powerful, highly selective activity on nerves. By blocking the pa.s.sage of electrically charged particles in and out of cells, the toxins effectively shut down messages between the brain and muscles. Recently, the FDA approved a laboratory-made equivalent of the compound found in the venom of the Australian Conus magus Conus magus, a painkiller a hundred to a thousand times more powerful than morphine. Equally as important is its staying power: since it's not a narcotic, the body can't develop immunity to its effects. Other cone toxin combinations are being studied to address more elusive conditions such as mental illness, neurodegenerative diseases, and traumatic head injury.

The development of cone venom as medicine is clearly in its infancy and faces many obstacles. For starters, some venom combinations have plagued trial subjects with adverse side effects. The risks in introducing cone venom into subjects who have suffered a head trauma has made experimentation in this area exceedingly difficult. Still, several biopharmaceutical companies around the world have fast-tracked their plans to decode the healing potential of Conus Conus toxins. toxins.

In addition to their vast promise as a source of new drugs, cones are valued by collectors for their beautiful, elaborately patterned sh.e.l.ls.

Three species described in this novel-Conus furiosus, Conus exelmaris, and Hexaplex bulbosa- Hexaplex bulbosa-are fictional.

I SHALL THROW AWAY THIS THING THAT I have found as one throws away a cigarette stub. This seash.e.l.l has I have found as one throws away a cigarette stub. This seash.e.l.l has served served me, suggesting by turns what I am, what I know, and what I do not know. ... Just as Hamlet, picking up a skull in the rich earth and bringing it close to his living face, finds a gruesome image of himself ... this little, hollow, spiral-shaped calcareous body summons up a number of thoughts, all inconclusive. ... me, suggesting by turns what I am, what I know, and what I do not know. ... Just as Hamlet, picking up a skull in the rich earth and bringing it close to his living face, finds a gruesome image of himself ... this little, hollow, spiral-shaped calcareous body summons up a number of thoughts, all inconclusive. ...PAUL VALeRY, Sea Sh.e.l.ls Sea Sh.e.l.ls

Part ONE

chapter 1

BIVALVES.

EL SALVADOR, 1981.

Alma Borrero Winters believed that everything in life begins and ends with the ocean. ”The ocean is the expression of G.o.d on earth” she told her daughter, as she pushed open a set of wrought-iron gates. She shaded her eyes and strode onto Negrarena, a desolate expanse of black sand that spilled into the Pacific Ocean in the distance. She turned and clasped Monica's small hand. ”Take a deep breath. Go on, smell it. Breathe deep.”

Monica happily obeyed, filling her lungs with the rich smells of the sea. ”Something's different today.”

”You can smell that?”

Monica nodded.

”The currents are combing over the fields of seaweed from the west,” Alma said, turning to look down at Monica. ”I'm impressed.”

They walked in silence, their rubber sandals slapping at their heels. When they were halfway across the expanse of sand, Alma noticed that Monica was trying to conceal something in one of her hands, and Alma leaned back to see what it was. Monica veered away but her mother grabbed hold of her arm. ”What are you hiding?”

Monica handed over a small ”in memoriam” card. They had been distributed at her grandfather's novenario novenario, the nine Catholic ma.s.ses of mourning, now a full month past. On one side of the card was a pale, pastel-colored image of a bearded deity sitting on a cloud suspended by winged cherubs. On the flip side of the card was a black-and-white photo of Alma's father and a short biography of his life.

Adolfo Borrero had died peacefully of a heart attack, and hundreds of people had attended the vigil for the repose of his soul-family, friends, the elite of Salvadoran society, domestic staff and workers from the Borrero plantations and from Borr-Lac, their dairy plant. All nine of his ma.s.ses at La Divina Providencia parish had been filled well beyond the grand church's capacity with mourners and the curious. On several occasions, Monica had heard people comment that her grandfather would have made a great president. ”He would have cleaned out the communists once and for all,” an elderly man lamented as he stood in front of the coffin. Alma's response had been, ”Then El Salvador must be pretty desperate for a hero.”

Everything Alma despised about the society she had been born into was somehow contained in the traditional prayer cards that her mother had dutifully ordered for the service. Monica, on the other hand, treasured them with equal ferocity. ”I know you miss Abuelo,” Alma said. ”But don't reduce your memories of him-or your vision of G.o.d-to this ridiculous card,” she said, holding it up.

”Everyone else does,” Monica protested, her face reddening as she turned away from her mother. ”And n.o.body else believes in all that crazy ocean stuff but you.”

Alma opened her eyes wide. ”And you.” you.”

Monica shrugged.

Alma flicked the face of the card with two fingers. ”This depiction of G.o.d sitting on a cloud, bearing a striking resemblance to Santa Claus, is an insult to your intelligence.” And with that she ripped the card in half, then turned it sideways and tore it again. ”G.o.d is so much more than this silly ill.u.s.tration.” Alma held up the sc.r.a.ps. ”Think of it, Monica. How can infinity have a form? And to give him a human human form, of all ridiculous things.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, which annoyed Monica, since they were completely alone on a private beach surrounded by a thousand acres of farmland. ”G.o.d has no memory, no shape, no conscience. ... He just is.” Alma lifted her eyelids, revealing a pair of black irises reflective and impenetrable as polished granite. She placed one hand under her daughter's chin, swiveling Monica's face toward the expanse of water. form, of all ridiculous things.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, which annoyed Monica, since they were completely alone on a private beach surrounded by a thousand acres of farmland. ”G.o.d has no memory, no shape, no conscience. ... He just is.” Alma lifted her eyelids, revealing a pair of black irises reflective and impenetrable as polished granite. She placed one hand under her daughter's chin, swiveling Monica's face toward the expanse of water.

”He just is. Like the ocean just is,” Monica parroted, rolling her eyes and imitating her mother's overly dramatic whisper.

”Good,” Alma said, giving Monica's ponytail a tug. Since neither of them had pockets, Alma stuffed the sc.r.a.ps of the prayer card into the left triangle of her striped-blue-and- green Brazilian bikini top. Monica experienced a vague discomfort at the idea that both her late grandfather and the Almighty Father were inside her mother's swimwear.

On this particular day, Alma and Monica had chosen to walk on the rugged side of the coast. Their starting point-the sprawling Borrero retreat named Villa Caracol-was halfway between the placid, smooth black-sand beaches of the northern coast and the pockmarked moonscape of the southern coast. The beach and the thousand acres of farmland that surrounded it was collectively known as Negrarena. Most of the Borreros and their guests invariably favored the smooth beach, but the south was a special place for Alma and Monica to explore. It was a beachcomber's dream, with its lava-rock tide pools teeming with marine life. Monica was glad to s.h.i.+ft the subject away from religion. Growing excited as she eyed a nearby tidepool, she said, ”Mami, I can name all all the creatures in the tide pool.” the creatures in the tide pool.”

They crouched down together.

Monica began. ”Moluscos ”Moluscos. Common names ... concha de abanico ... casco de burro ... almeja piedra ... ostra comun ... concha de abanico ... casco de burro ... almeja piedra ... ostra comun .... All of these are bivalves,” she said, accustomed to switching without awareness between Spanish and English like her parents. ”Bi,” ”Bi,” she explained, ”because their sh.e.l.ls have two halves.” She held up two small fingers to ill.u.s.trate the concept. She continued to show off, recalling the exact varieties of two lonely strands of seaweed; the species of starfish, sea urchins, barnacles, and crabs. Only once did Alma have to mouth a name to help her out. When Monica finished, Alma clapped. she explained, ”because their sh.e.l.ls have two halves.” She held up two small fingers to ill.u.s.trate the concept. She continued to show off, recalling the exact varieties of two lonely strands of seaweed; the species of starfish, sea urchins, barnacles, and crabs. Only once did Alma have to mouth a name to help her out. When Monica finished, Alma clapped. ”!Excelente!” ”!Excelente!”

Monica concluded, in the manner of a miniature research a.s.sistant, by a.s.serting that this particular tide pool didn't contain anything out of the ordinary, a circ.u.mstance that she was expected to report to her mother. ”Nothing unusual,” she said. ”But one day, we'll find the Conus furiosus Conus furiosus, even if it's the last one in the world. We'll find it, Mami, you'll see.”

The idea of finding a living specimen of the rare-perhaps extinct-Central American Conus Conus species elicited a slow, dreamy grin from Alma. Her fingers made their way into Monica's hair, tugging at the elastic band and unleas.h.i.+ng a cascade of black coils, a miniversion of her own. ”If you see a cone sh.e.l.l, do not touch it, Monica, no exceptions. The venom of some cones could stop your heart in less time than it takes to realize what stung you. And even a sting from one of the milder ones can really hurt.” species elicited a slow, dreamy grin from Alma. Her fingers made their way into Monica's hair, tugging at the elastic band and unleas.h.i.+ng a cascade of black coils, a miniversion of her own. ”If you see a cone sh.e.l.l, do not touch it, Monica, no exceptions. The venom of some cones could stop your heart in less time than it takes to realize what stung you. And even a sting from one of the milder ones can really hurt.”

”But, but, what if ...?”

Alma put one hand up. ”Don't play the hero. If you see something that might be a furiosus furiosus, you come to find me.”

Monica gazed into the tide pool and imagined the Conus Conus furiosus furiosus, or ”cone of fury.” The few remaining indigenous people in El Salvador had described it as a cone-shaped seash.e.l.l the length of an adult's index finger that could be polished to show its chestnut base and its blood-colored splashes around the tip. Alma often referred to the eighty-year-old specimen in their gla.s.s display case as her ”Ferrari.” It had been added to the family collection back in the days when Monica's great-grandfather, Dr. Reinaldo Marmol, used the venom as a painkiller for his patients. In those days, many of the Indios Indios distrusted modern pharmaceuticals, preferring the natural medicines that they had been using for centuries. Monica had heard her mother lecture on the subject at universities in the United States and Europe, reading from the yellowed pages of great-grandfather Marmol's medical journal. On the last page of the journal, the doctor concluded that, indeed, the distrusted modern pharmaceuticals, preferring the natural medicines that they had been using for centuries. Monica had heard her mother lecture on the subject at universities in the United States and Europe, reading from the yellowed pages of great-grandfather Marmol's medical journal. On the last page of the journal, the doctor concluded that, indeed, the Conus furiosus Conus furiosus venom had extraordinary potential to alleviate pain. He also doc.u.mented that some older Indians had witnessed other, more fantastic uses, such as the improvement of vision and a reduction of the symptoms of dementia; although of these he seemed a bit more skeptical. venom had extraordinary potential to alleviate pain. He also doc.u.mented that some older Indians had witnessed other, more fantastic uses, such as the improvement of vision and a reduction of the symptoms of dementia; although of these he seemed a bit more skeptical.

The Conus furiosus Conus furiosus species had been elusive even in the time of Monica's great-granddaddy, and although their empty casings still occasionally washed up onsh.o.r.e, not a single live one had been found in over fifty years. The reason, as in many cases of extinction, was unknown, but most likely had something to do with a change in their habitat. Alma had been told by local fisheries and by environmental experts that in all likelihood the species had completely vanished, yet she remained undeterred in her determination to find a live one. species had been elusive even in the time of Monica's great-granddaddy, and although their empty casings still occasionally washed up onsh.o.r.e, not a single live one had been found in over fifty years. The reason, as in many cases of extinction, was unknown, but most likely had something to do with a change in their habitat. Alma had been told by local fisheries and by environmental experts that in all likelihood the species had completely vanished, yet she remained undeterred in her determination to find a live one.

About a quarter mile into their walk they came upon an enormous and conspicuous ma.s.s, unmoving in the shallow surf. They rushed toward it, kicking up sea foam and water. It was a sea turtle, the size of an overturned oil barrel.

”Is it going to lay eggs?” Monica asked excitedly.

”It's dead, sweetie.” Alma walked around it and ran her fingers over the flat, salt-dried eyes of the turtle while Monica stood back and held her nose.

”Uyyy.... Mami, get away from it,” she begged in a nasal voice.

”What kind of turtle is it, mija mija?” Alma quizzed her daughter.

”Olive ridley,” Monica said coolly.