My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Iolka_Eson

May 4, 2025

My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Five — The Heart of the Turtle

Louise, Ded, and I headed back to camp from the seaplane. The sun was climbing higher, heating the sand.

Activity had already started all around. The spot with the hatch was now cordoned off with tape.

Dr. Suresh Varma was giving orders not only to his team but to anyone who happened to cross his path.

Louise leaned over to me and whispered:

"He's from India. That’s why the captain didn’t shake his hand — the greeting was different."

She pressed her palms together at her chest:

"It’s called namaste. It’s a way to show respect from the heart."

We practiced the gesture as we walked, laughing and bowing at each other.

When we reached Arina, I greeted her the same way, and she, smiling, returned the gesture.

"You know, Toma..." Louise said, "this is where the real work with the Heart of the Black Turtle begins."

I looked at her.

"Everything we found isn’t just gold. Every coin, every scratch on the cave wall — it’s a story."

"You can’t simply take them away. You have to understand them."

That’s why Suresh Varma and his team arrived so quickly. And soon a special research vessel would come, bringing equipment. Scientists from all over the world would study the treasure.

It wasn’t just my grandfather’s legacy. It was a legacy for all of humanity.

I nodded. Words were few, but inside I felt as if something was filling up, like the rising tide.

Louise left me with Arina.

Arina was sitting on a folding chair under a canopy. Around her were scattered pencils, sketchbooks, a camera, instruments, and other things.

"Come sit," she said. "Let’s continue."

I settled onto a mat nearby. Ded stretched out between us, lying so he could watch both me and her at once.

Arina opened a fresh sheet of paper.

"Tell me who else you remember. We won’t find the living, of course... but maybe we’ll find the lost. We’ll bury them, just like we buried your grandfather."

I began to speak.

About Laurent, who gathered crabs in the western lagoon. About Miryam, who sang at night. About Aunt Miryam and her love for strange things — like the doll we had left behind in the cabin.

About the catches Grandfather and I shared with her.

Arina quickly sketched faces, boats, outlines of houses from my words.

When I faltered, Ded nudged me gently with his nose.

And in my head, his voice whispered:

"Traps, Toma. Where the water's cold."

"Grandfather knew where to set traps," I said aloud. "Where the sand feels colder. That’s where the springs are."

Arina wrote everything down without interrupting.

Then Ded prompted me again, and I continued:

"Your mother, Maya. Her laughter chimed like a tiny silver bell, light and joyful."

I spoke of my mother. Her bright, ringing voice. My father — Levi Makea. He caught barracudas by hand, diving under the reefs.

They drowned together. Their canoe was shattered — only fragments were found. I had just turned one year old. After that, Grandfather raised me.

Ded kept guiding me:

"Tunea Orteaa... he was my friend. A carpenter. He cursed funny while he worked. Built boats."

I told Arina about Tunea, about his canoe we found after the tsunami.

And Ded remembered Fari Busque — an old man whose hands always smelled of crabs.

And old Laurent, who laughed with a hiccup-like chuckle.

I honestly admitted to Arina that I didn’t remember most of them myself — Grandfather had told me their stories.

Time moved quietly. The air smelled of sunlight and paper as Arina wrote and sketched.

Sometimes I fell silent, staring at the dancing patches of light.

Sometimes Ded whimpered softly — and another memory surfaced:

Old anchors buried in the sand.

The songs of the wind in the abandoned houses.

Letters from missionaries, rotted away inside a forgotten time capsule.

Later we went with Arina to the graveyard.

There, on the slope, the storm had toppled faded crosses, but some names were still visible.

Arina carefully copied the inscriptions:

Mokea Quassen (elder) 1910–1980

Aneta Leblanc (wife of Louis) 1935–1960

Dominique Castagne 1861–1945

Armand Giraud 1866–1942

When I grew tired and my head ached, we returned to camp.

Louise was waiting for us. She sat down beside me.

"Toma," she said. "We’ll document everything we find. Your coins are important too. Without them, the picture would be incomplete."

I nodded.

I already understood: I had to give them everything. Even the little string from the pouch was precious to them.

I walked to the spot where I had buried the pouch.

Ded walked silently at my side.

I dug quickly with my hands and pulled out the cloth.

I took out the tiny bundle of coins tied to my belt.

I offered them to Louise: the pouch separately, the coins separately.

She accepted them with both hands — the way one accepts something alive.

"Thank you, Toma," she said.

I looked at her.

"They’re beautiful," I said. "And valuable. Grandfather told me about the price of gold. It is gold, right?"

Louise nodded.

"They are valuable. But not for the gold itself. Their real value is the story they carry. Thanks to them, we might discover things long lost."

I thought about it. Then asked:

"And the money? To save the ocean?"

Louise smiled faintly.

"That will be all right. Some of the finds can't be sold — they’ll go to museums. But some will be auctioned."

"And with that money, we’ll create a fund to protect the ocean."

I looked at the pouch in her hands.

Far off, I heard the sea rumbling.

Ded, lying at my feet, raised his head and sniffed the air, as if sensing something.

And his voice in my mind said:

"We’ve taken the first step. Saving the ocean is right. But first, we must save our island. Restore its name. Its strength. Let them create the fund — but it must be registered here, on our free, independent island."

I looked at Louise:

"Can the fund be registered on the island?"

Louise nodded.

"Of course, Toma. It all starts here.

And since it all starts with the Heart of the Black Turtle,

I think we should restore the island’s old name — The Island of the Black Turtle."

"Shall I represent you in this, Toma?"

To be continued...

en 2

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foysteroyster

My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter Five — The Heart of the Turtle Louise, Ded, and I headed back to camp from the seaplane.

The sun was climbing higher, heating the sand.

Activity had already started all around.

The spot with the hatch was now cordoned off with tape.

Dr. Suresh Varma was giving orders not only to his team but to anyone who happened to cross his path.

Louise leaned over to me and whispered: "He's from India.

That’s why the captain didn’t shake his hand — the greeting was different."

She pressed her palms together at her chest: "It’s called namaste.

It’s a way to show respect from the heart."

We practiced the gesture as we walked, laughing and bowing at each other.

When we reached Arina, I greeted her the same way, and she, smiling, returned the gesture.

"You know, Toma..." Louise said, "this is where the real work with the Heart of the Black Turtle begins."

I looked at her.

"Everything we found isn’t just gold.

Every coin, every scratch on the cave wall — it’s a story."

"You can’t simply take them away.

You have to understand them."

That’s why Suresh Varma and his team arrived so quickly.

And soon a special research vessel would come, bringing equipment.

Scientists from all over the world would study the treasure.

It wasn’t just my grandfather’s legacy.

It was a legacy for all of humanity.

I nodded.

Words were few, but inside I felt as if something was filling up, like the rising tide.

Louise left me with Arina.

Arina was sitting on a folding chair under a canopy.

Around her were scattered pencils, sketchbooks, a camera, instruments, and other things.

"Come sit," she said.

"Let’s continue."

I settled onto a mat nearby.

Ded stretched out between us, lying so he could watch both me and her at once.

Arina opened a fresh sheet of paper.

"Tell me who else you remember.

We won’t find the living, of course... but maybe we’ll find the lost.

We’ll bury them, just like we buried your grandfather."

I began to speak.

About Laurent, who gathered crabs in the western lagoon.

About Miryam, who sang at night.

About Aunt Miryam and her love for strange things — like the doll we had left behind in the cabin.

About the catches Grandfather and I shared with her.

Arina quickly sketched faces, boats, outlines of houses from my words.

When I faltered, Ded nudged me gently with his nose.

And in my head, his voice whispered: "Traps, Toma.

Where the water's cold."

"Grandfather knew where to set traps," I said aloud.

"Where the sand feels colder.

That’s where the springs are."

Arina wrote everything down without interrupting.

Then Ded prompted me again, and I continued: "Your mother, Maya.

Her laughter chimed like a tiny silver bell, light and joyful."

I spoke of my mother.

Her bright, ringing voice.

My father — Levi Makea.

He caught barracudas by hand, diving under the reefs.

They drowned together.

Their canoe was shattered — only fragments were found.

I had just turned one year old.

After that, Grandfather raised me.

Ded kept guiding me: "Tunea Orteaa... he was my friend.

A carpenter.

He cursed funny while he worked.

Built boats."

I told Arina about Tunea, about his canoe we found after the tsunami.

And Ded remembered Fari Busque — an old man whose hands always smelled of crabs.

And old Laurent, who laughed with a hiccup-like chuckle.

I honestly admitted to Arina that I didn’t remember most of them myself — Grandfather had told me their stories.

Time moved quietly.

The air smelled of sunlight and paper as Arina wrote and sketched.

Sometimes I fell silent, staring at the dancing patches of light.

Sometimes Ded whimpered softly — and another memory surfaced: Old anchors buried in the sand.

The songs of the wind in the abandoned houses.

Letters from missionaries, rotted away inside a forgotten time capsule.

Later we went with Arina to the graveyard.

There, on the slope, the storm had toppled faded crosses, but some names were still visible.

Arina carefully copied the inscriptions: Mokea Quassen (elder) 1910–1980 Aneta Leblanc (wife of Louis) 1935–1960 Dominique Castagne 1861–1945 Armand Giraud 1866–1942 When I grew tired and my head ached, we returned to camp.

Louise was waiting for us.

She sat down beside me.

"Toma," she said.

"We’ll document everything we find.

Your coins are important too.

Without them, the picture would be incomplete."

I nodded.

I already understood: I had to give them everything.

Even the little string from the pouch was precious to them.

I walked to the spot where I had buried the pouch.

Ded walked silently at my side.

I dug quickly with my hands and pulled out the cloth.

I took out the tiny bundle of coins tied to my belt.

I offered them to Louise: the pouch separately, the coins separately.

She accepted them with both hands — the way one accepts something alive.

"Thank you, Toma," she said.

I looked at her.

"They’re beautiful," I said.

"And valuable.

Grandfather told me about the price of gold.

It is gold, right?"

Louise nodded.

"They are valuable.

But not for the gold itself.

Their real value is the story they carry.

Thanks to them, we might discover things long lost."

I thought about it.

Then asked: "And the money?

To save the ocean?"

Louise smiled faintly.

"That will be all right.

Some of the finds can't be sold — they’ll go to museums.

But some will be auctioned."

"And with that money, we’ll create a fund to protect the ocean."

I looked at the pouch in her hands.

Far off, I heard the sea rumbling.

Ded, lying at my feet, raised his head and sniffed the air, as if sensing something.

And his voice in my mind said: "We’ve taken the first step.

Saving the ocean is right.

But first, we must save our island.

Restore its name.

Its strength.

Let them create the fund — but it must be registered here, on our free, independent island."

I looked at Louise: "Can the fund be registered on the island?"

Louise nodded.

"Of course, Toma.

It all starts here.

And since it all starts with the Heart of the Black Turtle, I think we should restore the island’s old name — The Island of the Black Turtle."

"Shall I represent you in this, Toma?"

To be continued...

Hank123

Chapter Five — The Heart of the Turtle ¶
¶
¶
Louise, Ded, and I headed back to the camp from the ~~sea~~plane.

The sun was climbing higher~~, heating the sand~~.

~~Activity~~(Something?) had already started all around.

Dr. Suresh Varma was giving orders not only to his team but to anyone who happened to cross his path.

Louise leaned over to me and whispered~~: ¶~~
,¶
¶
"He's from India.”

That’s why the captain didn’t shake his hand — the greeting was different."

She pressed her palms together at her chest: ¶
¶
¶
"It’s called namaste.”

It’s a way to show respect from the heart."

We practiced the gesture as we walked, laughing and bowing at each other.

When we reached Arina, I greeted her the same way~~, and she,~~; smiling, she returned the gesture.

~~And s~~Soon, a special research vessel w~~ould~~ill come, bringing equipment.

Scientists from all over the world w~~ould~~ill study the treasure.

~~Words were few, but i~~Inside, I felt as if something was filling up, like the rising tide.

I settled onto a mat nearby.

I looked at her.