A Tale of Dark Water
Prepare yourselves, dear friends, for a tale like to curl your hair is about to unfold.
We'd recently weighed anchor after spending a delightful, though unavoidable, hiatus on the beaches and in the loving hospitality of the beautiful tropic isle thanks to the quick thinking and expert seamanship of our new Navigator who, citing dehibilitating cowardice after the attack by the privateers, had opted to stay behind. The wind to our backs and the knowledge of safe waters ahead filled our sails and our hopes to overflowing, and off we were on yet another expedition, with quite a bit of fishing time to be made up after our tangential respite. As it vanished over the horizon, we bade our final farewells to the small island that had harbored us during the bucaneer's seige, but freedom, and riches, promised to be in our future.
As night fell, an eerie calm came over the sea. A body of water untroubled is far more dangerous than a stormy sea any day, and the water's surface shone like a mirror in the deepening gloom. Soon, the sky was pitch black, and the crew was becoming noticeably jumpy.
It being near suppertime and us being in open water as we were, I ordered the crew below deck to eat. Now, Blue Lips is as fine a fisherman as e'er I've met, but his true talents lie in the galley. On these longer voyages, food is often scarce save for the bounty of the sea, and were we to eat our own stores, we'd soon find that there'd be no profit to fund the next excursion. As such, we travel with long-lasting grains and dried meats. Oats are a mainstay, as are dried, salted potatos called "chips." We hadn't taken any food from the island, it being mostly fruit and short-lived victuals, which wouldn't survive or keep fresh very long out on the high seas.
As the crew ran below deck, a few passing the galley were heard to ask Blue Lips what the meal was to be. The boy replied:
"Well, yern day t'was Fish-Loaf Day... that'd make today Chip-Oat Day."
"Yar! I loves Chip-Oat Day!" The crewman responded.
And so the crew filled their bellies with as much of the scarfables as was possible, trying to put out of their minds the sense of foreboding that had been with them above deck, and which was waiting for them to return. Understandably, attempting to eat while haunted by such a dark and demonic sensation proved more difficult than some would have hoped, certainly more than Ol' Peg Leg was prepared for.
Of course, there's more than one way to keep one's spirits up while on the high seas. Luckily for the crew, Blue Lips was also an accomplished musician as well as an expert fry cook, and as he played a long-forgotten salt shanty, a tribute to one of the saltiest salts of all, we danced a seaman's jig to liven our spirits and warm our hearts.
In the end the food replenished our ebbing fortitude, and the frivolity on deck revived our mettle in the face of ominous seas. After the dancing, Blue Lips and I found ourselves slightly winded and light-headed. The food we ate during a voyage was meant to allay hunger and to keep one alive but little else, and did not provide for the occasional ful-force jig. The feeling would not last forever so, tired and malnourished though we were, we set about the night's business.
Ol' Peg Leg knew he was not to eat the night's catch. Without any catch in the hold, there'd be no future for the crew. Without a successful haul, we simply wouldn't be able to continue in the lives we'd chosen. As delcious as Blue Lips managed to make each meal, however, in the end it was hardly enough to keep us nourished from day to day, and this seemed to affect Ol' Peg Leg more than any of us. We'd seen his need for sustenance overcome his sensibilties before, and his inability to satiate the urge with the only other viable prey on the open sea. Feeling the weakness begin to drag his arms and legs behind him, Ol' Peg Leg employed an old sailor's trick for getting vital nutrients into the body which I'd not seen employed for quite some time.
At first, when I saw him staring at the implement, I didn't realize his plan. However, when I realized what he planned to do I tried everything in my power to stop him, for though these colloquial aids had their merits, they were sometimes dangerous and carried with them real consequences.
"Peggy," I said, as I am wont to call him, "please, don't think to do such an act! Yer stomach, swole and pale from days at sea, can't handle such a great barrel of nutrition all in one go!"
But I could see, he was resolute.
"Dear God, Peggy... what have you become?"
And in horror, I watched as my dear, dear friend put his life on the line, all in the name of ravenous hunger and the cold, unfeeling sea.
...
The next day, I had one of the cabin boys take a water-pump to the head, Ol' Peg Leg's experiment with his emergency nutritional supplements having gone rather sour and the resulting punishment doled out to the ship's facilities having led to an almost complete shut down of all civilized amenities aboard the vessel.
Later, Ol' Peg Leg was flogged.
...
As the sun set on yet another day, Blue Lips let cry with a "HEYO, HUP HUP!!!" from the ship's keel.
Evidently, in the small nook we'd afforded our Navigator as quarters, Blue Lips had found a shred of a map. The Navigator had taken everything else in his possession with him, being a rather untrusting sort, and must have let this shred drop by accident. At that moment, I didn't find it necessary to press Blue Lips about why he had been nosing around the man's effects, for the prospect of what this small peice of evidence held for us, and for our prosperity, seemed far more important.
In that small sliver of paper, I saw not only a mystery. I saw the chance for a better life, a life filled with something other than just fish and chips. A life filled with adventure, with salt and sea and air and blood! I saw a chance to free my crew from an existence licking blood off metal objects and eating haul to haul, living hand-to-mouth. Finally, we may have a chance at an existence other than the one we'd forged for ourselves. This slip of paper was our ticket out.
Unfortunately, without the Navigator on board, we were forced to rely on Ol' Peg Leg's skills direction which, while honed, were nowhere near as expert as the chinaman's had been. After a few false starts, we managed to find the correct heading, and were on our way to whatever it was that the scrap held for us.
As we neared our destination, once again the sea seemed to take on an uncharacteristic calm. A fog rolled over, and we could scarcely see the stern from the stem. As we moved through the mists, the crew remained high-spirited, looking forward to a life free of rotting fish and marauding pirates. A life of adventure.
Then... out of the fog... came the warnings.
We had followed the instructions perfectly. I couldn't understand why we'd been led to such a place as this. Were Peg Leg's bearing incorrect? Had this all been some cruel joke by the Navigator? Had someone sprung us a trap?
A soft breeze wafted over the deck, the merest sigh from the sea's bosom, and took the small piece of paper gingerly off the helm's rail and onto the deck, showing the reverse side of the scrap. We all stared.
Ol' Peg Leg stifled a scream. Blue Lips slunk into the shadows below deck. I stood there, one hand on the helm, staring at the slip of paper. The crew looked to me, in fear and in anger, as the sound of the ocean waters faded, and the darkness began to envelope the ship.
...
Caught: Gray Smoothhound Shark - 1
Days Until Next Voyage: 3
Outlook: Grim.
We'd recently weighed anchor after spending a delightful, though unavoidable, hiatus on the beaches and in the loving hospitality of the beautiful tropic isle thanks to the quick thinking and expert seamanship of our new Navigator who, citing dehibilitating cowardice after the attack by the privateers, had opted to stay behind. The wind to our backs and the knowledge of safe waters ahead filled our sails and our hopes to overflowing, and off we were on yet another expedition, with quite a bit of fishing time to be made up after our tangential respite. As it vanished over the horizon, we bade our final farewells to the small island that had harbored us during the bucaneer's seige, but freedom, and riches, promised to be in our future.
As night fell, an eerie calm came over the sea. A body of water untroubled is far more dangerous than a stormy sea any day, and the water's surface shone like a mirror in the deepening gloom. Soon, the sky was pitch black, and the crew was becoming noticeably jumpy.
It being near suppertime and us being in open water as we were, I ordered the crew below deck to eat. Now, Blue Lips is as fine a fisherman as e'er I've met, but his true talents lie in the galley. On these longer voyages, food is often scarce save for the bounty of the sea, and were we to eat our own stores, we'd soon find that there'd be no profit to fund the next excursion. As such, we travel with long-lasting grains and dried meats. Oats are a mainstay, as are dried, salted potatos called "chips." We hadn't taken any food from the island, it being mostly fruit and short-lived victuals, which wouldn't survive or keep fresh very long out on the high seas.
As the crew ran below deck, a few passing the galley were heard to ask Blue Lips what the meal was to be. The boy replied:
"Well, yern day t'was Fish-Loaf Day... that'd make today Chip-Oat Day."
"Yar! I loves Chip-Oat Day!" The crewman responded.
And so the crew filled their bellies with as much of the scarfables as was possible, trying to put out of their minds the sense of foreboding that had been with them above deck, and which was waiting for them to return. Understandably, attempting to eat while haunted by such a dark and demonic sensation proved more difficult than some would have hoped, certainly more than Ol' Peg Leg was prepared for.
Of course, there's more than one way to keep one's spirits up while on the high seas. Luckily for the crew, Blue Lips was also an accomplished musician as well as an expert fry cook, and as he played a long-forgotten salt shanty, a tribute to one of the saltiest salts of all, we danced a seaman's jig to liven our spirits and warm our hearts.
In the end the food replenished our ebbing fortitude, and the frivolity on deck revived our mettle in the face of ominous seas. After the dancing, Blue Lips and I found ourselves slightly winded and light-headed. The food we ate during a voyage was meant to allay hunger and to keep one alive but little else, and did not provide for the occasional ful-force jig. The feeling would not last forever so, tired and malnourished though we were, we set about the night's business.
Ol' Peg Leg knew he was not to eat the night's catch. Without any catch in the hold, there'd be no future for the crew. Without a successful haul, we simply wouldn't be able to continue in the lives we'd chosen. As delcious as Blue Lips managed to make each meal, however, in the end it was hardly enough to keep us nourished from day to day, and this seemed to affect Ol' Peg Leg more than any of us. We'd seen his need for sustenance overcome his sensibilties before, and his inability to satiate the urge with the only other viable prey on the open sea. Feeling the weakness begin to drag his arms and legs behind him, Ol' Peg Leg employed an old sailor's trick for getting vital nutrients into the body which I'd not seen employed for quite some time.
At first, when I saw him staring at the implement, I didn't realize his plan. However, when I realized what he planned to do I tried everything in my power to stop him, for though these colloquial aids had their merits, they were sometimes dangerous and carried with them real consequences.
"Peggy," I said, as I am wont to call him, "please, don't think to do such an act! Yer stomach, swole and pale from days at sea, can't handle such a great barrel of nutrition all in one go!"
But I could see, he was resolute.
"Dear God, Peggy... what have you become?"
And in horror, I watched as my dear, dear friend put his life on the line, all in the name of ravenous hunger and the cold, unfeeling sea.
...
The next day, I had one of the cabin boys take a water-pump to the head, Ol' Peg Leg's experiment with his emergency nutritional supplements having gone rather sour and the resulting punishment doled out to the ship's facilities having led to an almost complete shut down of all civilized amenities aboard the vessel.
Later, Ol' Peg Leg was flogged.
...
As the sun set on yet another day, Blue Lips let cry with a "HEYO, HUP HUP!!!" from the ship's keel.
Evidently, in the small nook we'd afforded our Navigator as quarters, Blue Lips had found a shred of a map. The Navigator had taken everything else in his possession with him, being a rather untrusting sort, and must have let this shred drop by accident. At that moment, I didn't find it necessary to press Blue Lips about why he had been nosing around the man's effects, for the prospect of what this small peice of evidence held for us, and for our prosperity, seemed far more important.
In that small sliver of paper, I saw not only a mystery. I saw the chance for a better life, a life filled with something other than just fish and chips. A life filled with adventure, with salt and sea and air and blood! I saw a chance to free my crew from an existence licking blood off metal objects and eating haul to haul, living hand-to-mouth. Finally, we may have a chance at an existence other than the one we'd forged for ourselves. This slip of paper was our ticket out.
Unfortunately, without the Navigator on board, we were forced to rely on Ol' Peg Leg's skills direction which, while honed, were nowhere near as expert as the chinaman's had been. After a few false starts, we managed to find the correct heading, and were on our way to whatever it was that the scrap held for us.
As we neared our destination, once again the sea seemed to take on an uncharacteristic calm. A fog rolled over, and we could scarcely see the stern from the stem. As we moved through the mists, the crew remained high-spirited, looking forward to a life free of rotting fish and marauding pirates. A life of adventure.
Then... out of the fog... came the warnings.
We had followed the instructions perfectly. I couldn't understand why we'd been led to such a place as this. Were Peg Leg's bearing incorrect? Had this all been some cruel joke by the Navigator? Had someone sprung us a trap?
A soft breeze wafted over the deck, the merest sigh from the sea's bosom, and took the small piece of paper gingerly off the helm's rail and onto the deck, showing the reverse side of the scrap. We all stared.
Ol' Peg Leg stifled a scream. Blue Lips slunk into the shadows below deck. I stood there, one hand on the helm, staring at the slip of paper. The crew looked to me, in fear and in anger, as the sound of the ocean waters faded, and the darkness began to envelope the ship.
...
Caught: Gray Smoothhound Shark - 1
Days Until Next Voyage: 3
Outlook: Grim.
posted by DeadLanguage | 3:54 PM
1 Comments:
Max... You never miss a beat. Two thumbs up... however, the photoshop of me catching birds... two thumbs DOWN
Post a Comment
<< Home