Chapter 22 – All At Mist
The room seemed to sway disconcertingly as Ambrosius awoke. An intense dull pain pealed in his head and a sharp, stinging pain in his left hand. He held his palm in front of his bleary eyes and saw the gash, and as he did so last night's memories flooded back to him. The room took another pitch and he unceremoniously sat up and vomited to one side. It was at this point that he realised that it was not actually in a normal bed, but a hammock. Groaning softly, Ambrosius wiped his mouth and looked about him. He was in a ill-lit room with small, round port-holes for windows and hammocks strung up on either side. Nobody else was about. Ambrosius made a concerted effort to swallow his sickness and stood up. The room was definitely swaying. With faltering steps he tottered unsteadily to the door and opened it. There was a ladder in front of him, which led to an open hatch through which the sky was visible. Seeing no other means of egress, he climbed up the ladder and was greeted by a cool breeze on his face.
“Yo ho, there, monkey boy!” hailed a voice from above. Ambrosius was now standing on worn, woodworm-nibbled boards, into which sank three masts, the middle one being the largest. The voice had come from the largest of the masts. It originated from a familiar face.
“Mungo,” muttered Ambrosius.
“Aye matey, Mungo it is. Don't think you can mutter my name and me not hear – when you're in a force ten with thunder deafening you and your life depending on the hails of your shipmates then you soon learn to lip-read.” Mungo climbed down the mast and jumped the last five foot onto the deck. The white of his red-spotted bandanna was brilliantly clean, in stark comparison to his grimy face.
“Where's Fishmael?” asked Ambrosius groggily. He looked around and was relieved to see that they had not left the docks yet. The squalor of the quayside stretched out reassuringly on the port side.
“He's below, in the cap'ns quarters. You won't see him out in daylight.”
“I think I signed something I shouldn't have...”
“Har har, bad luck. You signed in blood, son; a fisherman's signature. Death is the only way out, and if you break your contract you'll soon be familiar with that particular escape route – every fisherman in the City will be baying for your blood, and not to wet their quills in.”
“So I can't just tell him I've changed my mind?”
“Har, har, no chance in hell. You're up for one hell of a voyage.”
Something suddenly occurred to Ambrosius. “Just a minute, if there's no fish left, what are we doing going fishing?”
“You mean you signed the contract before y'knew?”
Ambrosius nodded dismally.
“Oh ho, you're in for a big surprise. I'll let the cap'n tell you when he's ready.”
“How long have I got before we set sail?”
“We cast off at midnight tonight. Cap'n Fishmael says he navigates best by the light of Xiphias.” Mungo looked about him and then lowered his voice. “Devil knows what his pilotage would be like in the day, that's all I'm saying.”
“I... I need to go ashore for... supplies.”
“Very good. Oh, and don't even think about it. Running away, that is. If you break a deal with Fishmael he'll hunt you to the depths of hell and make a collage of your entrails. Mark my words.”
Ambrosius felt numb as he walked through the docklands. He had signed his life away in one stupid night of debauchery. He didn't know where he was going, so it must have been by some innate autopilot that he ended up at Stan's hovel an hour later. He entered into the gloom, to see Stan sitting in his armchair next to the fire.
“You know, for some reason I was expecting you to turn up.”
“I'm in trouble,” said Ambrosius.
“I was expecting you to say that as well.”
“I got drunk last night.”
“Tut tut,” said Stan.
“I signed something. In blood.”
“Ah,” said Stan. “The fisherman's signature. Who have you shipped with, sir?”
“His name is Fishmael.”
Stan closed his eyes. “I know the name. Everyone does. So you signed up with a captain who has never set foot on a ship that hasn't sunk, to go on a fishing trip just as all the fish have run out?”
Ambrosius swallowed hard. “You could put it like that, yes.”
“ And your quest for your sweetheart?”
“She hates me.”
“Well, things could be worse. I'm not sure exactly how, but they could be.”
Ambrosius sat in the chair next to Stan. “What am I going to do, Stan?”
“You're going to go out into the mist sea, and, in all probability, not come back. I sense this had some appeal to you when you were seeking absolution last night, but in the cold light of day it seems a little less attractive.”
“I'm going to run away.”
“Impossible. Fishmael will find you. Legend has it that every chink on his cutlass is where it has struck a vertebra.”
“I could go back to the treetops but...”
Stan raised an eyebrow.
Ambrosius ran his hand through his hair. “They're starving in the treetops, Stan.
There really are no more fish.”
“They only have one fishing ground, they cannot go further afield to find their dinner,” said Stan. “The City fishermen have a greater range, which explains why they took longer to run out of fish. Still, we're in the same position as the tree-dwellers now. People are going to die if someone doesn't pull several million fish out their hat. Perhaps the best place for you will be out to sea, away from all the misery and death.”
“But I don't know a thing about sailing or fishing!”
Stan let out a long sigh. He looked tired. “You know, this City is going to turn into a living hell. When people get hungry all higher human faculties go out the window. The biggest and the toughest will kill for their dinner, and the weak – that's me and you, Ambrosius – won't last a minute. Flee from it all Ambrosius, find somewhere beyond the mist where all this is just a memory.”
“Maybe you're right Stan,” Ambrosius said reluctantly. “What are you going to do?”
“Me? Nothing.”
“You're just going to sit here?”
“Yes.”
“I can't let you, Stan. You said that Fate had something more for you. Well, I want Fate on my side. Come with me on this doomed voyage, Stan. I know it's madness but it's better than sitting here like an old man to die.”
Stan was silent. He shook his head. “No. I am not a fisherman. It is not in my nature.”
“Then go against your nature. Stan, you helped me when I was lost in this City with barely a penny to my name. You made me great. I can't just leave you here to wither away.”
“Ship with you, you say? Do you know what they say about Fishmael?” said Stan suddenly, changing tack. “Some say he is a fool, an incompetent captain who sinks every ship he has set foot on. More insightful people say he is the Devil's Devil, a punishment sent from above on evil; evil squared. Do you think I am afraid of Davy Jones' locker? I am not. Hell also, whilst I fear it, I have learnt to accept. But that man will take you to worse places than that – he will take you to a demon's hell and further, a perdition beyond fire, beyond brimstone, beyond weeping and gnashing of teeth. Once you ship with him you may as well abandon all hope, yes, and abandon all hope of hope as well.”
“I thought you said I would be better off sailing away from this place?”
“You've caught me,” said Stan. “It is a trait I have, giving advice to others that I would not follow myself. You see, I have all these irrational beliefs. When I make my own judgements, I apply them to myself. When I make judgements about what others should do, I use only concrete logic, not superstition. ”
“I say you should always try and get perspective on your life by viewing it as another person would,” said Ambrosius. “If you could leave your body and talk to yourself, what would you say to do?”
“Hmm,” emitted Stan. “You have a point. I would probably tell me to jump onto that ship as quickly as possible.”
“Then come, Stan. God and the Devil are just modules in our brain. Sociability and survival, that's their function. An animal will fight for its life much more vigorously if it thinks hell awaits the loser.”
“I don't agree,” Stan sighed, then reached forward and poked the fire with a stick he kept by the hearth for that purpose. “But you are a friend – that is a rarity – and how could I abandon a friend? I will ship with you, be it to hell or beyond.”
“You make me feel bad for persuading you.”
“Perhaps you should feel bad.”
“Nonsense, Stan,” said Ambrosius. “Fishmael may be mad or a fool but he is no devil. He can sink us and that's our worst fear.”
“I hope you're right.”
Darkness. Friend of the dispossessed, shroud of evil, accessory to theft, violence, drunkenness, lust. Darkness. By which we know light, draw together, rest, recover, replenish. And it came over the City in all its evil and good, seeking out the nooks and crannies first in long, arcing shadows and then boldly striding across street and square. Through this gathering dusk walked Ambrosius and Stan, two men by Fate decreed to leave civilisation, to strike forth into the unknown, to fish in a fishless world. They had spent the day visiting their old haunts, restaurants and bars, not to get drunk, but for old times" sake, to say goodbye to their old life. Now the gloaming was electric with tension and worry, for news of the empty fishing boats had spread by word of mouth to every last living soul in the great metropolis. As night fell there was all the usual drunkenness and debauchery, but now with a strangely earnest glimmer in its eye, as if it was being pursued not out of will but out of desperation. It was nine o'clock when Stan and Ambrosius got to the docks.
“Which ship is it?” asked Stan.
“I don't know its name. It's big and yellow.”
“All the Company ships are big and yellow,” said Stan. “Perhaps its anonymity, though, will be the feature by which we may recognise it. If I remember the rumours, Fishmael has a tendency not to name his ships. You see, the first one he owned he named after his late wife Bess. The second one he named Bess II, following, of course, the sinking of the first. He went on in this fashion, but eventually thought it both ridiculous and off-putting to any potential crewmen to have so many numerals on her side. We should look for the ship with no name.”
It did not take them long to find it. They crossed the gangplank, looking down into the mist that rolled choppily underneath, before jumping down onto the deck.
“Avast! A barnacle's attached to ye hull, shipmate!” cried Mungo from the quarterdeck.
Jerry was there too, and he looked up from where he was coiling some rope by the mainmast. His hackles went up as soon as he saw Stan.
“This is my friend Stan,” said Ambrosius. “He would like to ship with us.”
“Like to ship with use, aye, matey?” asked Jerry.
“Yes,” said Stan.
“Ever dredged up a boulder in your nets and had the ship pitch over ninety degrees afore y'could cut it loose?”
“No,” said Stan.
“Ever lost both masts in a storm and had to jury-rig one out of a felled young hooktree?”
“No,” said Stan.
“Ever had your petrel engine break down and been forced to catch another bird with nought but a net and some breadcrumbs?”
“No,” said Stan.
“Ever hit a rock full pace and been thrown overboard, only to be saved by your own nets?”
“No,” said Stan.
“Well, son, have you ever lived at all?”
Stan was silent.
Mungo burst into peals of laughter from the quarterdeck. “Har, har, har, Jerry's only messing with you, matey, only messing. Eh Jerry? Har, har, welcome aboard matey. Jerry here is in charge of the ship's roster whilst the cap'n is below, he'll let you sign.”
Jerry held Stan's gaze levelly. “Of course, only joking, mate.” He said without a smile. “Only joking. Don't listen to me. Here, sign up, sign up. Make your mark – why not? Any man can be a fisherman after all, 'tis his right.”
Stan looked to Ambrosius, who shrugged. “I'll sign,” said Stan. Stan, Ambrosius, Jerry and Mungo went below and Jerry pulled the roster and a quill out of a draw in the sleeping quarters.
“What shall we use for ink?” asked Jerry. “You know the fisherman's way.”
“Come now, none of that, Jerry,” said Mungo. “Fishmael may be happy to pull out that cutlass o' his and carve up every poor young hopeful, but we're better than that.
Here, there's some sepia at the back of the draw somewhere... here.” Mungo pulled out a bottle of thick, black-red ink.
“'Tis bad luck for him to sign in ink rather than blood,” said Jerry, eyeing Stan.
“We don't want a jinx on us.”
“What a load of old cod, Jerry. Let 'im sign and be done with it.”
“Very well, but mind I warned you. I've a good sense for things like this.” Jerry took the bottle of ink off Mungo and wetted the nib of the quill in it, then passed the pen to Stan. “Make your mark then. Be one of us.”
Stan took the pen but hesitated for a second. “No going back once I sign?”
“No going back.”
Stan nodded slowly, taking a sidelong glance at Ambrosius. Then he scrawled his signature.
“Har, har,” trumpeted Mungo. “Yer an old tar like the rest of us now,” he said, grinning devilishly. “I say we have tonight's tot o ' rum now to celebrate, what say you Jerry?”
They had their tot of rum and went back out on deck. Xiphias waxed gibbous above them, sending silvery shadows through the cables, sheets and shrouds, antimony sprites that seemed to man the rigging with quicksilver limbs.
“They're ghosts,” said Jerry, seeing Ambrosius staring up at the rivulets of moonlight adance above. “Ghosts of those gone down to the mist. Back in the days of sail, when I was a boy, there were many a time I would make safe a sail, only to find a minute later the knots I tied were unpicked. Cheeky, they are, and dangerous with it.
Fishmael shouts at 'em, commands 'em to do his bidding. That's why his crew never numbers more than a handful – he has all the hands he needs.”
“Har, har, that and nobody wants to ship with him because he's as mad as bats and's sunk every ship he's ever commanded. Why, we only shipped with 'im because no other ships are going out, what with there being no more fish and all.”
Jerry shot Mungo a glare. “Aye, in this world you can look for causes shallow or deep. If you only sound the shallows, then you'll see a mad captain. If you look deeper then you'll see a man followed by ghosts, mark my words.”
“Oh, and what deep reason did you ship for, Jerry? Was it not double pay that lured you onto this ghost-ship?”
Jerry was silent.
“Come on, 'tis nearly midnight,” said Mungo, grinning. “The cap'n will be on deck soon enough, then we'll 'ave to make way.”
****