Chapter 32 – Into the Maelstrom
The jolly boat fell into the mist and was swamped by the greenish-white foam before the swim-bladder buoyancy tanks, stimulated by the vapour, kicked in and brought the boat bobbing to the surface. Everything was slanted. The roar now was deafening and Fishmael, being light and easily carried along by the current, was carried ahead of the main ship.
“Here, fishy fish!” was his cry as he tied the end of his harpoon rope to one of the thwarts. He turned to stare the fish, now swirling round and round on the ever-steepening sea, his eyes rolling in nystagmus like a drunk as he followed his prey. “I am so happy to see you again, my very own worst enemy. Can you see my harpoon? I will pierce your belly-button for you, but I have no diamond stud to put in it.”
From the deck, Mungo, Stan and Ambrosius watched, and Jerry called out from the topmast.
“He's madder than I thought! See how he rushes towards his own fate, just because he thinks he can have revenge on the fish first.”
“Aye, har, har, he's batty all right. But what about us sane 'uns. We're as doomed as he is - I'd give us ten minutes more o' this mortal coil and then we're at the centre of this thing and dashed on the mistbed for sure.”
“We might live yet,” said Ambrosius. “Does anyone know where this thing goes?”
“The abyss, and the rocks at the bottom of it. That's our fate,” said Mungo.
“Well, I'm not giving up that easily. Here, lash yourselves to something that'll float. Perhaps it will just whirl us round and throw us out in a different direction.”
“Har, har, no chance of that but there's nothing to loose by trying. I'll get some rope.”
Mungo disappeared below and came out carrying some lengths of spare rope. “Here you go, lash your bones to a barrel or stave, that way your skeleton will be bobbing about merrily for the next hundred years. Har, har, what a glamorous grave!”
Stan and Ambrosius did not find such dark humour amusing. They lashed themselves to thwarts and Mungo lashed himself to a barrel.
“Here, Jerry, you still alive up there?” shouted Mungo.
“Aye,” replied the lofty sailor. “But not for much longer.”
“You got any rope up there?”
“No, but I reckon if I brace myself against the sides of the crow's nest it'll take a crowbar to shift me. I'll be like a bass in a barrel.”
“Har, har. Well, say your prayers gentlemen, and watch your last spectacle, for that diabolic old Fishmael is about to launch a dart at the fish.”
The crew's attention was directed once more into the maelstrom, where Fishmael was just twenty metres or so from the leviathanic bass. There was no terror in the eyes of the fish: she appeared to be enjoying every minute of her perilous descent. There was even a vague smile on her fishy lips, in sharp contrast to the manic sneer on the captain's face. Fishmael lobbed the harpoon at the fish, but he was weak w ith hunger and it fell short, disappearing down into the mist to one side until the rope caught tight. Fishmael hauled the harpoon back on board, clearly exhausted by the effort but driven by the hatred that burned in his boiler rooms. He sank to his knees, genuflect before the fish, and steadied himself for another throw. Lightning flashed and the harpoon shot from an arm that seemed moved by Thor himself. And then it came on like a seizure, an ichthyan ictus – the Fish was struck, just below the gill. She bucked and whinnied in pain.
“The damned scumbag, he's got her,” said Ambrosius, onboard the ship. “It's not right.”
And it wasn't. The moment the fish was speared the heavens opened and sheets of rain lashed down, as if to wash the wound. Fishmael's jolly boat, tiny in comparison to the house-sized fish, skittered across the waves as she tried to propel herself away, the rope from the harpoon pinging as it took the strain.
“Well, at least he'll be carried to his death,” said Stan. “The fish has changed tack – she's going with the current now, not against it. He'll be at the centre of the whirlpool in no time.”
Rain quested down into the heart of the vortex, churning the mist into a frothing broth that glowed and fizzed angrily. Now came another fork of lightning, only this time not from above: the mist below, churned by the maelstrom, had built up such a charge that electricity was arcing and snaking about in its funnel. A zap of illumination glinted off something metallic protruding from the fish's lower lip like a trendy piercing – Ambrosius' jaw fell open as he recognised the hook as the very same one he had used in his year-long fishathon. He had unwittingly come close to landing the fish himself.
“Har, har, like the jaws of hell!” cried Mungo, as another fork of energy lit up the vortex.
Ambrosius gulped, as did Stan. Up in the topmast, Jerry swayed about alarmingly as the ship leaned from one side to another. He had his eyes closed and was trying to think nice, non-fatal thoughts.
“Onward ichthyian soldiers,
Marching off to trawl...”
Mungo was doing his best to keep everyone's spirits up, but his song was all but drowned out by the crash and howl of the tempest and the boom of the vortex, which sent vibrations up through the boards and made it seem as if the very world were in a washing machine.
Down in the maelstrom, Fishmael was cackling like a demon, savouring every tremble of the fish's thrashings through the line, as if her pain were nectar dripping down a style. Here, for the watching crew to witness, was the oldest battle known; the battle between good and evil; weak, ethereal, suffering good and strong, corporeal, revelling evil.
The fish thrashed frantically, flipping feistily, flopping ferociously, floridly fighting for freedom from the harpoon. Lightning was above, lightning was below, the mist was whipped up into a complex broth by rain, wind and electricity. Every movement of the frightened fish's tail-fin seemed to rouse the mist up into new heights of chaos; a witches cauldron could not be more arcane, more enchanted with potency. And then something happened: the fish's blood, washed down by the rain, hit the eye of the maelstrom. Every fork of electricity was suddenly a pulsing vein of some great unfathomable being, the rain his sweat and tears, the wind his breath. Of course, the maelstrom was confined by the laws of physics, but it was being extremely creative with them. Peculiar forms flashed and vanished in the vortex, unruly rune-like bolts of electricity, wailing phantoms of light, guttural ululations that made the sailors tremble; all save Fishmael, who was focused only on the fish. With the blood of the fish, the vortex was given some bizarre spirit of life. Like a great cyclops opening its eye for the first time, a great iris of black opened at the heart of the whirlpool.
“We're heading straight for it!” screamed Ambrosius, trembling uncontrollably on the mist-swamped deck of the main ship, lashed and clinging to the thwart on which rested his last chances of further life. How strange that, in an emergency, we put faith in small objects – a safety line, a helmet, a button marked “STOP” – and suddenly they symbolise our hope in all its material essence. So it was that the sailors were bound to their ship, their island, their wooden, half-stove, sinking, diving, rolling, pitching, part-swamped hope, bound to it for dear life, bound to it for want of anything better. Somewhere in each of them there was some spark, some tiny, faltering spark that urged them to hang in there, for surely the universe is not so cruel a place as to snatch their beloved perspective from them so soon, when they had so much more to learn. For if there is a good higher power, then the lives of the sailors may be preserved in goodness, to allow them to live a full and happy life. If, on the other hand, there is an evil higher power, then the lives of the sailors would surely again be preserved, for the world is full of suffering and they would be stuck on it for another few decades. But then, there is the chance that there is a higher power who is brutally indifferent to the plight of mere mortals, or there is no higher power at all, in which case these poor sailors might as well swallow their tongues.
Never closer were such higher issues to these lowly mariners. Round and round their heads their incantations went, as round and round the whirlpool they went went, faster and faster. The ship's deck was now horizontal, and they were glad of their lashings. The main ship, Fishmael and the fish were now very close together, being forced into an ever-smaller circle by the vortex. The fish bucked and brayed, but she could not shake the cruel harpoon from its side. Then, for a second, a peculiar, victorious look crossed over the fish's face, as if her pain had merely been an act. Then, whipping her lissome body round, she swam with all her might against the current. Within a minute she had crossed the bow of the main ship, the line still projecting out from her side and back into the jolly boat, where Fishmael raved. The fish swam round the main ship, bringing the harpoon line round the mast. Fishmael hurled obscenities from his puny vessel, but he was powerless to stop the fish from having its way – he was left as purple and pointless as a plum. Round and round the mast the fish swam, until the harpoon line was well and truly secured to the mainmast. Fish can't laugh. This is true. However, they can open their mouths in a wide grin and rock from side to side a little so as to suggest mirth. The fish did this, and then, with one joyous flip of her tail, jumped clean out the mist. She described a perfect parabola through the air, then flopped bodily into the black iris in the heart of the maelstrom, whereupon she promptly disappeared in a flash of light and a smell of peppermint.
“Pull us in, do ye,” cried Fishmael. “Very well, I'll follow ye fishy, follow ye to the ends of this globe and beyond – into the heart of darkness I'll descend, and then I'll strike a light, puff on my pipe to guide me and slake my cutlass with ye blood!”
With that, the jolly boat was pulled into the dark disc in the middle of the vortex and vanished.
“Er...” said Stan.
“Er... said Ambrosius.
“Er...” said Mungo.
“Er...” said Jerry.
Er indeed.
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