The Beast of Cretacea (17 page)

“You believe him?”

“I’ve known him my whole life. . . .”

Gwen looks out at the phosphorescence. “You realize what you’re saying? That — at least according to this person you know — by the time our missions are over, there might not be an Earth to return to?”

Ishmael nods solemnly. “I know it sounds extreme, but something in my gut tells me he might be right.”

The cloudy white sea sloshes against the ship’s hull. From somewhere in the distance comes the splash of an unseen creature. “You really don’t have people back there?” Ishmael asks.

Gwen glances away. When she looks back at him, her eyes are glittery with tears. “It’s always been just me.”

The harsh memories of life in the foundling home before he met Archie are always with Ishmael. He’d only had a few years of it. It’s hard to imagine how Gwen could have survived a whole lifetime of it. No wonder she’s so wary and suspicious of everyone.

Gwen wipes her eyes. “You never saw this.”

“Don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

She gazes out at the luminescence again. “It’s strange. I hated it back there, but still it’s sad to think of it becoming uninhabitable. Even at its worst, it’s still home. Know what I mean?”

Ishmael knows exactly what she means.

“Hold your fire!” Starbuck orders.

Wearing rain gear and pressed against the port bulwark, the
Pequod
’s crew brace themselves against the whipping wind and stormy seas. Not far away, Chase Boats Two and Three bob in a confusion of red lines. Now and then, the black tips of a terrafin’s wings poke through the surface, and the sea erupts when the creature tries to fight free of the tangle.

“Sir! I’ve got a clear shot!” Tashtego shouts from the
Pequod
’s bow where he’s aiming down with the big harpoon cannon.

“I said, hold your fire!” Starbuck yells back through the wind and driving rain. The hood of his black slicker dips low on his head, and rainwater speckles his black glasses.

“But sir, I can do it!” Tashtego pleads. Blood from a gash under his left eye dribbles down into his thick mustache. In the mess, he may be easygoing and jovial, but when it comes to putting a harpoon in a beast, he’s as intense as any other stickman.

“No!” Starbuck shouts back.

An hour ago Daggoo harpooned his first terrafin. Tashtego’s boat joined his and the two chase boats began to tow the creature in. It was a contest to see if they could make it back to the
Pequod
before the intensifying storm made the task impossible. But as the squall grew stronger, something went wrong; the towlines crossed and snagged, and both crews were forced to abandon the task. In the chaos, Daggoo went missing — and Starbuck is unwilling to let Tashtego fire until they locate him.

The terrafin and a morass of lines drift only a few dozen yards off the
Pequod
’s bow. This terrafin looks twice the size of the one that killed Abdul. Despite the winds gusting under fast-moving dark-gray clouds, and cracks of lightning followed by sharp booms of thunder, the crew are riveted.

“There!” A sailor points. Barely visible in the wind-whipped swells, Daggoo is caught in the snarl of lines and gear. It’s impossible to tell if the harpooner is merely stunned, or injured — or worse.

Step,
clank,
step,
clank . . .
Through the crowd limps Ahab. Strands of rain-soaked black hair whip his face, and his long black coat is sodden. “Well, Mr. Starbuck, where’s my terrafin?”

“It’s Daggoo, sir.” Starbuck points at the jumble of lines below. “He’s in Tashtego’s line of fire.”

The captain squints down and is quiet for several moments. “Let’s not let
this
one escape, shall we?” he grumbles and limps away. Step,
clank,
step,
clank . . .

Through those dark, round glasses Starbuck stares at Ahab’s back, then turns to the crowd of sailors on the rocking deck. “I need one more stick in that terrafin before we winch it in. But someone’s going to have to get close enough that he doesn’t accidentally stick Daggoo.”

The crew goes silent. Wind whistles through the cranes overhead. No one’s forgotten what happened the last time Starbuck asked for a volunteer to harpoon a terrafin.

“That beast could be ten feet below the surface,” mutters one sailor near Ishmael. “You’d have to get right on top of him to get a stick in.”

“Close enough that it could thrash ya to death,” adds another.

“In these waves ya might even have to stick it by hand,” says a third. “Now, there’s a suicide mission.”

“I’m not asking for comments,” Starbuck snaps in the rain and wind. “Just a volunteer. Who’ll go for four thousand?”

Ishmael’s heart jumps. That’s enough to pay for the damage to the chase boat and still have Ψ3,000 to help Petra and Joachim. But it’s not enough to save them.

“Five thousand?”

Sailors glance at one another. It’s a tantalizing number but still less than he needs. Ishmael’s muscles tense. If someone else volunteers before he does, he’ll lose the opportunity.

“Six thousand?”

A fortune, and maybe enough. The temptation is too great. Ishmael starts to raise his hand, but Queequeg grabs his arm and whispers harshly, “Are you crazy?”

Ishmael’s eyes meet Starbuck’s. The first mate turns away. “Seven thousand? Anyone?”

Ishmael can’t wrest his arm from Queequeg’s grasp, but he can speak out: “I’ll do it, sir!”

In the whipping gale, Starbuck locks eyes with him. “I’m looking for someone to put a stick in the terrafin, not in Daggoo.”

“I’ll put the stick where I’m paid to put it,” Ishmael replies.

The others regard him with mixed expressions, some in awe, others rolling their eyes, certain he just sealed his fate. Gwen hisses, “Ishmael, don’t.”

“It’s suicide, friend,” Queequeg agrees. “You don’t stand a chance.”

But Ishmael can’t help thinking about Joachim and Petra and how they may not have a chance either, unless he can send Old Ben enough money, and soon. One stick in that terrafin could do it.

“Eight thousand?” Starbuck offers, ignoring Ishmael.

Ishmael tears himself away from Queequeg. “Me, sir! I’m serious!”

“Get it out of your head, boy,” Starbuck growls. “You know what your chances are?”

Instantly murmurs start filtering through the crowd.

“What’s this?”

“Never heard the first mate turn down anyone willin’ to take the bait before.”

“Playin’ favorites, is he?”

The spidery wrinkles around Starbuck’s hidden eyes deepen. With frustrated resignation, he orders, “Put Chase Boat Four down on the starboard side!”

The
Pequod
continues to pitch in the heaving seas. Bracing himself against a crane mast, rain slashing into his eyes, Ishmael buckles on a PFD. On the wet, seesawing deck, the crowds of sailors stand wide-legged for balance, watching silently. Someone comes toward him, but the wind and rain are so fierce it’s hard to see who until she’s close.

“Don’t do it.” Gwen grasps a turnbuckle to keep from falling. “Don’t you realize that deal to get your foster parents off Earth could be a scam? There’ll be other chances to make money. This is stupid.”

Ishmael shakes his head. “If it’s not a scam and my friend back on Earth is right, there may not be time for other chances.”

Gwen contemplates him with pursed lips, then wearily shakes her head and picks up a PFD.

“What are you doing?” Ishmael asks.

She gives him an exasperated look. “How are you going to do it alone? Position the boat over the terrafin
and
harpoon it?” She closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. “You’re an idiot. . . . But I could use the money, too.”

“Who said I’ll share it?” asks Ishmael.

Gwen shouts to Starbuck. “You said ten thousand, right?”

“No, I said —” the first mate begins.

“Ten thousand, nothing less,” Gwen cuts him short. “You couldn’t get anyone to do it alone for seven thousand. Think you’ll find any other two sailors who’ll do it for ten?”

Starbuck thinks it over. “All right. Ten thousand for the both of you.”

Gwen faces Ishmael. “Five and alive beats eight dead, eh?”

Ishmael could argue. Ψ5,000 might not be enough to save his foster parents. But Gwen’s right that he can’t do it alone.

Now Queequeg approaches, windmilling his arms for balance until he grabs a windlass to steady himself. “Don’t do this, friends. It’s insane.”

“Too late,” Gwen says.

Queequeg looks from Gwen to Ishmael, then reaches for a PFD. “Then I’m coming, too.”

Ishmael wipes rain from his eyes. It’s bad enough that he’s gotten Gwen mixed up in this mess; he can’t stand the thought of endangering
two
of his friends. “No. It won’t be worth it if we have to divide the bait between the three of us.”

“You think I care about the money?” Queequeg says. “I just don’t want to go to sleep tonight without seeing your ugly face.”

But before he can slip on the PFD, Starbuck yanks it away. “Absolutely not. I can’t afford to lose any more harpooners today. You’re not going, Queequeg. That’s an order, understand?”

Queequeg lowers his head and backs away. Meanwhile, Bunta looks at Gwen strapping on her PFD and snorts derisively. “You really think you’ll make a difference out there, princess?”

“More of a difference than you’ve ever made,” Gwen shoots back.

The sailors around Bunta chuckle, and the big sailor grits his steel teeth. By now, Chase Boat Four has been lowered on the lee side of the ship, where the hull protects it from the crashing waves and driving rain. But the cargo rope they must climb down slams against the hull each time the ship heaves.

The others start to drift back to the port side. Ishmael is about to climb over the starboard rail when out of the wind and rain comes Fedallah, carrying a long, thin harpoon with a barbed point and a padded grip. His white hair is whipping wildly, and with no rain gear to protect him, his uniform is soaked and clinging to his wiry frame.

“Use this,” he says, his wet face close to Ishmael’s. But before he hands the stick over, he tests the tip with his thumb and, appearing displeased, pulls a whetstone from his pocket and starts to hone the point. “Remember the soft spot behind the head. Drive the stick in as deep as possible.”

But just when he finishes sharpening and holds the harpoon out to Ishmael, a hand reaches through the rain and grabs the handle. It’s Queequeg, wearing a PFD.

“You’re disobeying Starbuck’s orders,” Ishmael warns.

“That’ll only be a problem if I’m still alive after this.” Grasping the harpoon, Queequeg starts to climb over the rail. “I swear, Ish, Gwen’s right: This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Ishmael turns back to Fedallah to thank him, but the harpooner has disappeared.

Gwen, Queequeg, and Ishmael climb down the swinging cargo rope and into the rocking chase boat. Ishmael starts the RTG, but it instantly stalls. “Thought Perth fixed it!” he shouts to Queequeg.

“I thought so, too!” Queequeg shouts back.

This is bad. The task ahead will be dangerous enough without having an engine that might or might not work. Ishmael tries again, and this time the RTG catches. They start around the
Pequod
’s stern and slam into the fierce waves, wind, and rain. Crouched beside Ishmael at the console, Gwen grips the grab rail while the chase boat rises and dives over the cresting waves.

“What’s your plan?” she shouts.

“Circle upwind, cut the engine, and drift down!” Ishmael yells back. “In these heavy seas and with all that line floating above it, hopefully the terrafin won’t notice us.”

It’s not long before Ishmael has positioned the pitching chase boat upwind of the terrafin. As soon as he cuts the engine, the chase boat turns sideways in the waves and begins to rock violently, the crew holding tight to keep from being tossed out. From this angle it’s impossible to spot Daggoo in the raucous seas. Is he still there, or has he vanished beneath the waves?

The fierce winds propel the chase boat closer. It’s obvious now why Fedallah gave them the thin harpoon: In these conditions it would be impossible to maneuver the boat to the right spot over the terrafin to fire the harpoon gun. Ishmael indicates that Gwen should take the wheel. “As soon as we drift into the tangle,” he shouts, “Queek and I’ll try to get Daggoo. If anything goes wrong, you start the engine and get out of here!”

“They’re not paying us to save Daggoo!” Gwen yells over the howling wind.

“You’d leave him to drown?” Ishmael shouts back.

Gwen shakes her head in frustration but takes over behind the wheel.

They reach the tangle of lines. Below the surface the dark shadow of the terrafin looks even bigger than it did from the
Pequod
’s deck. Trying not to think about how violent and dangerous the beast that killed Abdul was, Ishmael spots Daggoo bobbing half a dozen feet away. He’s being kept afloat by a PFD, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s conscious, or even alive.

Bracing themselves, Queequeg and Ishmael pull at the mess of confused ropes and manage to haul Daggoo close enough for Ishmael to place his hand on the harpooner’s neck.

“I feel a pulse!” Ishmael shouts. Together, he and Queequeg start to pull the listless sailor into the chase boat. Below, the terrafin looms like a bomb waiting to explode.