1) The Sea-Lung
So The Nameless Ship journeys to the south. A month out from the Ulterior Coast and the thick mists peculiar to this region churn aside to reveal that curious admixture of sea and air which constitutes the sea-lung. The mercury plummets in Dr. Haverstock’s instruments, though it doesn’t seem appreciably colder. The self-styled “adventurer” Keat, clinging to the rail of the fo’c’sle, observes that the peculiar consistency of the sea-lung itself somewhat resembles the mix from which one makes plum pudding, before that delicacy is steamed. Everyone ignores him.
The sea-lung’s form is gelid and viscous, and seems to heave away beneath the prow of the ship like some vast creature, breathing. As it swells it kisses the balks and timbers with a noise like the lip-smack of a gourmand, then pulls bashfully away.
Captain Mektoub, who has until now spent the best part of the voyage tending to his pipe in his stateroom, emerges into the fresh salt air. His hair curls wild about his head and his eyes bear a curious glaze, but—barely slurring—he orders the crew to make fast ropes to the hull. Then, he orders half the men overboard, to drag their vessel onward, while the other half maintain the sail; the effect of the following wind, he says, swaying only slightly, combined with the efforts of the crew straining at the hawsers should ensure that they make headway into the gelid mass before them.
Another of the ship’s company, a flabby, watery-eyed man who rejoices under the improbable moniker of Feuilleton—allegedly an exiled petty noble from a distant land far to the west, displaced by low treachery and forced to seek his fortune upon the seas—complains that this will surely slow the expedition down; he wishes to press on with the utmost haste and suggests turning about and finding another route before the vessel becomes inextricably stuck. He fears the competing ships which are sure to have been put to sea upon hearing of the object of their undertaking will have taken the longer route, around the Sea-lung, skirting the archipelago at the Ulterior Coast’s southeast tip; he has mentioned at length whilst dining that he considers the prompt fulfilment of their goal will surely bring fame and glory upon him, and thus restore him to his former position in his native lands.
Dr Haverstock notes that his consort, a short, dark-complected Zheck named Dhordi, rolls his eyes as his paramour theatrically declaims upon the deck. She warms to the little man further.
The front of the ship is now inextricably stuck in the thick, jelly-like mass. Mektoub grabs the first hawser and vaults the rail, landing adroitly though with a sad farting noise on the surface of the sea-lung below. At first it seems he might be swallowed entire, but the peculiar substance soon rebounds from the impact of his boots, and, thus propelled, he takes a great bound forward before the rope snaps taut behind him. The crew, doubtless shamed by the bravery of their captain, hasten to obey his order, and soon—though with prodigious effort—the ship is grinding its improbable way through the great turgid ocean of slime.
The young natural philosopher joins in with the task, taking her place at a rope between the bos’n, Hardee—a gent with a brooding countenance—and a deckhand whose face bears the tribal scars of the Southern Schmee. The amorphous nature of the substance which they are traversing is a great wonder to her. Despite her state of near-exhaustion, upon being relieved at the rope, her curiosity about the constitution of the medium in which they find themselves means that she endeavors to take a small sample, a task she undertakes using her pocket-knife. At length, having forced the keen edge through its slippery surface tension and sawed off a chunk, the sliver of sea-lung slips through her fingers and re-joins the whole.
Back on board, Keat, swigging grog, professes disgust at her discovery.
2) An Unfortunate Mishap
On the second day clear of the slime, Alrukh the helmsman gets into the captain’s stash, and falls asleep at the wheel. Feet sliding from beneath him on the greasy deck, he falls between the spokes just as a crosswind breasts the sails, and his neck is snapped like a twig. His corpse is deposited into the waiting deep with full honors, and Mektoub’s voice breaks from tears as he delivers his old friend’s eulogy.
3) At the Seaport of Agartha
They put in for provisions at Agartha, the bustling seaport that marks the furthest extent of the desert empire of the Khaghan of Adzh. A horror of gulls scream and fight constantly in the gutters, thrashing so violently that off-white plumage is often slashed with crimson bars. They shriek overhead from just before dawn until well after dusk, bickering as they settle on the uneven eaves of the buildings above the fish market. A great corniche of white stone rolls lazily around the Tomb of the Ancestors, the jade and lapis-lazuli extravagance that is reflected at sunset in the waters of the bay. Beyond, the desert stretches, scrubby and listless.
Dr Haverstock notes, with approval, the many great towers and architectural flourishes peculiar to the region.
At the bazaar, she purchases a cameo incrustation showing a lewd scene involving a young man and what appears to be a giant grasshopper: the pale stone of the relief and the strange greyish hue of the glass in which it is encased gives the impression that the subjects are made of bone. She finds it fascinating, but loses it that evening in a low saloon, in a game of chance.
The days ashore stretch languidly: sickly sweetish, cough-syrup smell of aniseed liquor, the noise of ice cubes clinking in a long glass. The long slow bubble of a narghile; sweat. The reek of the local black tobacco, leavened with tamarind. Glass after glass of strong black tea, cut with attar of roses and sweetened with raw honey. The city is home to a great many feral cats, who nestle amongst the goods in the market and drip from every windowsill in the heat. They squabble in alleyways; they get underfoot; they are tolerated by the city’s denizens with a fondness which, to the outsiders, seems indulgent.
A priest of the dominant local religion hears of the object of their quest and, thinking them mad, preaches a sermon of abomination in the main square, between the ornamental fountains. He recommends that his flock cast the entire crew out into the desert, lest their ship become inextricably wedged in the gulf that separates the two halves of the planet, and the rising floodwaters rise up and destroy the world entire. The crowd seems amused.
No one goes to the desert.
4) A Fine Display
A week out from Agartha a great school of wingéd nautili are seen off the starboard bow. The crew cheer, as this display is normally seen as a fortuitous omen. The bejeweled carapaces of these rare beasts are indeed a sight to behold, and provide respite from the monotony of the sea. The nautili, as if in response, cast out their distal nets and spume from their funnels.
The adventurer, Keat, tries to harpoon one of the animals, pronouncing that their exoskeletons will fetch a fine price. The crew unanimously decide to throw him overboard.
5) Going Back
Dr. Haverstock asks if they should go back for Keat, but the crew refuse point blank, averring that they hope he has been eaten by the nautili.
6) The Nameless Ship
Exactly why, enquires Dr. Haverstock, is your ship nameless?
Mektoub stirs from his pipe. He stares at her for some time through heavy-lidded eyes.
It is not nameless, comes the reply, somewhat muffled by a large quantity of perfumed smoke. It is called The Nameless Ship. That is its name.
Dr Haverstock does not press the matter further.
7) The City of Sighs
The Nameless Ship stops next in Dessiduo, the City of Sighs. Some forgotten tyrant passed an edict a thousand years ago and ever since, every afternoon on every street off-key piano scales are practiced in dusty rooms, their melancholy lilt drifting to the cusp of hearing through open windows where torn curtains flutter and tremble but will never, ever, be free. The people’s dress is mostly threadbare and drab. It rains constantly, blowing in nearly sideways off the bay and infiltrating every structure; the air is heavy, pregnant with a woe that may never birth. Every building seems stunted, crumbling as if from the weight of some great external trouble—and, possibly, too much sand in the mortar—and possesses a dread portal, heavily hasped and fearsomely studded. Conversation in the taverns is muted, the subjects dull and commonplace. The signature dish is a kind of gruel, served with a jelly made of boiled salt-fish and vinegar. After replenishing their stocks, the crew of The Nameless Ship do not linger overlong.
8) Life on Board
Monotony. The sea on this stretch of their journey is mostly flat, the wind fair to middling, the climate pleasant but unremarkable. Feuilleton cheats at cards, though clumsily, as if he wishes to be caught. His companion Dhordhi has not been seen for many days. Dr. Haverstock interviews several members of the crew, who hail from a variety of lands and represent many ethnicities and religions. She ascertains that there are many reasons why these people put to sea, but the most common reasons are poverty, recklessness, and boredom.
9) Weevils
Owing to an unfortunate incident involving a dodgy batch of jellied fish purchased in the City of Sighs, fresh food is running low. The ship’s biscuit is found to be crawling with the larvae of enormous weevils, some thicker than a thumb. Dhordhi cooks up a great deal of these creatures, which he seasons with salt he arrives at by slowly evaporating sea-water. Despite their revolting appearance, Dr. Haverstock allows that they are in fact rather tasty, and no more disturbing to consume than, say, a prawn. Feuilleton refuses to eat any, saying he’d rather starve. Dhordhi shrugs, and eats the spare portions himself.
10) Their Inner Life, After All
Seeking to replenish their stocks of provisions, The Nameless Ship puts ashore at the Small Isles, about which little is known. Dr. Haverstock finds herself fascinated by the inhabitants, who appear to live with all goods in common, eschew hierarchies and pay little heed to notions of privacy. They crowd around her at almost all moments and constantly ask questions. The questions and her responses to them are relayed to her by Khlat, a midshipman from a long line of sailors, taught the language by an uncle who served as a rate aboard one of the infrequent merchant ships that trade with the inhabitants for pearls.
Mektoub declares that The Nameless Ship shall put in for a good few days before undertaking the next, more hazardous leg of their journey, as the seas are calm, the weather clement, and the inhabitants friendly and more than willing to trade provisions for certain of the small stock of manufactured goods—tools, &c.—carried in the ship’s hold.
Dr Haverstock is surprised at the inhabitants’ extensive knowledge of the geography of the Ulterior Coast—evidently gleaned from prior contact with the pearl ships. She asks a host of questions of the islanders, which they answer with patience and good humor. She later learns from Khlat that the inhabitants are in the habit of constructing meticulously crafted falsehoods when questioned at length by outsiders, a pastime which they consider great sport amongst themselves. The evening after this revelation she looks at her notebook—filled with information on the islanders’ intricate genealogies, extensively described customs, complex political organization, elaborate histories, extravagantly bejeweled systems of myth, solemnly pious religious ceremonies and so forth—and takes another long sip of rum. Then she sighs, and decides that a book of lies might go some way toward illuminating the inner life of a culture, after all.
The heat this far south is prodigious; muggier than the dry sear of Agartha but leavened by sweet zephyrs that blow between the islands. The zephyrs smell faintly of jasmine and roasting pork, a delicacy much-loved by the islanders. It is with a heavy heart that the crew, a good deal fatter and happier than when they arrived, wave goodbye to the islanders and continue about their mission.
11) View from a Porthole
The soft blue light before a dawn; the gentle sawing of the ropes of the hammock on the joist above. Roil in your guts from last night’s grog. What is the captain’s great sadness, that he blots out with such immense quantities of narcotics? Out the porthole, the sun comes up, the horizon slashed with great swathes of flamingo and blood-orange. The constant, gentle roll of the sea, somehow simultaneously comforting and nauseating. The edges of the clouds, tremulous yet shimmeringly exact.
12) A Vessel in Distress
A week’s sail from the Small Isles, and the temperature has dropped more than one would credit. Dr Haverstock notes that she has taken to wearing her greatcoat, night and morn. A few days later, the lookout spies a vessel adrift six points off the bow, the internationally known flag of distress fluttering from the mainmast. No one stirs upon the decks, nor atop the rigging. After briefly debating the issue with the crew, Mektoub declares that honor demands they venture closer, to see if assistance is required.
Upon closing, gunports swing open in the vessel’s side, and the pirates within scour the deck of The Nameless Ship with a broadside o’ grape. Khlat falls to that first volley, as do many other rates and officers; the treacherous foe leap from hiding and unfurl both their sails and “the dread black colors”. Cursing the enemy for dogs, Mektoub orders that they turn tail and make a break. The buccaneer’s vessel, however, is a razee, whereas The Nameless Ship suffers from windage from her fore- and aftcastles. Besides, many of those who were topside in the rigging now lie dead or wounded upon the deck. Several more broadsides are exchanged as the ships fight down the wind, though none take such a toll as the first.
The distance closes rapidly, despite Mektoub’s skillful hand upon the helm. As grappling hooks strike timber the captain hands off the wheel to the cabin boy and gives the order to repel boarders.
The action is swift and brutal. Dr. Haverstock takes her place at the side of the crew, dispatching one tattooed brute with a horse-pistol and another with a stiletto. The attackers are soon beaten back to their own ship, where the battle continues. Mektoub cuts his way through the whirling melee on the poop and strikes down the enemy captain, whereupon his crew lose heart and surrender.
A blackguard amongst them, however, slaughters Mektoub through foul perfidy, by means of a coaching pistol concealed in his britches. Even as Mektoub falls, the cabin boy leaps upon the assassin and cudgels him to death upon the deck.
Among many other casualties is Feuilleton, who despite his difficult manner fought the action with valor. When Dhordhi, whose battle with a pirate had taken him to another part of the ship, learns of his lover’s fate, he falls prostrate upon Feuilleton’s corpse and will not be roused for several hours. Dr. Haverstock, nursing a wicked shiner, a broken finger, a nasty scrape down the flank from a billhook and a possible concussion, attempts to console him, to little avail. The cabin-boy takes to moping, though few pay him heed.
Hardee, the bos’n, assumes command, everyone serving above that rank being either dead or maimed. The remainder of the aggressors are put in a pinnace, to take their chances upon the sea. Hardee makes the decision to abandon their original vessel and take the freebooters’ ship for their own. Not only is she faster and better-armed but the losses they have suffered mean that they would be shorthanded were they to remain upon their original vessel. The remaining crew, therefore, tend to their wounded and strip The Nameless Ship of all they can fit in the razee before cutting her adrift. Cleaning out the cabins, Dr. Haverstock finds Mektoub’s stash and pipe, and toasts the man goodbye.
That night, she sleeps more soundly than she has in several months.
13) Dhordhi Delivers a Eulogy
He was pompous, and irascible and crude. He blundered through life. He drew attention to himself even when he didn’t mean to, then made things worse by trying to make amends. I have rarely met someone so awkward in their own skin. He was quick to anger, quick to resort to contumely, clumsy in word and gesture.
I have no idea if he was really a nobleman, if he really was a satrap, fallen from grace. He didn’t like it when pressed for details, though of course he brought the subject up with new acquaintances at every opportunity. Like so much in his life, when forced to go into specifics he’d become wary, as if you were trying to trap him in a lie. I never met any of his family, or ever learned from whence he really came, or where he was supposed to be satrap of.
Despite everything, he was the kindest man I’ve ever known. He looked after me through my illness, took jobs to pay for our lodgings that were clearly beneath him. In the depths of my despair, he’d comfort me more generously than anyone I’ve ever met. He was never knowingly unkind. We worked hard, saved up enough money to put ourselves forward as shareholders in this expedition. The prospect of this voyage’s completion was one of the rare things, I think, that made him truly happy.
It is as if a great hole has been bored through the heart of me.
14) The Cabin-Boy’s Version
For a drug-fiend, he was a kind and considerate lover. As a commander, though, he spared the lash only when he had to, and was given to strange whims. A brave man, though difficult to fathom. I am still young. I will love again. I know this.
Still.
Still.
15) The Object of Their Quest Draws Near
They move into an area thick with storms; the razee pitches savagely, and all hands are needed, either to join the bucket chain emptying the bilge from below or to stow the sails. Then, as if the creator of the world were naught but a cheap conjurer plying his trade in some tawdry theatre, the clouds part of a sudden, as if with a flourish. Before them, on either side, towering black cliffs stretch upward, cliffs glittering dour in the stormy light, cliffs glinting, cliffs made as it were of ebon glass; around their base the seas boil, and from the foam jut enormous promontories of stone, upon which the skeletons of other, unluckier ships lie shattered and forlorn.
This is the beginning of the End of the World.
16) The End of the World
Freezing winds assail them from random points of the compass. The ship is blown this way and that, coming perilously close to the savage rocks. Half the jib is torn away by a sudden gust from an unexpected quarter, taking three crew with it. The sheer cliffs tower to either side, racing past at enormous speed. Ice depends from the rigging, rimes the lanterns. Afore them, spray boils into the air. They ride waves hundreds of feet high, the razee standing near on her ends so that all they can see is the tortured purplish skies, then on the drop down the other side the world is all churn and seethe and all is water rushing toward the End of the World.
Hardee is at the wheel. Dhordhi runs back from the fo’c’sle, relaying orders from the lookout stationed there, for in such conditions it would be foolhardy to go into the rigging, let alone the nest. Dr Haverstock is forced to join Hardee in bracing the wheel; despite prodigious efforts the ship goes out from under them, turning sideways in a sudden lurching gyre. With a crack heard above the storm, the mainmast gives way, sweeping Dhordi overboard. The cabin boy runs about, screaming into the teeth of the gale; a spar takes him in the side of his head. The innards of his skull, laid open like an exhibit in a Cabinet of Curiosities, is a sight most distressing: the pale matter inside seems to throb in time with each howl of the wind, each lurch of the waves. Turning about, the ship is caught in an eddy; a swell comes over the side and away go silent Hardee and the cabin boy, still screaming horribly.
Dr Haverstock clings for dear life to the wheel as the ship heels over, near to capsizing, gathered up in some strange whim of the sea, some great gathering of water as if the world has drawn in breath in preparation for sending the ship to its doom. From this strange angle she watches the gulf yaw before them; it is like nothing she has ever seen. The noise is prodigious, destroying all thought, so loud it rattles the sternum and ribcage like a lunger’s dying cough. Improbably, as the wave builds before the Gulf, the ship seems to slide backwards up the gathering wall of water: Dr. Haverstock hangs between worlds, poised above eternity, fingernails bending to snap as she tries in vain to find purchase upon the slick, polished wood of the helm. Below, the void is all spray and turmoil; then, a writhing movement, a subtle transposition in the darkness below, as of something shifting within its own outlines despite not having an outline itself. A suggestion of movement, the mind’s eye tricking her, perhaps, into believing that some great maw is sucking the seas toward it, as if something unimaginably vast lurks below the gap that lies between the ends of the world.
She has not long to contemplate such matters. The next moment the wall of water reaches its zenith and topples forward. Then the ship is tumbling, end over end, off the edge of the world. Down it falls, down into the gulf, down into the heart of the maelstrom, to whatever waits below.
17) An Epilogue, of Sorts
Two months later The Nameless Ship is discovered, abandoned, adrift off the Small Isles. The inhabitants strip her of anything useful and much that isn’t, and sell certain items to the pearl traders, the next time they visit. The traders take her log back to the Ulterior Coast, where—after some debate—an unobtrusive plaque is unveiled upon the wharf she sailed from, as a tribute to the crew.
Each day, at dusk, the cabin-boy’s mother makes a pilgrimage down to the wharf. There, she wipes the gull-shit from the plaque. Every morning abed she watches the horizon, hoping, waiting, to see if her boy Shot the Gulf, and to learn of what came after.
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Nelson Stanley lives & works in Bristol, UK. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Old Moon Quarterly, The Dark, Vastarien, and Dark Void. |