Prelude
His eyes were locked on the still ocean. The Sun’s heat was beating down, reflecting from the skin of the water, creating dazzling displays of lights across the captain’s face. He had stood there for some time, holding onto the railing of the tiny whaling vessel.
It had been over six months since they departed from Nantucket, another three passed as they hunted down a small pod sighted off of the coast. Owen, the Captain, the newly appointed Captain, assured his father that he could do this though it didn't really matter. He died from a cough. A cough often followed by fits of coughing, often followed by blood.
Nine months since they left. What has it been now? two months into the hunt they were attacked by something in the ocean. A part of the pod? Perhaps the legendary Kraken itself? It doesn’t matter, whomever would have seen it is dead now. twenty-eight men, now there were only seven, 8 if you include the boy.
The repairs to the ship were slow but they kept the old girl afloat. That was when the wind stopped. Supplies were already low and to split the remainder of them amongst seven men and one growing boy, caused them to dwindle even faster. Soon, even the dead looked appetizing.
They were appetizing.
“Captain Owen.” A stern voice sounded next to him, breaking his gaze. He looked over to his left side to see his First Mate Walter.
“Yes Walter?” He asked.
“There is no more food. Not a crumb left. We can suck marrow from the bones but it will not suffice.” Walter admitted, his gaze sternly locked with the young Captain’s.
Twenty-eight men. Ten fell overboard, another eight completely vanished in the night; two left to rot in the hold. two left for the devouring maw of seven hungry men. And one little boy. Perhaps it was just the voice in Owen’s head, or maybe a thought slipped from the judgment Walter tried to contain. This wouldn’t have happened under your father’s watch. It teased him. Owen’s gaze broke and he returned his attention to the calm water.
“Not even a fucking current.” Owen muttered beneath his breath, only loud enough for Walter to hear.
“Aye, the calmest waters I have ever seen, serene, placid, almost as if it were fake.” Walter admitted, turning his gaze out to the calm waters of the deep ocean. “Never seen waters be this calm before, that’s for sure.”
It was beautiful, Walter thought. The surface of the water was glassy and flat, reflecting the sky above them as if it were a liquid mirror. Had the situation not been so dire he’d probably enjoy the quiet serenity of it all. If only Owen would have pulled into port at Reykjavik they would have plenty of food and supplies to strive this out. Walter squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t think that now, it will only lead to resentment.
But the boy was chasing a pipe dream. Get the big catch so he could sit pretty in daddy’s lap. Walter couldn’t control it, that worming voice of resentment finding a way into every corner of his thoughts. Hard to sit in the lap of a dead man.
“I think this will be my last trip.” Walter admitted, his eyes opening, glazed over, hypnotized by the lights dancing across his vision.
Owen looked over at him. Walter had been by his fathers side long before Owen took command. Longer, even before Owen was conceived by God. He had fought alongside him in the Seven Years War, became a violent privateer during the American Revolution and when his father finally decided on settling into Nantucket; it was Walter who found him the whaling ship they currently stand on.
Owen returned his gaze to the sea. “Very well. You will be dearly missed. Uncle.”
Those words. It was like a shot into Walter’s heart. He knew what Owen was doing, pulling up an old title the boy hadn’t called him since he turned thirteen years of age. Uncle, it was manipulation at best, downright disrespectful at worst. Walter squeezed his eyes shut again. No, the boy means what he says. You will be missed.
“There are other matters that need attending.” Walter said. “Seven men with no food, one cabin boy with a bright future. When do we draw lots?”
It was a dreaded question, Walter knew that, Owen knew that. “What of the corpses from the whale attack?” Owen asked, his voice quivering on the word whale. A whale wouldn’t have caused that kind of damage. If a whale had attacked, this little vessel would be twenty thousand leagues below them. No, the damage to this ship was purposeful, it was to delay, to leave the old hunk of wood astray in the deepest ocean from the furthest of shores.
Walter shook his head. “I told you Captain,” he began, “ain’t nothing left but bones, and we’ll need more sustenance than that if we are going to be out here for much longer.”
Something in Walter’s tone felt off. It was accusatory, or perhaps that was Owen’s imagination. Walter couldn’t possibly suspect that Owen is PURPOSELY sitting in place. “What of the repairs?”
“She’ll stay afloat,” Walter assured him, “but it won’t do us much good without wind.”
Owen nodded his head. He knew that to be true. “And how long have we been here?”
Walter shrugged. “Been out for at least nine months, at least one of those months were spent here repairing the ship.” Walter started to count down on his fingers. “I’m not sure. At least a month though. Maybe three.”
“Can the men not wait for a while longer? There is bound to be someone to come along soon.” Owen tried to rationalize.
“We can wait for natural causes if it will sit better on ye conscious, but the longer we wait...”
“The less meat there will be to share.” Owen admitted. He sucked in a sharp breath and then pawed at the sweat beading on his upper lip. “Very well. Gather the men, only the men.”
“You want to leave Carter out of lots?” Walter asked. “I agree a boy of 14 shouldn’t have to participate but Carter is pretty pigheaded, he’ll be upset.”
Owen shrugged, his gaze still captivated by the dazzling lights along the water’s skin. Walter didn’t respond. He did what any First Mate would. Follow his orders. He had been doing it for thirty plus years, now limping by at the ripe old age of seventy-three. The Captain’s gaze did not break.
There was something wrong with it. The water was darker, the skin of it thicker. Voices swirled in Owen’s head fabricated from a cacophony of familiarity. All of them reminded him of the failure he has become. All of them reminded him of how good the flesh tastes, the heart most of all. A long, silvery tendril of saliva slipped from his lips and he quickly wiped it away with the cuff of his sleeve. “Get a grip.” Owen chastised himself. Still there was a strange call erupting from the sky above. One only he could hear. A calling to eat. To witness. To understand.
