by Rick Johnson
Astonished at how the conversation had changed, Red Whale blustered and hollered, “My crew is not goin’ ashore to be worked over with more of your pick-pocket finance! Take the gold and go pay someone to drop a boulder on your head! Now, get off my ship!”
JM Death, however, simply ignored Red Whale as if the Captain’s wrath were a bit of breeze. The Seagull pulled a watch from his pocket, peered at it, and furrowed his brow. “Captain,” he said, “you’ve now been tied up at the dock going on eighty-five minutes—with that additional time, and still none of your crew ashore taking advantage of Slizzer’s delights, and having declined Fancy Grace’s offer of a line of credit, I’m afraid that you owe me another thousand pounds of gold.”
Looking at his watch again, then motioning toward the pirates cruising on their sharks just a stone’s throw away, Death said, “There, Captain—you see that Fancy Grace awaits your decision. Is it going to be Muck and Crots for the crew, or Fancy Grace taking your ship and selling you all for slaves? With you tied up for almost ninety minutes and still not producing business for Slizzer, I fear that Fancy Grace requires an answer. You’ll notice the diamonds dazzling on Fancy Grace’s coat, as numerous as the stars in the sky,” Death continued. “Each one represents a ship taken for plunder—she just loves to keep track.”
Gazing at the whooping, ferocious marauders circling in the harbor, Red Whale could hear Fancy Grace howling above the din like a hungry wolf. Having no arms with which to give resistance, he faced the reality of surrendering his ship and crew. He face grew deathly grim and his frame trembled. It was not the terror of a coward, however, that moved him. It was the energy of a tireless captain considering and discarding plan after plan to save his ship.
Red Whale was about to concede defeat when BorMane suddenly stepped forward.
“So what’s a piece of t’ Maggon Dragon worth t’ ya?” he asked.
“The Maggon Dragon?” Death said, his eyes blazing with excitement.
“Aye, you heard me right,” BorMane replied.
“But the only one’s that’s seen the Maggon Dragon is those as died in its jaws and myself!” Death exclaimed.
“An add t’ that m’self!” BorMane said with a smile. “And proof of it’s right ’ere.” Pulling out the piece of dragon’s tail he wore on a chord around his neck, BorMane dangled it as he continued. “Now’s long ’bout’s three years past, I was sailin’ with Sabre Tusk d’Newolf—and we’s land’d on Maggon’s Island, not especially knowin’ where we were. Why, we’s takin’ on water n’ pickin’ fruit n’ then the Dragon comes on us fierce! Slashed up a few of our crew, till by the Anc’t Ones—I drove a harpoon up his gut—purest blessin’ or luck, call it as ya may.”
Red Whale gave BorMane a questioning glance.
BorMane ignored him and, walking up to Death, dangled the piece of dragon tail before him. “So, who’s tail do ya think this might’s be?”
“The Maggon Dragon,” Death replied slowly, his eyes wide as saucers.
“Thought ya might’a heard of the Maggon Dragon,” BorMane chuckled, “why that’s what happened ta your leg, ain’t it?”
“The first ship I sailed years ago…” Death began, staring at the piece of dried dragon tail, “…there was a mutiny, and the captain and those of us loyal to him were marooned on Maggon Island. The Dragon got everyone but me and the captain—well, except for my leg. The Dragon got that, curse him! The captain saved my life. We lived in a cave for nearly six months, keeping a fire going all the time to keep the Dragon away. We’d never go anywhere without torches—fire was the only thing the Dragon feared. We built a raft—always keeping a ring of fire burning around our worksite. Sometimes, the Dragon would just come right down and lay on the beach, watching us. Believe me, we never let that fire die down!”
Reaching out and touching the piece of dragon tail, Death continued. “When the raft was finished, we sailed away. We were picked up by a pirate ship and joined the crew—and that was my first escape from death, in this case the literal jaws of death.”
“So’s it may give ya some revenge ta wear a piece of that ol’ monster, eh?” BorMane said.
“Yash! I’d give anything to wear proof that the Maggon Dragon got its just desserts.”
“You let Cap’t Gumberpott and me go ta the Whale freighter station, and I’ll give you this piece of the Maggon Dragon’s tail,” BorMane said.
“Why, sir, I’d rather have a piece of that wicked beast,” the old seabird laughed, “than have clothes to wear for the rest of my life!”
Turning to Red Whale, the Seagull slapped him on the back. “Here you go, Cap’t Gummerpobb—I take your gold, and give half to Fancy Grace to buy nice. I let you and the Coyote go ashore to bargain with the Whale freighters—and, if you successfully make a deal with them, I give you half the gold back to pay them, but I keep the piece of Dragon tail.”
Red Whale felt encouraged, but also suspicious and troubled by Death’s offer. It seemed to provide a way to get Daring Dream out of the clutches of Death and Fancy Grace. But, if he promised half his gold to Death, and Death honored the bargain, would that leave enough gold to make a deal with the Whales for passage across the Stills? Red Whale looked hard at Death, studying his face for any sign that might suggest his true intentions. He had little reason to trust Death and his “business associates,” but on the other hand, what other option did he have to save Daring Dream and his crew?
“Is that all?” Red Whale asked.
“That’s all,” Death replied, smiling. “Load the gold onto the dock and give me the Dragon tail—then, you’re on your way to the Whales.”
“No,” Red Whale responded firmly. “I give you my word as an honorable beast that I will fulfill my part of the bargain, but the gold stays on the ship.”
Death again took the red cloth he had used to summon Fancy Grace from his pocket. Holding the cloth as if he were about to wave it again, he looked at Red Whale questioningly. “Would you prefer to deal with Fancy Grace on this matter?” Death inquired with a smug smile.
Red Whale hesitated a moment, casting a gaze around the deck at each of his crew. Then he gave the order: “Fishbum, have our ship’s gold loaded off on the dock.” Following suit, BorMane slipped off the cord holding the piece of Dragon tail and gave it to Death.
It took the better part of the day for the four-hundred bags of gold coins to be unloaded from the ship. Specially built to inhibit easy theft, the compartment holding the gold was constructed in the deepest reaches of the ship. The passage leading to the compartment was extremely narrow, more than twenty-feet long, and passable only by a single beast squeezing sideways through the opening.
All day long, Death complained about the slowness of unloading the gold. “What’s this,” he fumed, “if this doesn’t speed up, I may change my mind about the bargain we made.”
“Calm down, mate,” Red Whale replied, “we’ve only got one sea-beast small enough to squeeze through the passageway—and even if we had another, only one can go in the passage at a time anyway. And because they have to squeeze sideways, they can only carry two bags at a time anyway.”
“Whoever designed that storage plan was insane,” Death sighed, “ten hours and we’re still not done.”
“Or a genius,” Red Whale chuckled. “Sure made it hard for you to rob us.”
Between Drowning and Drowned
The sun was just sliding below the horizon when the last bags of gold were removed from Daring Dream.
Looking at Red Whale with disgust, Death snarled, “Now that you’ve enjoyed your little joke, get out of here—before I change my mind.”
“Will the Whale freighter station still be open this time of day?” Red Whale asked.
“Get out of here, you idiot!” Death yelled. “Anytime you go, you’ll be able to find out what you need to know about the Whale freighters. Now get going before I call Fancy Grace back!”
“Fishbum, you’re in charge until we get back,” Red Whale said
as he and BorMane left the ship and went off to find the Whale freighter station.
“Aye, aye, Capt’n!” he replied. “Good luck.”
Walking down the gangway onto the pier and heading up the street running along the harbor, Red Whale looked sideways at BorMane.
“When you told us the story about that piece of dragon tail before, you never said anything about a Maggon Dragon,” Red Whale observed. “Something tells me that not all the stories you tell are true—I thought you promised something when I took you on as crew?”
BorMane turned and grinned at Red Whale. “The only promise I made was not to tell any stories that would put your crew in danger,” he replied. “I think the story I told Death about the Maggon Dragon had the opposite result.”
“Aye,” Red Whale chuckled, “I was just lettin’ you know I noticed.”
Walking down the street running along the harborfront, the sea-beasts were surrounded by the sights and sounds of Crossports Slizzer. The town was gradually coming back to life following the daily Snooze. Eating establishments crowded every street and disorderly sea-beasts of every rank and condition swarmed the dives and vendors nearest the harborfront.
Red Whale, although he had sailed many seas and visited endless exotic ports, felt that he was thousands of miles from anything familiar. It was not that the houses looked strange—they did not. It was not that the beasts were curious in dress—they were no more odd-looking than other beasts he had encountered in his travels. No, it was the smell of the place that turned his senses upside down.
There was a muscular, thick-coated Badger roasting nuts in a spicy-smelling oil; a dark, broad-faced Fox, with pigtails reaching to his ankles, juggling burning incense balls; some swarthy Sheep, with dirty matted hair, selling pungent salamander kabobs; a big, round-eyed Goat, wearing a lizard-tail hat bristling with colorful fishhooks, smoking fish on racks in the street.
Everywhere they looked, Red Whale and BorMane saw braziers smoking, cook pots steaming, and fish, seaweed, clams, and every other type of seafood being unloaded at eating houses that stretched in every direction down the streets of Slizzer. On every corner, there were vendors with carts selling their stock in trade. Not only boiled lobster and baked fish, but also Most prepared their goods on small braziers, lighted with charcoal. There was even a strolling vendor, with a tiny brazier hooked over one arm, roasting corn and potato cakes. All of them sang their wares:
“Six o’clock and time to eat! Snapped n’ pickled lizard’s feet!”
“Frumming with toast! Frumming with toast!
Slapped and slathered Frumming with toast!”
“Pearl a pound! Pearl a pound! Pissts on sticks, Pearl a pound!”
Along the more crowded streets, some of the larger cafés had troupes of musicians and performers calling customers to come in and eat. At one such establishment, where a surging crowd of rough sea-beasts was elbowing to get in, a vile-looking, hulking Boar was pounding on a drum and singing out:
“Here’s Muck, and fine Crots, from Yobmahoy Bay,
They’re never more Slammed than they are today!
They never are roasted, and never are fried,
And never, never, ever artificially dyed.
Stuff them in now, and Snooze it off later,
Our Muck & Crots with cold jugs of d’Flater!
Check your knives at the door, put your cutlass at rest,
Suck up our Muck, and toss down our fine Crots—
There’s no other way, but to say they’re the best!
Beyond the prodigious eats, there was also a monstrous fights going on. Beasts going down the streets simply stepped aside as beasts flew through the air, fighting and wrestling. The fighting seemed so normal a part of life in Slizzer that—despite the struggling masses of beasts, punching and swearing at each other, and the flying bricks, rocks, and furniture—it went almost unnoticed.
CRASH! Two sea-beasts whirled past Red Whale, grappling at each other’s throats, smashing into a sidewalk café table, where several other sea-beasts were eating. In an instant those offended beasts joined the fracas—now ten beasts were cursing, biting, kicking, and howling for blood. BorMane jumped out of the way as a huge Boar dived past and tackled another sea-beast, who struggled free and pounded on the Boar with a chair. In an instant, a first-class brawl was spreading down the street. Except for the beasts involved, no one seemed to care. Everyone else went on with their business, seeming unconscious of the angry swearing, ferocious fighting, and flying blood and fur.
“So you see the wonders of Crossports Slizzer,” BorMane laughed as he and Red Whale worked their way through the fights and crowds. Red Whale agreed that the sights, sounds, and smells of Slizzer were, indeed, hard to resist. At one corner there was even a jovial sea-beast brandishing a cutlass, herding customers into a lizard roasting dive. Had Red Whale not had an urgent need to find the Whale freighter station, he might well have stepped into one of the joints and had a plate. But instead he pulled on BorMane’s arm every time he seemed to be wandering toward one of the cafés.
“Eye’s to the front, BorMane!” Red Whale said as he once again guided his wandering mate away from particularly enticing odors wafting from a Shark Chop House. “Our mates need our help—no time to stop and eat now.”
BorMane sighed and rejoined Red Whale. BorMane led Red Whale toward the cargo-handling area of the docks and, after walking several more blocks, he pointed to a street sign that said, Freighter Way. Turning down the narrow alley lined with warehouses, they picked their way through throngs of greasy, unshaven, muscular Roustabout Hares moving cargo to and from ships. Everywhere, barrels, crates, boxes, casks, and bundles of lizard skins and shark hides were going up and down, or moving from here to there.
It was not a jolly place. “Heave! Heave! Stain your backs! Heave!” Straining and struggling with heavy ropes and cargo, the Roustabouts cursed and swore at anything that came near them. They even pushed and shoved Red Whale and BorMane out of the way if they happened to stumble against them in the crowded, tight spaces of the alley.
Deciding that they should ask for directions to the Whale freighter station, they waited to speak to a towering Barge Goat who appeared to be of some importance. At least he was bellowing at a group of burly Roustabout Hares struggling with an overturned cart of fish. “Blast yar’t laz’n stumps! Fly! Fly! Lift yar’t stumps!” the Barge Goat roared.
The weary Hares, despite the evening chill, were shirtless in the heavy damp; even their coarse leggings sweat-soaked from the heavy lifting. Panting, their breath heaving from exertion, they weren’t in a mood to be hurried. “Shush yar’t gob, M’ster Billows! Narn a single one o’ us that eats at yar’t table. We’ll be loadin’ yar’t wagon right along. Just be shush’in yar’t gob!”
The rough-looking roustabouts, some with colored bandanas tied across their heads, others with snug cotton caps, one with a bowie knife stuck in his belt, another with a large piece of his ear missing, gave the Barge Goat surly looks as they returned to their work. Showing their contempt, the Hares thumped on barrels as they rolled them, giving beat to a swamp shanty wailed in the most tortured Barge Goat brogue:
’N Mis’tr B kissed his’elf in the mirror,
’n ’is crew b’gan to cheer.
Oh, oh, up he puckers, hav’in no fear.
’N he kissed his’self on the nose,
’n thanks from the ladies arose,
Oh, oh, no more, no more shall they fear.
No more, no more, no more shall they fear.
Mis’tr B has found ’is lovin’ own dear.
Oh, oh, he’s found ’is lovin’ own dear.
The Hares howled with glee. “We’ll be done in a lickety-cut, yar’t own lovin’ beauty! Har, har, har!” they laughed. Grumbling darkly, Mister Billows struck a match and puffed angrily on his long clay pipe, glaring at the Hares. “Blasted rob’nabb’it cargo weevils!” he fumed, muttering amidst the Hares’ raucous laughter.
As the Ba
rge Goat turned away from the Hares to return to other business, Red Whale stepped forward. “Excusing myself, sir, but where’d I find the Whale freighting station?”
“Gone, gone this week last—at least if’n you want shippin’!” the Barge Goat replied.
“Gone!” Red Whale exclaimed.
“Aye! And what ’bout that’s you don’t und’stand?” the Barge Goat said.
“But I’m desperate for their help,” Red Whale cried. “How can they be gone?”
“They run’s a four-month freightin’ route,” the Barge Goat responded. “Two month’s out stoppin’ at ports, then two month’s back stoppin’ at different ones.”
“Four months!” Red Whale moaned. “We can’t wait four months!”
“Which way’s you shippin’?”
“We’re bound for the Outer Rings and wanted to avoid the Ogress. So, we were lookin’ to the Whales to carry us across the Stills.”
“Four months,” the Barge Goat repeated. “No chance a’fore that. Only shippin’ runs are in directions where there’s breeze’in for sailin’ ships.”
Red Whale was furious. Surely Death had known the Whale freighters had departed! He had allowed Red Whale and BorMane to go on what he knew would be a disappointing trip. “Crinoo! Zarr!” Red Whale scowled as he and BorMane retraced their steps. “Oh, and he’s a cleaver one!”
Returning to Daring Dream at a rapid pace, Red Whale found Death lounging contendedly on the sacks of gold coins piled on the dock. A goodly number of Fancy Grace’s crew surrounded him, quietly peeling and eating shrimp. The ferocious pirates seemed to take no notice of Red Whale and BorMane. Being stripped naked to the waist, however, showcased the gruesome scars criss-crossing their bodies, sending a message impossible to ignore. Hatchets, knives, and cutlasses hung from wide belts at their waist. The purpose of the display of force was obvious to Red Whale.