9 Tales Told in the Dark 21

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  “We lost a guy to the sea out there. His name was Jake Henson. He was a smart ass little prick and lazy to boot, but that don’t make it any less tragic. Normally Captain Jack won’t drop pots anywhere near Zhemchug; none of the captains will. It’s unspoken. But,” he paused, “it’s almost always damn good fishing out there. If you’re crazy enough to fish it you’ll pull up pots with four and five hundred in each one every time. And Captain Jack was desperate, just like he was this last trip. It’s a big quota this year, and the usual places all seemed pretty dried up.

  “Anyways, we’re over that damn drop pulling pots that’d been soaking for a day or so. Jake’s at the rail throwing the hook ‘cause he had a hell of an arm. He said he was a pretty good pitcher in high school. The guy never missed. Never. Well, he runs the rope through and I’m working the hydraulics as usual. All of a sudden, he’s screaming like a madman and grabbing onto the rail. I didn’t even have time to react. No one did. It had gotten coiled around his leg and dragged him right over the rail before any our frozen asses could even break in his direction. But here’s the funny thing: what was wrapped around this poor fucker’s leg didn’t look any rope I’ve ever seen. It looked like a tentacle, thicker than any rope we had. It had green suckers on it that looked kind of fuzzy on the inside on the pads.

  “I only saw it for about three seconds before he had cleared the rail and gone in. By the time I hit the rail and looked over it was nothing but dark, angry sea. I don’t know if anyone else saw it. I’ve never asked.”

  Mychael had gone a shade or two lighter. He swallowed convulsively.

  “I didn’t know we had ever lost anyone.”

  “You never asked, kid. And we don’t volunteer that information. Hell, every captain has lost someone if he’s done it long enough or if he’s stupid enough to fish Zhemchug. They won’t tell you that on that fucking TV show. It’s a trade secret” he finished with a bitter laugh.

  The two men sat in silence for a time. Rodney stared through the wall, lost in the memory of Jake Henson and the tentacle. Mychael chewed his fingernails.

  Finally Rodney spoke. “Crazy shit, right? I know. I lied to you a little bit, bruddah. I did come to tell you that Captain Jack wants you on full time, but I also came down here ‘cause I knew you’d talked to Rex. He come to me probably as soon as you left his room.”

  “So, I’m not batshit crazy?” he asked eagerly.

  “Crazy? What we do is crazy. You get out there in the middle of the Bering and your ass is hanging out over the last great unknown left on this planet. My Grandda knew better than to go anywhere near Zhemchug. All of the Aleut do. It’s the greedy ass white men who can’t stay away from all of the gold moving around on the bottom. I’ll tell you one thing, though: Jake was having dreams. He talked about a great city under the waves with huge columns and angled blocks. Oh, we laughed at him sitting there in the galley over dinner. But, I don’t find it so funny now. No sir.”

  Mychael shot out of his chair. “I’ve got to talk to Captain Jack and tell him not to go back there. I’ve got to-“

  “No!” Rodney shouted as he clamped an impossibly strong, callused hand on Mychael’s shoulder and pushed him back down into the chair. “Don’t you dare go doing a fool thing like that. You’ll never set foot on the Maria ever again if you do that. He’ll boot your ass off so fast it’ll make your head spin. You hear me, kid?”

  Rodney’s hand still had his shoulder in a vise grip.

  “Yeah, man. I got it. Just let go of my damn shoulder before you break it.”

  Rodney let go, grinning sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, bruddah, but you got to listen to me. That was a black day on our ship. Captain Jack won’t even talk about it with me, and I been with him for 17 years! It’s serious shit. You can’t never talk to Captain Jack about Jake or your dream or Zhemchug at all.”

  “I’ve got it, Rodney. Just don’t give me the iron claw again. You’re too fucking strong for your own good.”

  Rodney smiled and let out his big, booming laugh.

  “I know. I’m sorry, kid. Now let’s go grab a couple dozen beers and cash those checks, yeah?”

  The ink on the checks was barely dry when an incredibly drunk Captain Jack called Mychael to congratulate him and tell him that they had made such good time (and good money) that he had decided to go back out for another Opilio run. The rest of the fleet, he explained, were still out there toiling away further to the north. They could swing out and make another quick run of three or four days and still beat the rest of the fleet back while doubling their money.

  “Where are we going this time, Captain?” Mychael asked with dread in his heart.

  “Same place, kid. We’re going back to Zhemchug one more time. I’ll be honest: I’m not getting any younger and I really need this payday. The Drop is risky business, I know that firsthand, but the weather looks good and I’ve got too many bills for superstition” Captain Jack replied, his voice dripping with avarice.

  “Is that a good idea, sir?”

  “Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing, boy? Have I made a mistake bringing you back?” His tone was ominous and silken.

  “No, sir. I trust you. If you say it’s cool then I say let’s make some more money. I need a new car!”

  “That’s the spirit, kid. Be on the dock at 9am.”

  At 9am, Mychael stepped aboard the Sweet Maria for the return trip to Zhemchug. The deck was busy with life: Billy was bagging bait, Rex was tying pots, and Rodney glared at him from the corner of his eye as he turned a wrench on the guts of the hydraulics. The other deckhands were below deck stowing the gear and tightening everything down.

  The choo-choo cloud was puffing from Captain Jack’s window.

  “You’re on time. That makes me happy.” Captain Jack’s gruff voice boomed from the loudspeaker mounted over the door leading to the galley and the bunks.

  Mychael saluted the opaque glare of the wheelhouse window as he headed below deck to store his gear. He also wanted to find Rex.

  He found Rex taping up the picture of his fiancée, Brandy, on the underside of the bunk above him when he entered the barracks. His eyes darted to Mychael and he grinned.

  “And the last little crab takes the bait. Good to see you, greenie.”

  “Gotta hang up your spanking material, eh Rex?”

  “Well, you won’t cuddle up with me so I’ve gotta make due. She has way better tits than you anyways, no matter what the captain calls you.”

  “Got me there. So, man….are we still good?”

  “Hell yeah. Ain’t no thing, my man. I was just looking out for you. I guess Rodney warned you too that Captain Jack is very superstitious about the place we’re going. You already know that by now though, huh?”

  “Uh-huh. Got it. Nice collusion by the way.”

  “Collusion? What the fuck does that mean, brainiac?”

  Mychael snorted laughter. “It means you two were in on it together. But I get it. And I appreciate it. At least I’ve got someone looking out for me.”

  “Looking out for ourselves, too. We may not like going out to the Drop any more than the Captain does, but we’re out here to get paid, too. We need you. You’re pretty good out there on the deck, and you don’t buckle like a belt when the shit gets hairy. That counts for a lot.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Rex stood up and stretched his gangly frame. He yawned. “Take it as such. Now, enough with the niceties. Let’s get up there and finish up the shit work before Captain Jack starts thinking we’re down here sucking each other off or some crazy shit like that. He’s funny like that.”

  Mychael grimaced. “That’s the last thing I want him thinking. Let’s hit it.”

  The two men walked up the narrow stairwell and out into the early morning sunshine of Dutch Harbor.

  The pulse was building in Mychael. The wound on his shoulder had healed completely, although it now looked more vaginal than ever. The flesh was a tender, c
oral pink. The edges of the rapidly scarred tissue were rock hard. The original slash in the middle was achingly tender, like the head of a ripe pimple.

  It had begun to pulse and ache from the moment they left the harbor and headed towards Zhemchug Canyon. As their speed increased and the miles rolled on Mychael realized that had he been driving the ship, he wouldn’t need any navigation charts or compasses to find the way back to the Drop.

  The throbbing pulse in his shoulder would lead him there. It increased with every advancing mile. Mychael’s disquietude became unease and then outright terror.

  Captain Jack drove the Sweet Maria at breakneck speed over the unnaturally calm seas toward what felt, to Mychael, like doom. Mychael sat next to the bait station with his back against the wall watching the Captain’s smoke stack continuously churn. Every time they locked eyes, he became surer that his mind was being read and his secret was out. The Captain’s lips moved in a liturgical fashion. Shadows swirled behind him in the darkness of the wheelhouse.

  The fear tightened its hold on him by degrees. A pack of cigarettes was chain smoked in quick succession, then another. Something was calling him and the Captain back to Zhemchug. The other members of the crew seemed to fade into the background until it felt like the two of them were the only ones left on board.

  “Mychael, get your ass up here!” Captain Jack’s voice boomed through the speaker over his head. Locking eyes again through the wheelhouse glass, Mychael sat up with a groan and crossed the deck. He was nearly to the stairs when he heard a soft English voice from behind him.

  “He knows, boy. He always knows.”

  Mychael stopped and turned to find Barry squinting at him from behind the smoke trailing off of the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His slump-shouldered posture and leering grin intimidated Mychael.

  Mychael’s voice was shaking. “He knows what? There’s nothing to know.”

  “The old Captain, nothing gets by him. He was in his cups last night at the pub, and he got to raving about all of the bad omens he’s been seein’. Those crazy green crab rattled him pretty good, too. He says the Maria has a pall on her. I don’t think he’s wrong.”

  “Then why does he want to go back so bad?”

  The look on Barry’s normally placid face was intense and wild. “I don’t have the foggiest, boy” he said, “but I know he feels like we’re going to hit the mother lode and the risk is worth the reward. That’s enough to lure him back out to The Drop.”

  “I’m scared, Barry. I can feel something really bad out there. It feels like-“

  “Get up here, boy!!” The loudspeaker crackled with the yelling strain of Captain Jack’s voice.

  Mychael made double-time up through the heavy iron door, around and up the stairs, and into Captain Jack’s wheelhouse.

  He found the captain facing the sea in his throne-sized chair. His arm drifted slowly out and gestured at the first mate’s chair beside his.

  “Have a seat, boy. Been meanin’ to talk to you.” His voice sounded gravelly and wet at the same time. Captain Jack barked out a harsh cough and snubbed out his cigarette, then immediately lit another one. Another harsh cough followed the lighting.

  “Is everything okay, Captain Jack? Am I in trouble?” Mychael asked timidly.

  “Quit yer cowerin’, boy. I talk and you listen, got it?” He didn’t wait for a reply.

  “I know you’ve heard we’re goin’ back out over The Drop or, as it is properly known, Zhemchug Canyon. That damn limey bastard can’t keep his mouth shut. Never could,” he sighed, “oh well, nothing to be done about it now except lay the truth out there plain for ya’.”

  Captain Jack turned to face Mychael for the first time. The shock must have been clearly visible upon his face: Captain Jack smiled as he took another deep drag off of his unfiltered cigarette. He appeared to have aged horribly in the last few days. The right side of his face sagged deeply. The eye on that side rolled madly, seemingly of its own accord. The left side of his face was in its normal position, but the eye was bright and horribly alive. It glared at Mychael through a haze of red. The white was no longer visible. The top of his moustache was a vague pink color, as if blood had spilled there and been hastily wiped away.

  Mychael couldn’t help himself. “Holy shit, Captain,” he stuttered, “are you okay? Should we be going out to The Drop?”

  Captain Jack gave that rictus grin once more. “No, boy. We probably shouldn’t be, but we are just the same. I’ve got a chance to kill two birds with one stone. We’ve got one hell of a quota to meet this season, and the fishin’ out at The Drop is dynamite…at least for me.” He paused and stared deeply at Mychael.

  “For you, Captain?”

  “Fishin’ has always been good for me out there. The other captains in the fleet avoid it because it’s shit fishin’ for them, but I’m of the old blood. That place has called to me since I was a wee slip of a boy. I think it calls to you, too.”

  Mychael tried not to let the surprise show on his face. So, Rex or Rodney did already talk to him he thought in dismay.

  “You’ve been actin’ awful funny ever since the last time we were out over The Drop. Seems to affect you, it does. I know the feeling, kid. The first time my Daddy brought me out here, it was 1968. Felt like a magnet was pullin’ my fucking guts out. You know that feeling?” he asked as he leaned in close. His eye rolled horribly. His breath smelled like the sea.

  Mychael wanted to lie. He really did. What came out instead was “Yes, sir.”

  He grinned, and this time he looked like the old Captain Jack. “That’s good, boy. Smart of you not to lie. I feel it, too. It’s startin’ up again like it did in my Granddaddy’s day. I think I can finally find it now and complete the cycle.”

  Mychael started to speak. Captain Jack raised one gnarled finger to stop him.

  “I talk. You listen. You see, boy, that place out there holds some of the richest fishin’ in all of the Bering Sea for those that it calls. That’s reason enough for us to trek our greedy asses out there and get to work. But-“, he paused, “it also holds a treasure that’s been promised to my family for generations. It’s the dagger of The Old Ones. Looks like a mating between a crucifix and a wicked, nasty dagger, so it does. Made out of solid gold with a big gem in the center was how I always heard it. It belongs to me. I been fishin’ for it for years, makin’ the necessary sacrifices to get it, and my time has come round at last. I mean, just look at me! Why else would I be changin’ like this unless it was a sign that it was time to take my prize?”

  In his zeal, Captain Jack didn’t read the look of guilt swimming across Mychael’s face. He was becoming more animated with each passing word.

  “I selected you very carefully from the dozens of phone calls and the piles of applications that came across my desk for this very sought after position. There is a shitload of men who think they are tough enough to handle this gig. I was just looking for the one who would be the spark that would light the place back up and bring me my TREASURE!” He was now yelling.

  “I’ll do my best, Captain Jack. Even if I don’t have fuck-all of a clue as to what you are talking about, sir.” Mychael hoped it sounded convincing.

  “Don’t you, boy? Have ya’ not been dreaming crazy? Have ya’ not been feeling the call of that gash, that place, in the bottom of the sea? It’s calling you, boy. You know it’s true,” he leaned in to kissing distance, “Ain’t it?” Mychael could smell Johnnie Walker on his breath.

  “I’ll do anything I can to help you, Captain. Anything at all.”

  Captain Jack leaned back in his chair and resumed his steady stare out at the Bering Sea. “That’s a good answer, boy. Now go and be my beacon.”

  Mychael left the wheelhouse in record time, glad to be free of the captain’s penetrating glare and slack face.

  For the next three days, the crew of the Sweet Maria fished an unnaturally calm Bering Sea over the depths of Zhemchug Canyon. The bounty was on the verge of ridiculo
us; the light pots had over five hundred quality crab in them and the monsters had as much as one thousand per. Records were broken and fortunes were made. The quota was doubled and then tripled. They fished until they could not squeeze a single crab more into the storage tanks.

  The men of the Sweet Maria became more and more ecstatic with the insane haul they were pulling from the depths. Captain Jack became more and more enraged in his silence from the wheelhouse. His prize was not yet found, and he was becoming very paranoid.

  It was dusk on day four of the Sweet Maria’s fishing over The Drop when Captain Jack finally snapped. It happened as the waves began to swell, the weather began to turn, and the sea began to undulate.

  “MYCHAEL, GET YOUR ASS UP HERE!” came the shout over the speaker after the crew had just sat down to light up their smokes and catch a breath.

  “Sounds like he ain’t too happy with you, bruddah. Better go see what he wants.” Rodney winked at him.

  Mychael got up from his place against the wall and carefully made his way across the rolling deck. His own smokestack trailed out behind him as he made his way to the wheelhouse. The clang of the iron door sounded like the shutting of the prison bars. Each time he put a foot on the worn-out wooden steps leading up to the wheelhouse it sounded, to his heart, like a step closer to execution.

  The heavy oak door to Captain Jack Ryland’s wheelhouse was open just a crack. The light through the crack was green and tinged with smoke. Mychael could smell Johnnie Walker on top and a much more unpleasant smell underneath. It was the sweet smell of flyblown meat, of something rotting in the sun.

  Mychael knew that the smell underneath meant bad things for the captain and for him. The silence on the other side of the door was a physical thing; he could feel it pulsing against the polished oak. Those things (and Captain Jack’s general “intimidation factor”) kept him rooted in place outside of the wheelhouse door for some time until the thick, clotted voice of the captain shot through the crack: