Orange and yellow flames burst from the machine gun, and the RAT-A-TAT-TAT is impossibly, painfully loud in Ishmael’s ears. He ducks underwater. Why is Billy shooting at them?
A moment later the shooting stops. Ishmael lifts his head. Smoke drifts from the machine gun’s barrel, and his soggy ears still ring with the harsh report.
“Swim! Hurry!” Billy waves frantically. But a second later he starts to aim the machine gun again.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT! The blasting weapon is deafening. At any moment Ishmael expects to feel the savage jab of a bullet. But somehow — even at such close range — Billy misses him.
What about Queequeg? Ishmael swivels around and sees his friend stroking away toward Gwen, who is splashing and gurgling in the water, struggling to keep from drowning. Just a few feet from her are several of the huge aquatic beasts they saw earlier, their bumpy nostrils and eyes drawing nearer and nearer.
Now Ishmael understands: Billy hasn’t been shooting at them, but at something very close behind them.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
One of the beasts erupts in spasms, kicking up sprays of reddish foam. But the others keep coming. By now, Queequeg has reached Gwen, who’s latched on so tightly to him that they’re both struggling not to drown. Ishmael splashes toward them.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT!
Close by, another river beast starts to writhe.
At last Ishmael gets to his friends, and together he and Queequeg pull Gwen toward the boat.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT! Billy fires one more volley and then reaches over the side to help them climb aboard.
Moments later, they lie drenched and panting in the bottom of the chase boat. Billy, taking the controls again, presses the throttle forward and powers out toward the ocean.
The night sky is a star-speckled dome. When the chase boat passes through the gap in the reef, several outriggers with torches are waiting to guide them to shore. Gabriel is in one, and when he sees his daughter, he joyfully holds his arms out. Billy steers the chase boat close enough for Thistle to climb into her father’s arms. In the light of the torches, tracks of thankful tears glisten on his cheeks.
Despite the late hour, a great celebration ensues, during which Gabriel embraces and thanks each member of the chase-boat crew for saving his daughter’s life. Seeing the lump on Ishmael’s skull and hearing that his head still throbs painfully, Gabriel takes him to the healing hut and has him lie on a mat. In the fluttering light, Ishmael leans on an elbow and watches the islander sort through the vials filled with various shades of green liquid.
“What’s the difference?” Ishmael asks.
“’Tis much diluted.” Gabriel holds up the vial with the palest solution. “For minor injuries and mild pain.”
“So that’s not what you put on the darts you shot us with when we first arrived?” Ishmael guesses.
Gabriel shakes his head. “’Twas stronger. Mixed with herbs t’ cause sleep.”
“What about that?” Ishmael points at the vial with the densest-green fluid.
“’Tis nearly pure nectar waiting t’ be diluted. T’use in that form ’tis forbidden.”
“Why?”
“’Tis too strong.” Gabriel comes toward him with a vial of the weakest solution. “Can change a man in unnatural ways. Lie back.”
Gabriel kneels over him, dipping a slim stick into the vial and drawing out a drop of the pale-green liquid. With his free hand, he gently holds Ishmael’s eyelids open and taps the drop in. Ishmael blinks reflexively, and the pain in his head immediately vanishes.
He sighs wondrously.
“Come.” Gabriel offers his hand. “Let us celebrate.”
Ishmael allows himself to be helped up. The pain is gone, as well as the hazy, addled sensations that accompanied it. His thoughts are not only clearer but feel deep and astute. His senses seem sharper, and he is embraced by an aura of profound well-being.
As he and Gabriel leave the hut, he asks, “If such a small amount is so powerful, why do you farm so many terrafins?”
“Nectar spoils quickly, and we can only harvest it from very young terrafins with little nectar t’ give.” Gabriel holds his hands about eighteen inches apart. “When they art this size, wild instincts take over and they go t’ the ocean.”
They continue on in silence, the sounds of revelry growing louder. But Gabriel stops in the shadows a few yards before the celebration.
“If ye art still determined t’ leave, we shan’t stop ye.” Gabriel searches the crowd, and his gaze comes to rest on Diana. “After what ye’ve done for us, we’ll pray we can trust ye t’ keep our secret. But never forget, ye art going with our fate in ye hands.”
Fayaway’s father extends a large, work-roughened hand. Ishmael grasps it firmly. “You have my word.”
They join the jubilant crowd. The islanders have draped the chase-boat crew with flower-and-shell necklaces. They are gathered around the fire while Billy tells them of the rescue: “Ishmael knew we had to distract the flyer. Gwen and Queequeg shook the tree branches to get its attention, and then Ishmael and I started climbing . . .”
As Ishmael listens, he realizes that Billy isn’t stuttering. He glances at Gwen, who silently mouths, “I know,” to show that she, too, has noticed. Ishmael would like to wait until Billy finishes the story and then take him aside and ask if he’s aware of what’s happened, but he’s suddenly so tired he can barely keep his eyes open. Is it the residue of the day’s excitement? A side effect of the nectar? He crawls into a hammock and is instantly asleep.
“Ishmael?”
He opens his eyes. Fayaway is leaning over him, her eyebrows dipping in concern, her dark hair hanging down like a curtain. “Who art Grace?”
Ishmael feels his drumming heartbeat begin to slow. He’s been dreaming that he’s in the bow of the Pequod while it pursues a trawler. Beside him Tashtego is aiming the big harpoon cannon at the trawler, preparing to fire.
“Ye yelled her name.”
“She’s someone I’m supposed to know but don’t,” Ishmael tries to explain.
Fayaway gives him an uncertain look but lets it pass. “Come.” She takes his hands and helps him sit up in the hammock. Stippled sunlight slants through the leaves overhead, and the air is heavy with morning dew. The village is still except for a few feathered flyers that chirp in the trees.
“Can’t I sleep a little longer?” Ishmael yawns groggily.
“’Tis something that shan’t wait.” Fayaway slowly pulls him to his feet. When they start down the walkway, Ishmael becomes aware of a raw stinging sensation in his earlobes. Reaching up, he feels tiny barbed spines.
“When did this happen?” he asks.
“Last night,” Fayaway says sheepishly. “Spines so small art rare and an honor. T’ show our thanks.”
At the end of the walkway, they pull on high boots and start along one of the brush-lined paths going uphill behind the village. The jungle is filled with floral scents and every conceivable shade of green. Under the tree canopy, delicate yellow-and-black creatures flutter, and flyers sing melodies from the branches. Stepping out of the trees and into the bright morning sunlight, Ishmael must shut his eyes for a moment. The insides of his eyelids are bands of soft colors — no doubt another side effect of the nectar — and he pauses to ponder their beauty until Fayaway again tugs at his hand.
“’Twas wrong to tell Diana that ye knew of our terrafins.” Fayaway’s eyes are downcast with shame.
He squeezes her hand. “It’s okay.”
They reach a clearing, where Fayaway points out at the vast blue ocean. Far on the horizon a ship moves slowly. Ishmael feels his breath catch; while it is too far away to see clearly, there is no mistaking the thick brown stripes of rust. It’s the Pequod.
Fayaway tightens her grip on his hand. “Ye art all welcome t’ stay here.”
If a heart could wince, Ishmael’s would. He knows it cannot be easy for Fayaway to show him the ship. And he is tempted by her offer to stay. The ways of the isl
anders remind him of the life he once had with Archie and his foster parents — filled with love and caring.
“I can’t,” he says.
Fayaway’s face falls. This island is all she’s ever known. It must seem like madness to her that he’d want to go back to that floating hunk of rust.
“I have people I have to help. And a foster brother somewhere on this planet who I need to find.” A thought occurs to him. “Your father said ships sometimes pass near here. Have you ever heard of one called the Jeroboam?”
Fayaway pauses to think, then shakes her head. She looks up into his eyes, and once again her grip on his hand tightens. “Once ye’ve found him, ye could bring him here.”
Ishmael can’t imagine how that would work. How could Archie navigate the ladders and walkways of the village? How could Ishmael ever hope to keep him safe in a place where giant flyers snatch people from the beach?
Fayaway must see the doubt in his eyes. Her grip loosens, and her fingers slip out of his. She turns back down the path.
“Wait,” Ishmael says.
She stops, her face at once filled with hope.
“Thank you for showing me the ship,” he says. “I know you didn’t have to.”
Her gaze slants away and she blinks hard. Her shoulders stoop and she hurries off.
Later, while the crew prepares to depart, Billy keeps gazing at the islanders who’ve gathered on the beach to say good-bye. Queequeg, Gwen — her long red hair braided by Thistle — and Ishmael trade looks until a silent consensus is reached. Ishmael puts a hand on Billy’s lean shoulder. “Stay.”
Billy looks shocked by the suggestion. “But —”
“What do you have waiting for you back on the Pequod? Back on Earth?”
Billy hesitates. “What will you tell Starbuck?”
“We’ll make up something . . . something that will make your father proud.”
Billy gazes across the lagoon, past the waves breaking on the reef, and out at the ocean. “You know, he sent me here hoping I’d become the son he always wanted me to be. Instead, I became the person I always wanted me to be. If that’s not enough to make him proud . . .”
Ishmael squeezes his shoulder. “After how you helped save Thistle? Believe me, he’d be proud. And we’re proud of you.”
Billy smiles wanly. “I’m going to miss you, Ish.”
Near them, Gwen and Queequeg have begun saying their good-byes to the islanders. Thistle, with a lock of Gwen’s bright-red hair woven into the spot where Ishmael chopped hers off, hugs Gwen tearfully while Queequeg clasps the hands of the men and women with whom he netted scurry. They wade out to the chase boat.
Ishmael lingers on the beach with Fayaway, feeling a mixture of emotion and awkwardness, uncertain what to say, until Gabriel approaches and draws both of them into his arms. For a moment they press their foreheads together the way Ishmael used to do with Archie. “Wherever ye go, goodness ’twill go with ye, Ishmael. And should that lead ye back to us, ye shall always be welcomed.”
Ishmael thanks him, embraces Fayaway one last time, then plods through the shallows out to the chase boat. Moments later, he pushes the start button. The RTG sputters and fails. He tries again with the same result.
“How embarrassing is this,” Queequeg whispers, glancing back at the crowd of islanders on the beach. “They agree to let us go and we can’t?”
Ishmael tries again. This time the engine starts. As they motor away from the island toward the gap in the reef, they wave their final farewells. Fayaway and Billy wade out into the water. Theirs are the last faces Ishmael sees.
Out beyond the reef, Ishmael turns Chase Boat Four to the west, so that they run parallel to the Pequod rather than toward it. Queequeg gives him a quizzical look. “Not going straight back to the ship?”
“Not right away.”
“So they won’t know where we’re coming from?” Queequeg guesses.
“Exactly.”
“And what are we supposed to do until you decide it’s time?” Gwen asks.
“Get our story straight,” Ishmael replies.
Just after sunset, Ishmael gets on the two-way.
“Who is this?” the Pequod’s radio operator asks. When Ishmael answers, he hears excited chatter on the other end of the connection. The operator comes back. “No kidding! We thought you were down in Davy Jones’s locker. Hold on.”
Ishmael waits. The next voice he hears is Starbuck’s. “Ishmael?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s the story?”
“We’ve been on land, sir.”
Silence. Then: “Is anyone injured? Showing any signs of illness?”
“No, sir. We’re all fine. Uh, except for Billy, that is. He’s . . . he’s not with us. We’ll be alongside in about fifteen minutes.”
“Negative,” Starbuck orders. “You are not to approach the ship until told to. Come no closer than two hundred yards and then wait. We’ll send a boat.”
“But, sir, there’s no —”
“That’s an order,” Starbuck snaps. “You haven’t forgotten what orders are, have you?”
“No, sir.”
Ishmael keeps the chase boat on a course parallel to the Pequod.
“Looks different.” Queequeg points at the ship’s broad hull.
“Rustier,” says Gwen. Even in the fading evening light it’s apparent that the streaks of reddish brown on the hull have spread and multiplied.
A drone buzzes overhead and circles, no doubt inspecting the crew with infrared biodetection. Next, a tender is lowered from the Pequod and starts toward them. The crew of Chase Boat Four soon find themselves staring at sailors wearing orange biohazard suits, complete with gloves, helmets, and breathing masks.
Queequeg rolls his eyes skyward. “They can’t be serious.”
The crew must strip down and don white jumpsuits, gloves, and breathing masks before they’re allowed on the tender, while a sailor in biohazard gear clambers onto the chase boat and sprays it with disinfectant from a tank on his back. The chase-boat crew exchange stumped glances. Is there some horrible disease on land that they haven’t been told about? If there is, why do the islanders seem so healthy?
Once aboard the Pequod, the crew are quarantined in the sick bay overnight. In the morning, Dr. Bunger and Starbuck enter. Thankfully, neither wears a biohazard suit.
The ship’s surgeon hovers over them, the ripe smell of benzo enveloping him like a cloud. With unsteady hands, he places sensors on Gwen’s and Ishmael’s registries to check vital signs, and asks questions about insect bites and bowel movements.
Starbuck is curious about Gwen’s long braids and the way her sleeveless shirt is knotted across her stomach. He notes the thin beard that runs along Queequeg’s jawline and the half dozen colorful beads that have been woven into his hair. Ishmael himself has the beginnings of a mustache, and the scant stubble on his chin is the longest it’s ever been.
The first mate also scrutinizes the tiny terrafin skivers in their ears. “What’s the story with these?” he asks.
“Found them on the beach, sir. Not much to do for the past month.”
“And Billy?”
Ishmael releases a sigh. “We’re not sure, sir.” He begins a rehearsed story of how they took turns standing guard at night, and one morning woke to find the bloody evidence of a struggle but no sign of their crewmate. “We tried to search for him, but . . . You know how dangerous the mainland is, sir. We didn’t dare venture too far from our camp on the beach.”
“And precisely how did the rest of you avoid being eaten?” Starbuck asks.
“Don’t really know, sir. We were lucky, I guess. We lit fires at night to keep the creatures away and hid in caves during the day when we had to. Still, I couldn’t tell you why we survived when Billy didn’t. But it looks like he put up a valiant fight.”
Something about Starbuck’s silence asserts his doubts, but Ishmael holds his gaze.
“What about food and fresh water?” the
first mate asks.
“Ate a lot of scurry, sir. And luckily we came across a spring of clean water we could drink from.”
By now Dr. Bunger has finished examining them. “Considering what they’ve been through, they appear to be in good health.”
Starbuck shakes his head slowly. “A tad too good if you ask me.”
Ishmael is eager to find out if there have been any new Z-packs from Earth, and whether Charity succeeded in getting Gwen and him their bait money, but the three crewmates are ordered to remain in the sick bay. The next time they see Starbuck, the first mate herds them up several ladderways to the A level. Every sailor they pass stares — but not with surprise that they’re still alive after all this time. Instead, their looks convey wariness, and in some cases even disgust.
“What’s going on?” Queequeg asks in a low voice. “Why’s everyone looking at us like we’re pariahs?”
They’ve reached the black door. Without answering Queequeg’s question, Starbuck knocks.
“Who is it?” the captain rasps from inside.
“Starbuck, sir. With that stick-boat crew.”
“Bring ’em in.”
The captain’s cabin is semicircular and lined with windows that look out over the Pequod’s bow to the ocean beyond. But Ishmael barely notices the view. The room is a shrine to terrafins. Everywhere he looks are holographs, screens, ancient paintings, and models of the creatures. His eyes halt on the long, tapering white shaft that he’d glimpsed once before. It must be a sculpture or maybe a carving of a massive terrafin skiver, a hundred times larger than the biggest in Fedallah’s collection.
With hands clasped behind his back, Ahab stands in profile by a port window, staring out at the blue-green sea. His long, scraggly black hair hangs over the collar of his black coat, and the skin not covered by his scruffy beard is deathly pale.
Without turning to look at the crew, the captain asks, “How do you know when you’re being lied to?”
The Beast of Cretacea Page 18