“I think so,” said Bombo.
“You know what that means!” Alistair said. “We need to be on one of the whaling boats tomorrow. To end this endless procession of stories in peril, we need to retrieve that sword.”
“That’s all you,” said Bombo, shaking his head. “I really, really don’t like water.”
“Fine,” Alistair said. “I’ll do it.”
At that moment, Ahab heaved his spear at Moby Dick. It sank into the whale, and as the line tightened, Fedallah, Ahab’s harpooner, was pulled from the boat.
The whale darted, and the lines extending from his flanks dragged two boats across the water. They smashed together, sending a dozen or more sailors into the sea. Ahab cut his line as the white whale turned and smashed his boat.
The whale departed, allowing Ahab one final opportunity to turn from his vain attempt at vengeance. Once again, the captain was dragged back on board the Pequod, and everyone took it as an ill omen when they saw that his ivory leg had been shattered.
“Sir,” said Starbuck, “Shall we keep chasing this murderous fish till he swamps the last man? Shall we be dragged by him to the bottom of the sea?”
Ahab had a pensive look upon his face. His harpooner was dead and his false leg shattered, all because of his quest for vengeance on a dumb beast. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Might be we should abandon this chase and return to Nantucket. We’ve lost so much already.”
Every shadow on the Pequod seemed to be alive, to almost strain with expectation. Alistair and Bombo knew immediately that this was it, the moment when the story could change and, in the process, be wiped from existence. Knowing the consequences if they allowed that to happen, Alistair and Bombo both sprang into action.
“No!” Bombo shouted. He stepped forward and raised his hand like a senator in ancient Rome, rising to speak before Caesar. “He took your leg and the Parsee’s life,” he shouted. “No! You must kill the white whale.”
“A dead whale or a stove boat,” shouted Alistair. “You must slay Moby Dick!”
Ahab’s features hardened as he turned his back on Starbuck. “Ahab is forever Ahab, men. I am the Fates’ lieutenant. Aye, men, Moby Dick will rise once more, but only to spout his last.”
In the hours that followed, a new leg was fashioned for the captain, and the sails were shortened as on the previous night. Ishmael was chosen to replace Fedallah on Ahab’s boat, just as it had happened in the novel. The next day would be the last, either for Ahab or for this world.
* * *
The morning of the third day dawned fair and fresh, but this time Moby Dick was nowhere to be seen.
“We've sailed over him,” Ahab said. “Aye, he’s chasing me now, not I him.” He ordered the ship turned into the wind, to the dismay of Starbuck.
An hour went by before the mad captain saw his prey. When he did, he spoke in a long soliloquy that was at the same time poetic, unrealistic, and utterly insane. It was brilliant writing—touching and frightening. Even two such diverse tastes as Bombo Dawson and Alistair Foley could agree on that, and they couldn’t find much at all on which they could agree.
“It’s time,” Alistair said. He moved closer so that only Bombo could hear him. “Don’t forget that after the whale destroys Ahab’s boat, Moby Dick is going to ram the Pequod and destroy the ship. You’re going to need to find something to hang on to.”
“I’ll stick like glue to that coffin,” Bombo said, indicating the wooden box built for the harpooner Queequeg earlier in the novel. After the cannibal had recovered from his illness, the coffin had been turned into a life buoy.
“To the boats!” Ahab cried.
Alistair and Bombo moved toward Ahab’s boat, and only then did they realize the flaw in their plan. Only one member of Ahab’s crew had been lost the previous day, and Ishmael, the novel’s protagonist, was meant to replace that man in the captain’s boat. There was only the one available spot in the boat, and if Alistair took it, Ishmael would be killed on the Pequod when the ship went down. Ishmael couldn’t die. He was telling the story. He needed to live.
Bombo and Alistair looked at each other, each searching the other’s face for an answer. What are we going to do? they thought.
A thought crossed Bombo’s mind, and he didn’t give it much time to linger at all. He acted immediately. Stepping up behind another member of Ahab’s crew, the large man tapped the crewman on the shoulder. When the sailor turned around, Bombo dropped him with a single punch to the jaw.
“That’s for Ernest Hemingway,” Bombo said.
Alistair climbed onto the boat behind Ishmael and they lowered into the sea. Sharks circled around them, biting at their oars as they pulled with everything they had. Then the white whale breached, and the men saw, to their horror, the body of Fedallah bound to Moby Dick’s flanks by a spider web of ropes.
“Pull on!” Ahab ordered. The ship came alongside the whale as Moby Dick turned to face them once more. His horrible teeth reminded Alistair of the Cheshire Cat, and the teacher recalled what would happen should he fail once more in the quest to recover the vorpal sword. He couldn’t let that happen.
“Towards thee I roll,” Ahab said, “thou all-destroying but unconquering whale. To the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool, and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus I give up the spear!”
The captain threw his harpoon as Moby Dick surged forward. Alistair stood up in the boat, waited for just the right moment, and then leapt upon the white whale. His hands closed over the hilt of the vorpal sword. At that same moment, Ahab’s own line caught the captain around the neck and he was pulled from the boat.
Back on the Pequod, Bombo watched the scene unfolding before him. Ahab was in the water, being towed behind Moby Dick as the whale smashed up the other boats. Alistair clung to the monster’s back, screaming in terror as he held onto the vorpal sword for dear life. The white whale charged in malicious fury toward the Pequod and rammed her with all the force of hatred that had existed in the world since it was made.
Bombo held fast to the coffin life buoy as it hit the water. He took a deep breath and held it as he sank beneath the surface and the waves rolled over his head.
* * *
The drama’s done. Why then here does anyone step forth? Because three did survive the wreck.
The coffin, lovingly built by the carpenter’s hand, bobbed to the surface at the heart of a great swirling eddy. Bombo held fast to the life buoy, his beard frizzing out in a thousand directions as he coughed and stammered for breath. He first came upon Ishmael, the lone survivor of the original novel, and pulled the brooding man on board their peculiar craft. There was no sign of Alistair. For long moments it was as if the sound had been turned down, or perhaps the air had been sucked out of the universe. Bombo began to wonder if they had failed in their mission, and he thought that maybe Mome Wraiths would soon be circling the survivors like the sharks. But there were no living shadows in the sky, and though the sea was alive with sharks, no Mome Wraiths could be seen.
“There!” Ishmael cried. He pointed to a dark spot in the water.
Bombo reached into the deep and plucked out his greatest critic with one hairy hand. Alistair was soaked to the bone, but he held in his hand the vorpal sword that they had so long sought.
“What do you think of Melville now?” Bombo asked.
“Seven stars,” Alistair gasped. He spewed out sea water and then smiled at Bombo. “Best. Novel. Ever.”
Bombo smiled back. “What now? Do we wait for the Rachel?”
“The Rachel?” asked Ishmael. “The ship we met a few days back that was searching for her lost crewmen?”
“She’s going to find you tomorrow,” Alistair said. “Just hang on and you’ll be rescued.”
“How do you know this?” asked Ishmael
.
“He’s read the book,” Bombo said. “I mean, um… do you have any donuts?”
“I think there’s another way out of here,” said Alistair.
Bombo looked around at the limitless expanse of ocean, stretching beyond the horizon. “Oh?”
“Let’s open the coffin.”
They slid into the water as the sharks circled closer and closer. Bombo ran his fingers across the opening and pushed open the lid of the coffin. White light poured through.
“You first,” Bombo said. He helped Alistair to climb inside, then followed after him a second later.
Chapter Seven
The End
They fell through the open coffin, through worlds stacked upon worlds, through the ever-growing, ever-shifting, but always overlapping realms of the Legendarium. They fell through the works of Herman Melville, through what remained of the works of Ernest Hemingway, and through the smoldering ruins of Russell Benjamin’s bibliography. The hope of all civilization swelled in their hearts, and the regret for their missteps weighed heavily on their shoulders. They had the vorpal sword, the artifact for which so many fictional beings had given their lives, and all that remained was to deliver the sword into the hands of the weeping knight.
They fell up, through a trap door, into a building under siege. Stacked feed sacks and stalls—containing baa-ing, stamping, trembling sheep—indicated that they had arrived in a barn.
“Is this Wonderland?” Alistair asked.
“I don’t know,” said Bombo. “I just got here, genius. It could be anywhere.”
“Here you are at last,” said a familiar voice. The Cheshire Cat materialized on a rafter over their heads, his tail swishing this way and that in the empty air. “It’s about time.”
“We have the sword,” Alistair said. He swung the weapon in a wide arc, nearly cutting off Bombo’s beard.
“Watch where you’re swinging that thing,” Bombo said.
“Sorry.” Alistair slid the sword into his belt like a boy with a wooden toy. The sharp blade sliced the belt like it was made out of wet tissue paper, and the vorpal sword fell to the wooden floor.
“Are you kidding me?” Bombo asked. “Pick it up, man. This isn’t The Three Stooges.”
“I cut off my belt!” Alistair said with some consternation. “This thing is sharp!”
“Where’s the knight?” Bombo asked. “Are we too late?”
The barn shook as if in answer to the question. A terrible, high-pitched shriek pierced the air, a sound both writers associated with Mome Wraiths.
“The knight is hiding in the dark,” said the Cheshire Cat, grinning.
“More nonsense,” Alistair said. “The more I’m around the works of Lewis Carroll, the less I like them.” As he said this, his pants fell down, and he had to quickly catch them and pull them back up.
Bombo, bending down to pick up the sword, looked up at that moment and saw a pair of red-rimmed, human eyes staring at him through the slats of one of the stall doors.
“Sir Knight?” Bombo said. “Is that you?”
The knight stood up, his armor clanking. “Um, yes. Yes. Good to see you both again.”
“We found your sword,” Bombo said. He extended the weapon toward the knight.
“Th-thank you,” said the knight. “That’s wonderful.” He made no move to take the sword.
“Where is the Jabberwocky?” asked Alistair. “You have to cut off its head.” He was clutching his pants against his hips and trying to act nonchalant as he did so.
The knight rubbed his hands together. “Yes, yes. About that… You see, um… I’m just not sure I can do it.”
“What?” Bombo and Alistair said in unison.
“He’s a formidable beast,” said the knight. “His jaws are death and he has these terrible claws, and I… I just don’t think I can do it.”
“You have to!” Bombo shouted. He was angry, and rightfully so. “We’ve crossed worlds and risked our lives to bring you this sword.”
“I’m sorry. Truly I am,” said the knight. He burst into tears and ducked down inside the stall once again.
Before Bombo or Alistair could react, the barn’s roof was torn off and tossed aside like it was nothing. A hideous monster loomed above them, its buckteeth snapping and clicking as it poised to strike. It was the Jabberwocky, and its eyes were aflame. The sky behind it was alive with Mome Wraiths, as black as the world before the sun was made.
Bombo reacted without thinking. He swung the sword just as the Jabberwocky lowered its head to strike. The vorpal blade went snicker-snack, and the Jabberwocky’s head rolled free. Instantly, the Mome Wraiths vanished as if a light switch had been flipped. The sun appeared and burned them into nothing. They returned to the void from whence they’d come, and once more Wonderland was free to meander through utter nonsense toward its natural end.
“Callooh! Callay!” shouted the knight. His armor rattled as he jumped up and down in the barn stall.
“Nicely done,” said the Cheshire Cat. “It took you long enough.”
“You did it!” shouted Alistair. He threw his arms around Bombo and hugged the man—then, realizing what he was doing, quickly detached himself.
“Don't. Ever,” Bombo said. He brandished the vorpal sword at Alistair to indicate what would happen if he tried. “That’s three things now.”
“Don’t what?” Alistair said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Three things!” Bombo said. “The mouth-to-mouth, the tattoo sharing, and the hugging. Three things never to do, Alistair.”
Bombo turned to the knight and handed him the vorpal sword by the hilt. When the armored man took the weapon, another stall door opened, and white light poured into the barn.
* * *
Once again, as in the beginning, the two authors stood in the immense library that was the Legendarium. Ghost writers from every generation surrounded the heroes. Leo Tolstoy was there, and Thornton Wilder. Lewis Carroll. Ernest Hemingway. Kurt Vonnegut. Herman Melville. Russell Benjamin was absent, for he was still among the living, trapped like a caged animal in a sanitarium in New York City. A hundred others had surrounded Bombo and Alistair as they’d emerged through the doorway.
“You did it!” Tolstoy said. “You saved the Legendarium!”
“Well done,” said Thornton Wilder. “I wasn’t sure about you two at first, but you learned to work together.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Alistair said. “I know that I’m not the easiest person in the world to get along with.”
“You can say that again,” Bombo said.
“And this idiot spent most of his time complaining about being hungry,” Alistair continued.
“You wouldn’t happen to have some donuts around here?” Bombo asked.
Tolstoy and Wilder exchanged a look, and then Samuel Clemens, dressed in white robes and hair askew, appeared from an alcove—carrying a silver tray piled high with donuts.
As Bombo and Alistair attacked the donuts with rabid ferocity, the ghost writers laughed and cheered. Confetti and ticker tape filled the air, dropping from somewhere high up in the Legendarium, and Bombo, stuffing his face with a blueberry cake donut, clapped Alistair on the shoulder. For a moment, it was like they were old friends.
“I still think your reviews are garbage,” Bombo said with his mouth half full, “and no one will ever take you seriously as long as you have that ponytail… but I will admit that maybe I could learn a thing or two from you. You’re organized, and you have a good sense of story. My own writing is so manic…”
“Maybe we could work together on a project,” Alistair suggested.
Bombo and Alistair stared at one another for a long moment as the idea hung in the air between them. Then they both laughed.
“Nah,” Bombo said. “I don’t think that would work out very well.”
“You’re probably right,” Alistair said. “That would be a disaster.”
“You should still consider self-publish
ing that novel of yours,” said Bombo. “I’d be happy to give you a cover blurb.”
“You would?”
“The worst novel I’ve ever read,” said Bombo, “written by the biggest jerk I’ve ever met.”
He smiled and Alistair smiled.
“I guess I deserved that,” Alistair said.
“Yep,” said Bombo.
“So, what’s next for you?”
“I don’t know,” said Bombo. “Who knows what kind of trouble I can get myself into? But first, I need to check on Carol.”
“She’s waiting for you on the other side of this door,” Tolstoy said. He indicated a single French door that Bombo recognized as his own.
Bombo bid the ghost writers farewell, turned to Alistair, and extended his hand. “Good luck to you, Alistair,” he said.
Alistair shook the extended hand heartily. “Thanks Bombo,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’m glad I met you.”
“Enough to give Anne Askew in the Tower another read?” Bombo asked.
Alistair thought about it. “Not a chance,” he said.
* * *
Bombo stepped through the door, and a moment later was standing on his own terrace. He rushed to Carol’s side.
“Carol, sugar plum, wake up.” He shook her gently, lovingly. Her eyes opened and she sat up. Bombo hugged her.
“What was that for?” she asked. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” Bombo said. “I’m not sure you’re going to believe it.”
From nowhere, it seemed, Carol produced a can of Febreze. She sprayed Bombo’s shirt and then leaned in and gave him a kiss. She licked her lips. “You taste like a donut,” she said. “Did you eat them all while I was unconscious?”
“I… um…”
* * *
Alistair emerged in his classroom back at the small community college in Virginia. He straightened his tie and sat down at his desk as if nothing had happened. His computer was still open, his browser displaying his Twitter page. There were already nineteen replies to his tweet about Bombo’s novel. Every reply questioned the reviewer’s intelligence.
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