To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  Phil had unshouldered his shotgun and propped it on the tree. The other men sat motionless and the boy did too. Phil’s eyes roamed quickly. His finger on the trigger tensed and loosened. The boy strained to hear what it was that had made the men stir but heard only silence.

  Soon the shotgun was lowered and rested carefully against the fallen tree with the butt in the earth. Phil said, ‘Thought I heard something.’ He spoke in a normal tone, all hopes for concealment abandoned. He stood and brushed the dirt from his pants.

  Steve said to the boy as both stood, ‘Pigs normally forage here at night. They do sometimes, anyway.’

  The boy looked at the serene water. He climbed over the log and waited for a reprimand but none came. He stepped closer to the waterhole and looked again at the moon’s muddied reflection. He wondered if there were any fish. There were a few toads moving at the edge, fat blobs. The boy retreated to the log and looked at the shotgun and almost picked it up, but he didn’t dare. He looked at Phil. ‘We could shoot a toad,’ he said.

  Phil laughed. ‘There’d be nothing left. You that desperate to shoot the gun?’

  ‘I’d like a go, yeah.’

  ‘You know, we normally spend all night doing this. It’s barely midnight. You gotta be patient, hunting.’

  ‘Come on,’ Gazza said, and stretched his back. ‘We could get home at a decent time.’

  ‘We’re getting bloody old, eh?’ Phil said. ‘You sure you just want to quit? The other hole is just down a bit.’

  The men groaned so that Phil finally laughed and said, ‘Alright, alright.’ He turned to the boy. ‘You want to shoot a toad, hey?’

  All the men joined the boy’s hunt for a big one, laughing. Steve finally found one and shouted and the others found him hunched over with his hands on his knees looking at it. A big one, barely breathing by the look of it. It leaped away as they stepped closer and then sat still. It would look scared, the boy thought, if toads knew how.

  ‘Bloody pests,’ Steve said and nudged it with his boot. Then he stepped back.

  Phil handed the boy the shotgun but did not relinquish his grip. ‘Careful, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s loaded. You just gotta squeeze that trigger and it’ll fire. So do not ever point it even close to another person. Ever. You hear me? You don’t want to drop it facing a bloke and shoot his face off. Yeah?’

  He let go his hold and the boy handled it gingerly. He was afraid of the power he now possessed.

  ‘Just make sure you hold that stock against your arm. Then you want to squeeze the handle near the trigger. Don’t yank on the trigger like it’s some toy ’cause the gun’ll buck and you’ll miss. Well. You probably won’t miss like this.’ And he laughed.

  The boy levelled the weapon at the toad and shifted it into his arm but found he was too small to handle it correctly. He breathed out and squeezed the stock and fingered the trigger, shaking. He squeezed harder still.

  An explosion. Dirt and mud sprayed into his eyes and he felt tremendous pain rack his shoulder. Confused, he dropped the shotgun and shrieked. Surely he had killed them in his carelessness, surely it would fire.

  The men were all laughing as he brushed his eyes free of dirt. Still fearing the gun would go off he skipped out of the way and collided with a tree. He fell forward, landing on his side, then scrambled to his feet. The men’s laughter exploded anew.

  Phil was doubled over laughing, hands on his legs and covered in mud. In fact all of them were covered in dirt from head to toe. Steve was leaning against a tree, laughing so hard his back shook.

  The boy looked at the crater in the dirt. The toad had been wiped from the land’s memory. There were no more toads near the waterhole. In the moonlight little else had shifted, besides the boy’s position among the men.

  The boy felt ashamed that his first thought had been for his own life rather than the lives of the others. His shoulder throbbed, but he wouldn’t mention it. Once Phil had collected himself he walked to the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. The boy so resented it he almost shrugged it off.

  ‘It’s alright, mate. Thought that might happen.’

  The boy was near tears and so didn’t move. His arms were folded, enduring their laughter. ‘You brought me out here to make fun of me.’

  ‘Mate,’ Phil said. ‘Come on.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Give me a torch. I want to go back,’ he said. Now he was crying and even though it was dark and the men couldn’t see, he still felt more shame.

  ‘Come on, mate.’

  ‘Give me a torch.’ He extended a hand.

  Phil handed him the torch and the boy stomped away. He left the shotgun in the mud and could hear Phil picking it up as he walked off. One of the men was still laughing, maybe Steve.

  He shone the torch at his feet and found the path, and then a bit further on the loop control hut. From here he retraced his earlier steps to the beach. He jogged along it a short way before running out of breath. Soon he found himself seated on the sand studying the water and thinking of the sharks that were most likely beneath the fathomless depths, studying him in turn. If he were to wade in and then be eaten, that would certainly shock his father into confronting Phil. Maybe some of that demon the boy knew inhabited the pit in his father’s gut would burst out and smash Phil’s face in. Phil himself would feel the guilt forever. This poor dead boy he’d teased so harshly.

  Without real thought the boy stood and strode into the water. It splashed up his thighs cold, then he was on his stomach swimming. Quickly he imagined large dark shapes cruising nearby. He swivelled and looked for the telltale fins bearing down on him. The shark carcass, the headless grey floppiness of it, and its evisceration, kept playing over in his mind, and he found himself realising what he was inviting. Their teeth sinking into his flesh, dragging him under. He struggled back to shore, pumping his arms, the fear a cold wrench in his sternum. Soon he was on the beach again, shivering, hugging himself, crying. He walked home slowly, torch in hand, telling his mother that he was sorry he had tried to be cruel when she’d raised him to be kind.

  THIRTY-SIX

  When he woke the next morning his father’s bed was already empty. Steve was asleep and looked the same as he had the previous morning. Now the boy knew, though, that beneath his jovial exterior beat a tormenting heart. It was probably the same with most men; internally they were different from the face they showed the world. It made the boy doubt everything.

  He showered and thought back over his actions of the night before. He peeked out from the bathroom to ensure Steve was still asleep before stepping into the main area to dress himself. As he dressed he found beside his couch the torch, a reminder of his shame. He picked it up and handled the cool metal. He clicked it on and off and ran his fingers up the grated side. When he turned it on again he levelled the beam at Steve, which cast a shadow of his heaving mass onto the wall and made him seem an ogre.

  He found his father in the mess hall. Waiting a moment before he walked over to join him, he watched the man’s back, his steady breath.

  His father smiled at him as he sat opposite. ‘You have fun last night?’ he asked.

  The boy shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  ‘What time did you get in?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It sounded early.’

  The boy looked at his father, who grinned. The boy said, ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘It’s around nine.’

  ‘How long have you been up?’

  ‘An hour.’

  The boy took a sip of his bitter coffee. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘I’ve just walked a bit,’ his father said. He sat back and put his hands in his lap. ‘Breathed a bit. It was nice, to be honest, not having you around. Not meaning offence by that.’ He waved his hand. ‘I just need a break now and then. Not used to constant company. Never have been.’

  ‘Taking it all in?’

  ‘Yeah,’ his father said. ‘I really like it here.’

 
The boy found himself envious of his father’s relaxed demeanour.

  ‘Did you see they’ve changed the quota again?’ his father said, and arched his eyebrows in the direction of the cork-board near the doorway. It didn’t escape the boy that his father was relating to him as a colleague.

  ‘Have they?’

  ‘They’ve upped it again. Higher than it was when we first got here.’ His father shook his head, clearly unhappy with the decision. ‘We’re slipping. We’re way down in number.’

  ‘So we’ll be working full shifts again?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  The boy nodded and pretended to think before he said, ‘How come you never talked about this place with mum?’

  His father breathed out heavily. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘We talked about it a bunch when you were little. She came out here a few times, too. You did once when you were really little.’

  ‘How old was I?’

  ‘Around four, I guess.’

  ‘Did you have me on the deck?’

  ‘No,’ his father said. And laughed. ‘Your mother would’ve shot me. Way too bloody. No. I remember we went for a walk through the forest up near our room – you know the path that runs behind? I remember holding your little hand and looking at the birds up there with you.’ His father smiled at the memory, which gave the boy heart. Then his face dropped. ‘Your mum just didn’t like this place as time went by. Can’t blame her, really. I was gone five or six months of the year and bloody useless for the rest. She pretty much had to raise you by herself. By the time I caught up with what was new, or the routine, I’d be back here again. She was good for putting up with it like she did.’

  The boy said, ‘Do you still think about her?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yeah,’ his father said. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, mate,’ he said. He sighed. ‘What’s with the questions?’

  ‘I don’t think about her as much as I used to.’

  The boy looked down and then looked up again as he felt his father’s hand rest on his shoulder.

  His father said, ‘That’s fine, mate. Doesn’t mean you don’t love her.’ His arm was stretched across the table and he’d half stood to make the distance. He sat back down. ‘Think about what she’d want you to be doing, mate, and you’ll do fine.’

  The boy hesitated before saying, ‘She wouldn’t want me here at all, though, would she?’

  His father reacted in a way the boy hadn’t expected. He smiled. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I guess you’re right about that. I’d be skewered over hot coals if she knew I’d brought you at all.’

  ‘Then why’d you bring me?’

  The father sighed. ‘I’m trying here, mate.’

  The boy said nothing. They sat, the two of them, isolated and together, until his father got up and walked outside. The boy finished his meal by himself. His father was doing his best, it would seem. The boy looked out the window as he scraped the remains of his food into the waste bin. Maybe he was the one who needed to be kinder. He sat back down at the table and one of the men from his father’s team sat down opposite him and chatted to him about the weather as though the boy were his equal, and fishing, asking if the boy liked fishing, what he fished with, how often he fished. The boy chatted amiably with the man until, despite his doubt, and despite what had happened the previous night, he felt he was finally a peer.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  On deck later that day the boy had Phil’s torch in his pocket and as they awaited another whale, making its slippery way up the ramp, he rubbed the metal of it and felt ashamed. The whetstone again. Though this was different. This would be so easy to amend. He could walk over now and return it and apologise. But the boy had been the one who had been slighted. To apologise felt wrong. Phil should say sorry first, but the boy knew he wouldn’t. Brian, who the boy looked to for solidarity, was no longer hosing, replaced by another man the boy did not recognise. The boy saw Phil nearby and as he touched the torch he kept an eye on him, as though the man might somehow divine his anger. If Phil turned, for whatever reason, the boy always looked away and pretended to be busy with whatever task lay before him. He wanted to apologise for being stupid and hand the torch back and change his behaviour and fix the whole damn thing. Phil was his friend, after all. The boy could trust his reaction, couldn’t he? But as the words formed in his mind he started feeling sick in the throat, he started to feel angry, and confused. He feared that Phil might try to bridge the divide that had formed between them and so avoided him, such was his anger, but he also longed for Phil to do so. This internal conflict grew steadily as he worked.

  The whale approached, the metal winch grating behind the boy, and the boy noted immediately its smaller size. Where normally the whale would tower over him, this one only came to his eye line and he could see the top of his father’s head over its body. Dan stabbed it near the eye. The boy watched the process with a cold detachment that astonished him. Dan removed the eardrum, held it up to the light and shook his head. ‘Bit young, this one,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t’ve brought her in.’

  ‘How young?’ his father asked.

  ‘Fifteen,’ Dan said.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘She even looks small,’ Dan said. ‘They should’ve been able to tell.’

  ‘Hard to tell from deck until they’ve got the harpoon in.’

  Dan shook his head as he measured the carcass with his bright yellow tape then yelled out the dimensions to be inscribed on the chalkboard. ‘You shouldn’t be keeping this one.’

  ‘Yeah?’ His father said.

  ‘No, mate. Too little. Won’t get you more than a few barrels anyway.’

  His father crossed his arms. ‘Well, what do you want us to do?’

  ‘I know you’ve been struggling.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No use wasting her now she’s dead, is there?’

  His father didn’t move and simply remained with his arms folded, regarding the man with a cold expression. Finally, he said again, ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Process her,’ Dan said, and sighed heavily. ‘Just watch it, yeah? And I’ll have to report her to Melsom.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Dan said. ‘I’ll talk to Melsom. They shouldn’t’ve brought her in.’

  His father’s team went to work, sinking their blades into the whale’s flesh, and Dan wandered over to Phil’s team who stood idle, awaiting the next catch. His father’s team worked quickly, attaching winches. The spurting of blood in this beast was heavy and fell like raindrops near the boy’s feet and quickly sloshed into the blood gutter, where it pooled like gravy. The boy, on his knees, bore witness to the blood as it travelled while he cut the strips of blubber into neat squares. His hands and knees were slowly soaked in whale gore. He wiped his hands on his shorts. The blond hairs covering his calves grew a dark, sticky red. The sun was high and in no time he was sweating heavily.

  They saved the baleen and readied it for scrubbing and shoved the bones into their hole. Then they stood and talked quietly. Phil’s team had before it a whale now and Phil was so intent on his work that he didn’t look around. His focus unflinching, his directions assured and confident. The boy read intent into all that he did. Each angry stab of the flensing knife, each slosh of blood across his hands. Each action could mean something or nothing at all. The boy wondered if, after he’d left in such disgrace the night before, the man had thought about him at all.

  They worked into the late hours and spent their idle time waiting for whales and doing little else. His father seemed content, though irritated by the low number of whales. He kept mentioning it, rubbing his hands together, looking out to sea, sharpening the knife with the stolen whetstone. The boy kept touching the torch in his pocket, which only made him sicker.

  Midnight came. The boy wa
s pleased he had made it. He shot a glance at Phil, who was packing up and laughing with his crew. Most of the men headed to the mess hall and the boy hung back a little so he wouldn’t risk running into Phil even as he felt childish for doing so.

  He was the last to enter the mess hall and stood at the back of the line of men. Instead of coffee the boy poured himself a glass of milk and found some biscuits in a basket. He carried them over to their table and, when he was seated beside his father, dunked the biscuits into the milk. He waited until they were proper soggy before he rushed them to his mouth. He could barely keep his eyes open. The other men didn’t look as tired as the boy felt, not even his father, so after he was finished he excused himself and walked from the hall.

  Phil was outside waiting and the boy almost walked by him, pretending not to see. Phil said, ‘You gonna avoid me the rest of your time here, mate?’

  The boy didn’t look up but he stopped walking. ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Phil said.

  The boy looked up and saw Phil, his questioning eyes, his arms spread in appeal. ‘It was just a bit of fun. Bloody hell, you’re just like your old man, hey? Stick up the arse.’ Phil looked as though he regretted saying this, but didn’t retract it. ‘You got my torch?’

  The boy said nothing. Then, ‘I dropped it.’

  ‘Bugger, mate.’ He scratched his head. ‘Where?’

  ‘On the beach.’

  ‘On the way back?’

  ‘Somewhere, yeah.’

  ‘Bloody hell, mate. That wasn’t yours to lose.’ He breathed. ‘You gotta pay for it, for a new one. Yeah? Or you just lying to me, like you lied about the whetstone?’

  The boy only looked at the man with what coldness he could muster and realised he was mimicking his father.

  Phil said, ‘Can you take me to where you dropped it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Phil shook his head. ‘Don’t remember.’

  The boy said nothing and after a moment Phil walked away, still shaking his head and muttering something that was swept away on the wind. The boy watched the man round the corner and disappear into shadow. His lying felt somehow right to him, like Phil deserved it, like now he had something over him.