“Why would you want to make soap and perfume from whale spit?” Shoal wrinkled her nose.
“Well, it’s not like you can eat them,” Ascott suggested.
“Certainly not a whole one,” Shoal agreed.
“Jany twentieth, nothing…Jany twen’one, Cookie boiled up whale bits, whole crew got the runs, Doc still recovrin from floggin’. Havin’ to give orders from stern seat o’er the rail. Jany twen’too, have promised double share of next lootin’ to any man who can find me soft paper.”
“Oh for a life at sea,” Shoal said. Ascott smiled and flicked through more pages.
“Here’s something. January twenty-fourth. My name is Dentine Tubule, ship’s surgeon. I have taken command of the Bilgepuppy after the captain and crew were stricken with food-poisoning. I know little of seamanship and cannot raise the sails unaided. The sky is dark with an approaching storm. I am steering with the currents as best I can for the nearest jungle-clad isle. I pray to Arthur and all his saints that I can ground the ship before the tempest arrives.”
Ascott turned the page. “January twenty-sixth. Fate has brought us to our goal on the wings of a storm that battered us terribly. But we are safe ensconced in a cove on an unexplored island, one of many in the Aardvark Archipelago. The captain has roused himself and his ghastly crew. He intends for us to go ashore, seeking soft leaves and, perhaps, an Arthurian missionary settlement to sack. Given the crew’s current state of unstable health, I am to accompany them. Luckily the captain has shown no interest in updating the ship’s log, so it falls to me to remain the scribe of our miserable adventure…
January 27th.
My hands shake as I recall the events of the last two days. I am sure it is only two, as we have seen the moon fly over us but twice. Of this I am sure. There is a madness that nips at my heels like a small dog. I claim the right to be mad; indeed much of the crew have succumbed and have run off into the undergrowth shrieking and rolling in the dirt. Only the captain has remained steadfast. Perhaps it is his lack of imagination—or wits—that has prevented him from attempting to understand what we have witnessed. Understanding shall be my downfall.
My captain and crew are pirates. I fear the adventurous notion of such a career that I fostered as a child is far from the reality. They are a bunch of brutal, callous men, with the collective intellect of a plate of cucumber sandwiches. It tests my faith to realise that the forces of the Universe have deemed that they alone be the discoverers of a treasure beyond imagining.
The captain is making ready to return to that hidden place, so un-artfully discovered, and make the treasure his own. I fear he lacks the number of stout men required to lift that much gold.
I will have no part to play in this. Instead I shall hide myself and this log in the lower hold and pray that when we make landfall at the fishing village of Montaban I will be able to escape and warn the world.
If this log is found, know that these are not my last words. I shall continue to record my misadventure in an invisible hand.
Ascott turned the page and then more, right through to the back cover, but all the remaining pages were blank.
“So it wasn’t the captain’s body you found in the wreck?” Shoal shivered. “That poor doctor. It’s a horrible way to die.”
“I was hoping it would tell us what happened, why the ship sank and what became of the crew.” Ascott put the antique book down and frowned at it.
“We can go through it again later. If we don’t get moving we won’t be there for the start of the race. We can report Tacus’ kidnapping to the Seaguard, too.”
Ascott returned the log book to the box and put the container under his bed. Heading out, he caught up with Shoal at the water’s edge as she pushed her boat out.
Chapter 11
The port of Montaban was more crowded than usual. The fishing fleet was home for the races, the docks and streets were draped in colourful streamers, and hot air balloons made of paper in the shape of whales were drifting out over the bay.
“Is it always like this?” Ascott asked as they merged with the boat traffic buzzing around the docks.
“Migration comes but once a year!” Shoal grinned.
Music and laughter echoed across the water, everywhere people danced and waved ribbons and flags. Bands of musicians blew haunting notes through shells, strummed guitars and pounded milknut drums in a cacophony of joyous revelry. The java flowed freely and even the stall holders had paused in their relentless sales pitch to join in the festivities.
“What about the Seaguard? We need to tell them about Tacus.” Ascott squeezed through the gyrating crowd after Shoal, who forded the mass of people as easily as wading through breakers.
“No time! They’ll be busy today anyway!” Shoal’s hand came back and grabbed Ascott’s, pulling him after her as she pushed through the dancers and started running up the narrow street towards Smith’s Dive Emporium.
Ascott caught his breath in the cool shade inside the shop. Shoal vanished upstairs, shouting something about getting changed and being right back.
Standing around waiting for her, Ascott saw the mural under the waveboards again. He took a closer look. The seated figure, laughing heartily from within a circle of milknut trees, completely dwarfed a group of tiny figures who danced in front of him. Weird, Ascott thought. Arthurianism was the official religion of the islands, but Ascott saw signs of an older belief system everywhere. Carved statues, faded murals showing giant fish, pendants that represented sea-spirits and gods of storms. So who was the laughing giant?
“Come on!” Shoal dashed past in a figure-hugging one-piece body suit that came half-way down her arms and thighs. Ascott ran after her.
This time when they ran into the revelling crowd a roar of adulation went up and the people parted, waving and cheering as they made way for Shoal in her racing costume. Ascott followed close in her wake, running in the tight vacuum before the crowd swelled closed again.
They ran on to the dock and the crowd roared louder. Shoal swung down a ladder and landed on a powered barge where other similarly dressed competitors stood waiting. Ascott scrambled down and took his place next to her.
“Hey, competitors only, man,” said a young guy wearing a t-shirt with OFISHAL printed on the front.
“Back off Charlie, he’s with me,” Shoal warned.
Charlie paled visibly and stepped back. “Okay, Shoal, okay.”
Somewhere a horn sounded, the crowd roared and surged towards their boats. The barge’s engines hummed into life and they made their way out of the port.
“I will now read the rules of the 367th Annual Montaban Whale Race!” Charlie called over the noise of the crowd and the boats zipping around them. “Only authorised competitors can enter the course. To successfully complete the crossing each competitor must traverse the channel on the back of migrating whales. Any attempt to use artificial locomotion will result in disqualification. Ten points will be deducted for every minute you are in the water. Competitors will wear officially ordained whale-running shoes. Bare feet and other forms of footwear are forbidden to be worn during each race. There will be a thirty-minute delay for judges’ deliberation between each race. The top three runners from each of the three rounds will compete in a final crossing to determine the overall winner. Try not to get killed.”
A few of the competitors cheered and clapped; most, including Shoal, just stared at the horizon, faces tight with determination.
“Shoal,” Ascott whispered. “You could die doing this. It’s not too late to back out.”
She turned and looked at him, as if noticing his presence for the first time. “On average eight out of thirty competitors are injured each year. Of that eight, three die, usually by drowning or from crush injuries. There have only been two instances of shark attack in the recorded history of the race. In both cases the competitor survived. A woman has only
been champion nineteen times in the last three hundred and sixty-seven years. Anything else you think I don’t know?”
“Uhh…the Southern Rong Whale travels in pods of up to forty-five individuals. A mix of males and females. They will be on the surface because of the shallow beam of the channel at the crossing point. Your best option is to get on at the caudal peduncle, that’s the bit on the back right before the tail, and then quickly move up the dorsal ridge. Position yourself forward of the dorsal fin. Then time your jump to the next whale just after it’s blown. Again, aim for the base of the tail. See if you can catch the dorsal ridge and watch out for roll-over and other runners.”
Shoal nodded at him. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Other than that, run. Don’t stop, don’t hesitate and don’t look at what anyone else is doing.”
She nodded, and began to stretch, bending her knees and flexing her arms. She took a traditional pair of whale-running shoes from her bag and strapped them on. The shoes reminded Ascott of a weird cross between snowshoes and sandals. Made from woven milknut fibre, their wide soles and the rough material provided grip on the slick skin of a surging behemoth.
He stepped back and waited in grim silence until the boat reached the tiny island of Arthur’s Nose. The channel was at its narrowest here and while the water was just deep enough for keeled ships to go on to the port at Montaban, the southern tip of the Nose marked the drop off point into deeper water.
Small craft already jostled for position around the island. The rock itself, which would have been standing room only for more than a couple of people, was packed with expectant spectators.
“Competitors in round one, take your positions!” Charlie yelled. Shoal squeezed Ascott’s hand and stepped up to the edge of the barge, facing the channel.
“Good luck!” Ascott called and felt immediately self-conscious. Shoal didn’t look back. Her focus was on the surging water where large grey shapes rose and fell, sending spray jetting into the air from their blowholes and the massive slaps of their tail flukes on the surface.
A shell horn trumpeted the start of the race. Shoal and eleven other competitors dove off the edge of the barge. The water churned with their passage. Ascott shaded his eyes and watched a blonde head break the surface a good body-length in front of the rest of the field. Swimming strongly, Shoal aimed for the thickest clump of whales. They were also moving, swimming in an almost playfully casual way after their long journey from the cold, dark waters of the southern ocean.
This was the Rong whales’ summer vacation, their chance to wallow in warm, shallow waters and welcome the next generation into the world. They would spend a few weeks here to let the newborns find their fins before beginning the long journey back to the rich feeding grounds under the southern icepack.
No boats were allowed through the channel during the migration, partly because there was a chance of injury to the whales, but mostly because there was a far greater chance of your boat being smashed to pieces by a sea-creature weighing in excess of a hundred tonnes.
Charlie had binoculars trained on the swimmers, who were already vanishing into the churning water around the pod. Nearby, judges stood in boats and observed through their own spyglasses.
“Shoal’s on the first whale, scoring begins,” Charlie announced. Ascott squinted into the glare of the sun. He could see nothing now, just foam and the reflection from the whales as they surfaced, blew water and air, and then dived again.
A sudden chorus of “Oooohh!” came from the spectators with telescopic eyewear.
“What happened?” Ascott demanded.
“Serro slipped, he’ll lose points for being in the water,” Charlie replied without taking his eyes off the race.
“Where’s Shoal Smith?”
“Still in the lead, closely followed by Nonkin, Timmlin is in third place. Smith’s on her second whale, a bull by the size of him, she’s going to have to get some height to make it to—OOH!”
Ascott nearly exploded in desperate frustration. “What!?”
“Nonkin collided with Smith—she’s hanging on to the dorsal ridge with one hand, trying to get her feet up. If she can stay out of the water, she won’t lose points.” Charlie spoke faster and louder. The next round’s competitors were hanging on to every word and someone started offering three to one odds that Timmlin would come from behind and win.
“Smith’s back up, Nonkin’s made the transfer to the next whale, Smith is running up to the head! She’s going to try and jump! She’s—she’s—she’s made it! Shoal is in the lead!” Charlie jumped up and down waving his arms. Ascott snatched the binoculars and focused them on the race.
“Come on, Shoal,” he muttered. He tensed, watching the distant shape leap from whale to whale, clambering up the curved spine of the dorsal ridge and throwing herself across the gap to the next whale.
“What’s happening, man!?” Charlie tried to pull the binoculars from Ascott, who jerked back. “Shoal is still in the lead, but I think that’s Nonkin coming up fast. Oh! That can’t be legal! He tripped her! Shoal is down! She’s in the water!”
Ascott lowered the glasses and stared in horror at the distant scene. Raising the binoculars again he focused in on the spot where Shoal had disappeared. “Timmlin and the rest of the pack are catching up. If she doesn’t get up soon she’ll lose too many points!”
“Remember, competitors lose ten points for every minute they are in the water,” Charlie announced.
“There she goes! Oh, she looks mad!” Ascott danced from foot to foot. “There’s only a few hundred yards left! Nonkin’s on the next whale! Shoal is two behind him! Timmlin is hot on her heels! The rest of the field are having trouble!”
“Anyone down?” Charlie asked.
“Uh…I can only see three people behind Timmlin. I guess the rest are swimming it. A green flag just went up on the beach! What does that mean?”
“Green flag!” Charlie yelled, “Nonkin wins the first round!”
“Come on Shoal…Black flag! That’s Shoal, right?” Ascott turned to Charlie.
“Black flag! Smith takes second place!”
“Red flag!” someone else yelled. “Timmlin is third!”
The official result came back that Beval Nonkin had won the race by coming in first. Shoal’s silver position was threatened by the points deducted for her time in the water, but she still managed to beat Syreus Timmlin by twenty-five points to take second. The three of them would be going through to the final race, which was scheduled for that evening.
Ascott paced up and down, waiting for the finalists to be brought back to starting line. He didn’t watch the second heats, in which last year’s champion, Lody Fashbean, had to be pulled from the water with a gashed scalp and concussion after he fell and took a fluke slap to the head.
The third race was the lowest scoring, as there was a lull in whales even after the start was delayed for several hours. Denio Vanya won, which meant that she and Shoal were the only two women competing in the final.
Medical boats ferried over a dozen injured back to Montaban, though by the time the third race was decided no fatalities had been reported for the day and the party was in full swing from Montaban to the Nose.
Ascott stopped pacing as the waiting crowd roared at the twilight, welcoming the crowded boat carrying the nine finalists as it chugged in to port. Getting close to Shoal was challenging. The press of people wanting to offer congratulations to the winners made it impossible for him to get within reach.
“Ascott!” Shoal yelled over the heads of the crowd.
“Shoal! I’m here!” Ascott waved and plunged into the hot mass of people. The close smell of them, the raucous shouts of their voices and the press of their skin almost made him gag. He kept going, finally breaking through the ring of people around Shoal.
“You came second!” he grinned.
Shoal hugge
d him. “One more race to go!” she howled and the crowd cheered with her.
“Attention, competitors in the final race!” Charlie had a megaphone now and his voice echoed across the water and muted the crowd. “The final race will be going ahead. Competitors are advised to exercise extreme caution as it is likely to be dark before the race is completed. Race will begin in fifteen minutes! Competitors to the race barge!”
The crowd parted and many moved off to find a good position to see the race. The setting sun gave way to the rising moon that illuminated the scene in a high-contrast white glow. Ascott took his place once again on the competitors’ barge and tried to look like he was meant to be there. The officials and finalists waited as the reports came in that several pods of whales were moving in to the channel. The various self-proclaimed experts agreed that this would mean a fast race, with more challenges and perhaps the much lauded fatality.
One of the judges’ boats zoomed in and butted up against the starting barge. A woman jumped across to the barge and engaged Charlie in a whispered conversation She pointed and waved her arms, and Charlie responded with a What do you want me to do? gesture.
“Something is wrong,” Ascott said to Shoal. “Hey, Charlie,” he said, approaching the official. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s nothing, just some idiot has driven a boat into the middle of the channel.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Ascott still had Charlie’s binoculars, so he raised them and peered out over the moonlit water.
“Dangerous and stupid. They’ll get themselves killed.”
“It’s a big boat, too,” the judge said from her boat. “One of them cruisers, owned by one of them city fellas.”
Pisces of Fate Page 8