The Rope Eater Page 5

  In the midst of the tossing sea, I saw, by a flash of lightning, the fore hatch spring open; then the deck was black again.

  “The fore hatch is sprung,” I shouted to Creely.

  He looked emptily at me.

  “Well, you’d better go close it before we’re flooded.”

  I glared back, and stomped out onto the deck. I had my head down and both hands on a shroud when I felt a heavy hand clap me on the shoulder.

  “Hi there, Grandma! Is the ladies’ auxiliary meeting in the hennery?” Reinhold roared with laughter. He was bareheaded, and squeezed into an old black raincoat.

  “She’s a beauty, eh?” he said. “Looks like we’ll have a night of it tonight!”

  He seemed gleeful and bursting with energy, even leaning forward as we sped down the wave, as if willing the boat to go faster and faster, then throwing his head back as we crashed into it. He began a shanty, building it as we rose up a wave, rushing as we rushed down the face, and shouting it out as we buried ourselves beneath the next one. His fierce playfulness cheered me and I began to sing along. He made it seem like an excellent game that we were playing, and that I was brave and reckless for playing it with him. I still felt afraid as the face of a wave loomed over us, still felt my breath leave me as we struck, but it returned as we mounted again, and my spirits began to rise.

  The lightning cracked sharply above us, and I winced for a moment, fearing that our mast had split; but it rode straight and proud, pressing through cascade after cascade. The rain had turned to hail, and sleet that pounded into us on fierce gusts of wind. Reinhold looked down at me at the end of his song, still grinning, and looked back at the ship. Gasping, he pointed and shouted down.

  “Good God, the dogs!”

  The dogs were in a bad state, washing freely about the deck and scrambling to hold themselves in loose bunches against the assault of the waves. Several had caught themselves in the waterways and were kicking desperately to stay aboard. Others were tangled in loose rigging and being battered against the bulwarks. In the middle sat Creely, disconsolate, clutching three dogs and the mast.

  Reinhold scrambled back to the bulwarks. Pulling out his knife, he cut free the tangled dogs and coiled the rope over his shoulder. He grabbed two of the dogs and staggered up to the mainmast with them. He looped one end of the rope around the mast, then around each of the dogs, and tied it off. Making his way to the waterways, he pulled out the dogs and heaved them over toward the mast. Grabbing another long coil of rope, he fastened one end to the bulwark and began to tie off the dogs one by one in a line, wrapping them over their shoulders and cinching the rope firmly. I followed, dragging or shoving the dogs as best I could; they sat limply and whimpered. Reinhold strode over the deck with two tucked under his arms, standing as a wave broke over him and then making his way forward again. As often as not, I would be sent sprawling just as I reached the mast and was washed to the far end of the deck. The waterways were too small to admit a man and, I would have thought, too small for our hearty dogs. But under the force of the crashing waves, I saw one stuffed in, held for a long minute as we climbed a wave and shot down, then buried in water and gone when the water was gone. They were bedraggled and pathetic now, no longer fierce; they looked impossibly scrawny and naked with their fur plastered to them.

  We were joined by Adney, Pago, and the doctor, and we formed a rough chain—each ferrying a dog between waves from one firm hold to the next. Behind us I could see Creely and Ash working to secure the whaleboats. Hume stood in the deckhouse beside the captain, his arms crossed beneath a scowl. Working slowly, we gathered most of the dogs and fixed them in a web that ran along the windward side, out to the mainmast, across, up the lee side, and then out to the foremast.

  With the dogs secure, I felt all the energy run out of me. Each wave seemed heavier than the last, and each blast of wind more fierce. I had swallowed so much water that I began to feel that it was pointless to keep battling when it was so simple to succumb. I imagined myself bobbing gently in the waves as the Narthex battered her way into the distance; I imagined the stiff clutch of my heart slowing to a gentler cadence, my sickening weakness fading into a feeling of weightlessness.

  As if in answer, the storm increased its fury, causing the masts to creak and sway fearfully. The jib came loose and shredded in the wind; it took long minutes with our stiff fingers to rig another. The water piled up with such force that it buoyed the dogs up to the edge of the railing and threatened to pull them over.

  “Let’s move aft before this gets worse,” Reinhold shouted in my ear. His face was still glowing and had lost none of its fierceness. In fact, he seemed pleased that the storm had worsened. He was no longer playing; his face had in it the light of passion, as if the storm had charged him with a supernatural energy and he was struggling to contain it.

  Creely stood, bedraggled, but surprisingly solid beside Griffin. Griffin stood ramrod straight, his eyes shifting relentlessly from the compass to the deck. From behind the glass we could see the dogs in flashes of lightning, jerking helplessly on their lines.

  “Poor devils,” shouted Reinhold. “I hope we don’t lose many. It’s a poor night for swimming.” He smiled grimly. Griffin leaned over to the speaking tube, screwing his face up in an attempt to hear.

  “Fine, fine,” he shouted, “I’ll send a man down immediately.” He turned and, looking past Pago and Preston, shouted to me: “Kane, get below to help with the boiler. Down the aft hatch, to the back of the cabin, is the ladder down.” I climbed down the aft hatch and into a narrow passage. Despite the rush of the storm, I was excited to be venturing below, to see what might be happening there that we had not known about. To the left were the doctor’s cabin and the captain’s cabin. Behind me was the black wood of the king post, filling the entire passage. To my right was the door to West’s cabin.

  I heard a murmuring from beneath the roar of the storm. At first I was not sure if I heard it at all, but as I moved toward West’s door, I heard the faint moaning of a pianola. Like Reinhold’s shanty, it seemed to match the tempo of the crashing of the ship, rising slowly, then crashing down into silence, then beginning again slowly but building, in rage and fury, as if goading the storm to greater heights. As I listened, the music took on an air of challenge, a trumpeting of victory in battle though the storm continued unabated—as if West were claiming victory in the heat of the fighting, holding himself up in the teeth of the storm.

  I retreated backward from West’s door and continued my descent. At the back of the narrow passage I found a large hatch, which I pulled back. Below me was a small, neat cabin lined with bookcases, and lit by a lantern that swung crazily. The floor was built on a raised platform, but even this was covered with water. At the far end of it was a doorway from which there was a deep red glow, and the ferocious clanging of metal.

  I rushed in and found myself standing before the open mouth of a large boiler, being stoked frantically by a dark-skinned man who was stripped to the waist and pouring sweat. The water was over my ankles, and hissed mightily where it struck the underside of the boiler.

  “The pumps have jammed,” he shouted. “We need to keep the boiler on full to keep it from being flooded. You stoke and I’ll clear the pump.” I tore off my jacket and shirt, already starting to sweat from the heat of the open boiler. He passed me his shovel, and as he did so, I noticed that he had an extra hand, perfectly formed, that protruded from beneath his right wrist and grasped the handle of the shovel along with his regular hand. Shocked, I recoiled, and the shovel clattered into the water between us. As he stooped to retrieve the shovel, I struggled to say something.

  “I’m sorry . . . I was just . . . I didn’t expect to . . .”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said easily. “Happens all the time.” He did not have an accent, but his speech had a singsongy cadence to it. He presented the shovel to me again, and waited until I had hold of it.

  “Aziz,” he said, and flashed a bright smile from
the depths of his sooty face.

  “Brendan Kane,” I replied, trying not to stare at his hand. He splashed past me and edged behind the boiler, and I began to shovel. The coal was piled loosely in a huge bin next to the boiler. The bottom of the bin, like the floor of the room, was full of water, so the coal slid on its uncertain footing, and around the floor. The footing was so treacherous that I dared not lift my feet. I found that I got a good deal of water as well as coal as I shoveled. When I dumped this on the fire, steam blasted out, scalding my face. I braced myself against the edge of the cabin and struggled to shovel as the ship pitched. The boiler creaked with each pitch, straining against its fastenings.

  In those interminable hours, faced with the ghastly glow of the boilers and choked by the sullen heaps of smoke, with my feet numb in the waters and aching from trying to keep my balance, and my body roasting in the blasts of steam, I, exhausted and hammered by the pitching cabin and the pound and shriek of the wind above me, became lost to the balance of the day. I became convinced that the ship had deserted the face of the ocean and was, in fact, plunging downward with each wave; I saw the ship, tipped over the edge of a vast maelstrom, pounding her way deeper and deeper into the black depths of the sea. As I worked, and watched the waters rise to my shin and press up to the very lip of the boiler mouth, I struggled to grip the shovel, which twisted in my sweaty hands, struggled to keep my feet as the floor pitched and warped, struggled to hold to the flicker of reason that told me that I must keep to my task. The world of the deck was gone now, and gone my companions; I saw only the yawn of the boiler and the sway of the boiler room. The storm mounted, and the beams of the ship creaked and shook.

  My body did not retreat into numb work, but instead strained with each load; my arms felt pitifully weak, until I seemed to be shifting only tiny lumps with each shovelful. Countless times I mustered myself, gritted my teeth, and resolved to work with renewed effort, but each time my energy faded quickly, and I found myself dragging the half-full shovel across the water. I worked to the point where I became convinced that my body must break, must tear into pieces, and still my arms lifted, still my back plunged. The imagination is a poor instrument for measuring the terrible power of our bodies to endure. We beat on and on, mind failing, will failed, and still the body moves, and finds the boundary of pain is a greater pain and a greater still, and so we trace out the recesses of our own power carved by suffering invisible to our imaginations and lost to us in days of ease.

  The fire seemed to be losing some of its fierceness, its white glow subsiding to orange and red and flickering blue, threatening to extinguish with each roll of the ship.

  Finally, from behind the boiler, Aziz reappeared. His body was striped with soot and grime, and burned white in many places. His face was totally black, but for his eyes, which glowed out of their sockets with an unnatural brightness. Without a word, he took his place beside me and shoveled, flinging the coal into the boiler furiously.

  His quiet industry spurred me on, and my delirium began to subside. I was grateful for the company of my peculiar companion; in his presence, the boiler room lost its air of unnatural hellishness. Gradually, the fire resumed its white glow. My shovel lightened, and the boiler blazed merrily. He must have cleared the pumps, for the water subsided quickly. The rolling of the ship faded also; we resumed the long roll of the afternoon, and the sickening crashing had stopped. I heard the faint lament of the Pianola above me, the final strains of West’s playing dropping into silence.

  Aziz and I slumped back against the walls of the boiler room, our arms limp at our sides. After a time, Aziz roused himself and disappeared into his cabin. He returned in a few moments with steaming tea in cups made from an intricate silver filigree. He shut the door of the boiler and we sat sipping our tea. He had brought a cloth with him, and began to wipe himself off. I could not help but stare at his hand, which was very delicate and graceful. He held it off from the scrubbing, touching it only now and then to his face. From beneath the layer of grime emerged a bright, quick face, with deep-set eyes. His skin was coppery beneath the soot, and it shone as if polished.

  I believe I slept now, though I was so exhausted it is impossible to be sure. I thought that I was watching him quietly, but there seemed to be illogical skips and gaps in what I saw. I felt a wave of gratitude to him; but for the exhaustion of my limbs, I am sure that I would have leaped to my feet and embraced him on the spot. There passed between us a silent recognition of the strength of each, in our simple persistence. Such a moment, unspoken, is a treasure, for it lets you believe for a moment in the possibilities of your own strength, of your own courage, and lets you deny the weakness and meanness that filled you through your struggling and disavow the boundaries you felt but surpassed, lets you believe for a moment that you have vanquished them rather than merely chanced to keep them at bay.

  I thanked him quietly for the tea, and ascended the ladder once more. The passageway outside of West’s cabin was silent now, as was the deck. I found Griffin still stiffly at the helm; his knuckles were white on the wheel, and his red eyes still scanned the horizon. We nodded silently to each other and I stepped out onto the deck.

  The wind was blowing briskly and cold, and the sun was burning through a weak gray mist. The deck was scattered with debris—ends of lines, pieces of sail or rigging, shards of wood. Two spars on the foremast dangled in a knot of lines like crippled limbs, knocking against the mast in the wind. Behind the deckhouse, Ash worked on the two smaller boats, which looked badly mangled. On the foredeck, Preston moved slowly through the dogs, untying them carefully, rubbing their coats with his gloves. They moved stiffly over the deck, like foals finding their legs. Several had patches of fur missing where the rope had been tied. A number refused to get up despite his coaxing, and lay miserably on the deck.

  I walked around, checking the lashings of the whaleboats; both had had some thwarts smashed but were otherwise intact. I untangled some of the loose lines and recoiled some ropes. Gradually the others emerged from the main hatch, blinking in the light. The doctor ascended to the roof of the deckhouse and began checking his instruments. Everyone did his work in silence, still not believing that the storm had passed, that the world was again the world that we knew.

  Griffin called hoarsely for me to run up the sails, and I found Adney and Creely joining me at the mast to help. I climbed aloft to disentangle some of the shrouds and was joined by Adney. From my perch on high, with a view of the gray-green water stretching out before me, I swelled with pride for the victory of our ragtag crew and our awkward, plucky ship. We had been bloodied, but were slogging ahead. That we had borne up under the weight of water and wind could not but bode well for the tests that were to come. Surveying the deck, I watched the steady work of Ash and Preston as they hauled one of the damaged boats onto the deck. At the very peak of the bow, I spotted Reinhold, asleep in a coil of rope like a big unruly boy.

  In the distance, the sun had burned through the last of the fog and burnished the water to a golden emerald green; I was dazzled by the flash of sparks of blazing whiteness that danced in the waves. It was the ice—I raised a shout and the entire crew crowded to the deck. Even West emerged and peered out through his glass. We whooped and shouted and clapped each other on the back—the ice, the ice, at last the ice.

  five

  Reinhold rose, stretched, and went below for a great stack of marled meat, and even the most forlorn of the dogs scrambled to eat. As they ate, more and more of the dogs swarmed up from odd hiding places—under coils of rope, beneath stowed sails, out from piles of debris—until the deck was crawling with them again, and the steady cacophony of the yipping and snarling resumed. We had lost, it turned out, only about four dogs— though several were badly wounded by their buffeting; we were left with around forty-five. They resumed their scornful proprietorship of the deck, though with an added edge of affection and even the barest hints of respect.

  I was the object of intense interest for my
sojourn below. Adney, Reinhold, and Pago gathered around me on the deck and interrogated me.

  “Did you see anything outside or around the cabins?” asked Adney.

  “No, the doors were all shut. West was playing a Pianola.”

  Reinhold laughed.

  “Perched up on his merry-go-round, no doubt, riding out the storm.”

  “And the fireman?” asked Pago.

  “His name is Aziz.” I was going to mention his hand, but something in the belligerence of their tone made me hesitate.

  “Is he a half-wit? Or mad?” asked Adney. “Why is he held below?”

  “He seemed perfectly intelligent to me,” I said. “And he doesn’t seem to be restrained—there were no locks or chains or anything.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Reinhold. “You mean he’s choosing to stay in the boiler room all of the time?”

  “It was actually quite nice—he had some books, and had built a raised platform to keep out of the water a bit.”

  “What kind of man stays alone in the darkness?” said Adney. “It can’t be healthy for him.”

  “Too good for the crew quarters, I’d say, and too good to help with the work,” said Pago. “West’s pet freak in his little cave. What’s he up to?”