by Rick Johnson
The crew scattered quickly to their tasks. Pulling in the sails and securing them, opening the oar ports, and extending the long oars, they readied the ship to move under its own power. As the crew did their work, Red Whale explained the situation to Fishbum. “The first sight of Smokin’ Bill means we’re about to be in the grip of the Keel-Ripper. The Keel-Ripper is a tremendous, powerful current that runs on this side of Ice Fall Narrows. It runs like a mad beast right past the island. We can’t fight it. Once the Keel-Ripper takes us, we only choose which way it carries us. She’ll be hurling us through a string of rocks and reefs if we don’t have our wits with us! Here, mate, take the glass and have a look.”
Red Whale handed Fishbum his spyglass. The Lynx surveyed the sea that lay ahead. Frothing ripples clearly showed where the water surged at high speed across long stretches of rocky reefs. Fishbum did not need much imagination to picture the extreme danger they were facing.
“Now, we won’t be goin’ that way, mate. The reef’s sure destruction for us. Tryin’ to weave through the line of reefs—why, the Keel-Ripper’ll just skip us like a stone across the rocks...septin’ Daring Dream won’t skip none too good. We’d be torn to pieces in a wink.”
He paused for a moment, then clapped Fishbum on the shoulder and continued in a jovial tone. “But, we have a choice, mate. We can’t trust the winds, but rowin’ we have a chance of controlling the way the current carries us. With strong backs to the oars and a tiny bit of good luck, the Keel-Ripper’ll be throw’n us right through the Narrows to safe harbor. Just before the line of reefs begins, the current splits—one stream goin’ through the reefs, and the other pushing through the Narrows. Ride it through the Narrows and we hit the safe, deep bay on the other side. There’s a fine snug harbor there.” Having piloted through the Narrows before, Red Whale knew that working with the powerful tide was both highly dangerous and the only hope of safety. Using oars to keep the ship at the center of the surging current and steering with great care, the Keel-Ripper would push the ship safely through the Narrows to the other side of the island.
The captain had hardly finished speaking, when the ship lurched as if a mighty beast had grabbed it. “Pull on the oars—Now!” Red Whale yelled as the ship lurched, broadsided by the powerful current. “Row lively now, mates! We’ll be caught on the reefs if we don’t work it well! Row as if all and forever depended on it. Hard to the oars! Hard as ya can!”
Approaching the line of reefs, the frenzied crew below deck pulled at the oars. Captain Gumberpott, turning the wheel slightly, steered the ship down the narrow passage separating the line of reefs from the rugged coastline studded with rocks. Everywhere, sharp rocks and precipitous cliffs promised to dash a poorly piloted ship to pieces.
At the south end, the island was bisected by a narrow sea passage—the Ice Fall Narrows which gave the island its name. Some long ago earthquake had ripped the island in two. Only a narrow passage existed, barely twice the width of Daring Dream in a few places, but sufficient to pass safely with a wise pilot at the wheel. “Fight the Keel-Ripper and she will kill you,” Red Whale explained to Fishbum. “But ride with her and she will pull you through the Narrows—but even none of us can stop the Ice Fall if that be our fate!”
As Daring Dream slipped into the Narrows, sheer cliffs of rock, immensely high, could be seen rising ahead on both sides. Long runs of glacier ice could be seen, running up the side of Smoking Bill’s peak.
“Ayet, mates! Take a good look at the sky—that’ll be the last you see of it and Smokin’ Bill until we pop out the other side of the Narrows. We’ll be seein’ nothin’ but rocks, water, and fog for now.”
As the ship drew further and further into the Narrows, Red Whale commanded that all non-essential crew go below deck and close every possible hatch. “We’ll be crossing near the Ice Fall soon, and best for beasts to be below. Anyone on deck will be soaked with freezing water.” Halfway through the Narrows, a river flowing down off of Smoking Bill poured over the sheer, jagged, treeless cliff. The powerful fall of the river over time had eroded the far side of the Narrows, giving a wider passage for Daring Dream. Hugging the far wall of the Narrows, a ship could avoid the main force of the river falling into the sea-passage. But being fed by glaciers on the flanks of Smoking Bill, chunks of ice often were also carried over the falls. Sometimes the chunks were huge—the size of a rowboat or sometimes larger. When this “Ice Fall” occurred, it could easily destroy a ship. There was no telling what might be falling at any particular time.
Captain Gumberpott did not move or hesitate. “Fishbum,” he ordered, “get the moggets on. Here we go!” Fishbum and the few other crew-beasts left on deck quickly pulled on their moggets—waterproof lizard skin coats. Red Whale slightly turned the wheel to alter the course, pulling Daring Dream as wide as possible from the falling water. Below decks, two crew-beasts labored at every oar—twenty on each side of Daring Dream—to gently move the ship with the current. And with Captain Gumberpott’s experienced paw on the wheel, Daring Dream edged its way through a hideous graveyard of ships. The ghostly remains of smashed ships lay scattered around the waterfall, the ghastly ribs of keels poking up like great dead monsters.
Where the warm sea current mingled with the icy water coming off the mountain, thick fogs settled over the Narrows. Gloomy, swirling fog seemed to merge seamlessly with the gray water of the Narrows. Occasionally, a shaft of sunlight, pierced through a breech in the steep canyon walls and briefly lightened the lead-gray mist. But for the most part, Red Whale could barely see from one end of the ship to the other. Fishbum and several other sea-beasts, stationed at points along the ship’s railing on all sides, peered into the fog, calling out warnings to guide Red Whale at the wheel: “Rocks to port—ten degrees starboard!”
As Daring Dream gradually worked her way deeper and deeper into the Narrows, the approach to the Ice Fall brought the booming echoes of huge chunks of ice falling into the water. Countless chunks of ice, some as large as a whale, others small as watermelon, now bobbed everywhere around the ship. The eerie sound of falling ice tested every nerve and often sent everyone by Red Whale scurrying for cover. SPLING! A box-sized piece of ice bounced off the side of Daring Dream, smashing two sets of oars. CRASH-SPLOOSH! A larger chunk broke off the bowsprit. CLINK-SPLINK-SPLING! A shower of chunks splattered the deck, one missing Red Whale only by inches. But the shower of ice chunks was even worse closer to the waterfall—WHA-SPLOOSH! A massive chunk sent up a geyser. Spray doused the Daring Dream’s deck.
“Crinoo! Hard on the oars, mates!” Red Whale yelled. “Pull for all you’re worth! Another twenty strokes and we’ll be clear of the fallin’ ice! Pull! Pull! Pull!”
WHA-SPLOOSH! Below decks the whole crew threw its muscles to the oars. Puffing and wheezing as they pulled, half suffocated in the stale air of beasts sweating and blowing, even the most seasoned felt sick as the ship tossed helter-skelter. Squalid air, seasickness, and fear all blended together as every beast frantically pulled to keep the ship out of the main path of the falling ice.
Frothing seawater splashed in through the long tear in the hull where the oar ports had been destroyed. Injured oar-beasts sloshed and stumbled toward the stairway to the upper deck calling for Banjo Saw, the ship’s doctor. Heeding the call of necessity, several beasts abandoned their oars and began working the manual pumps. Tense minutes passed. The creaking and groaning of the ship’s timbers had never seemed so fearsome.
The sound of puffing and gasping oar-beasts and of oars rattling feverishly in their ports gradually overpowered the fading thunder of the waterfall and falling ice. After another several minutes of frantic rowing and pumping, a pleasant melody began to drown out the fading boom of falling ice—the rolling, soft crash of waves on a sandy beach. Narrows End Bay!
Narrows End Bay, opening wide on the far side of the island, offered Daring Dream a welcoming calm. Snug and deep, the harbor was big enough for a hundred ships, but was hardly ever visited. Few sea-beasts knew it
as more than a speck on their charts, and fewer still wished to voyage to the very edge of the Voi-Nil.
For a crew that has been imprisoned on ship for 63 days, an empty harbor is still a harbor. As soon as Daring Dream dropped anchor, Nail-n-Peg Saloo, the ship’s carpenter took three beasts over the side to repair the gash in the hull. It would be two day’s tidy work to close the hole, and three more days to replace the bowsprit. Add on the needs of hauling fresh water and provisions, and the crew would be at least a week at the Narrows End Bay.
Katteo Jor’Dane, having been the first to sight land, rode happily in the prow of the first longboat sent ashore. Other longboats followed, crowded with red-faced Otters from the plains of Atalyety; and tall, proud-eyed Hares from the jungles of Heepkatadoo; and Lisstecars—richly bearded Coyotes loaded down with daggers of every description. And, as with any crew, there were the bewildered, young crew-beasts staring at everything around them, as if they had suddenly discovered astonishment. Soon all the crew, except the feverishly working repair team, was ashore.
Striking the beach in the first longboat, Captain Gumberpott greeted his old friend, Winja Selamí, the craggy old chief of the small Knot of Otters settled on Narrows End Bay. “Winja, you old weather!” Red Whale greeted his friend. “How blows the Fair Temps for you?”
“Since the third day last,” Winja replied, “the Fair Temps3 are steady and mild. That means likely a fair blow to the west, but a Scowling Mally4 brewing to the south. Which way are you bound?”
“Why, we be bound for a merry mug and pot of stew, of course!” Red Whale laughed. “A few sips of Sea Brew would be a mighty fine thing just now.”
“Ay’t—a welcoming mug o’ cheer and good vittles are, indeed, the sea-beasts best harbor!” Winja chuckled. “Come on and join us for a pint o’ Sea Brew and some vittles to shake up your gut a bit. I’m just off to join the rest of the Knot over at Flummo O’Marrell’s place. There’s a feast tonight for a young beast washed up on the shore a few weeks ago—cast overboard, far off-shore, by a Rummer Boar passing by. You know the Rummers—a fiercesome cruel batch of freebooters. As a wee Wolf, Bem was stolen from her bed one night—taken by Wrackshees, then sold to Rummers to replace deserters in their crew. She fell into life on the ship and became the Pilot. Gradually, however, the horror of the Rumming raids turned her heart against that life. She tried to mount a mutiny and take over the ship, but failed. The Rummer Boar—a particularly bad fellow, Sabre Tusk d’Newolf—threw her into the freezing water. He thought that was the end of Bem. And nearly was. When she washed up in the Bay, we didn’t know if she’d pull through at first—nearly drowned, cold to the point of being blue, badly cut and bruised, half-raving mad with fever. But with kindly attention she gradually came to herself and healed. So come on along—today we celebrate her recovery. All of us are meeting at Flummo’s to prepare for the celebration. You must join us.”
Captain Gumberpott and his crew followed their host as he plunged off along a trail leading back through the rocks, sand dunes, and trees that ringed the wide sandy beach. Lazy curls of smoke drifted up to the sky a short distance off among the rocks. Sounds of music, laughter, and uproarious singing drifted faintly over the dunes.
The trail gradually rose away from the beach as it meandered through the dunes. A short distance back from the beach, a wide flat area lay like a shallow bowl, surrounded by the rocky hills that rose away from the beach. The expanse of smooth, hard-packed sand was unbroken except for a few sturdy, well-made log buildings and several large trees, one of which had a large wooden barrel suspended from one of its limbs.
Perhaps two-dozen Otters were working and rushing here and there. Shouts and laughter mingled with the banging of pots and sizzling of cook fires. Fresh shrimp crackled and popped as they were tossed into boiling oil and the savory odor of baking tarts filled the air. A few Otters gave lively spirit to the workers and added to the festive atmosphere as they went about playing bells, drums, and pipes.
Tired and famished after weeks at sea, the crew of Daring Dream found new life in the sights and smells. Great pans of warm water, perfumed with sandrose petals, thyme, lavender, or orange peels, were provided for the sea-beasts to wash and refresh themselves. All around them Otters were bustling and scurrying with baskets, kettles, and pots. Long tables were being placed and covered with large tablecloths made from sail-canvas. Cook fires burned merrily here and there. Every beast cheerfully worked at preparing the coming feast.
Wiggen’n Bob, Master of the Cookery, seemed to be everywhere, giving endless orders to the cooks with a gruff good humor:
“Whip the Honeysong Cream faster or I’ll knock you with the ladle! It’ll never stand up like a sail on the Ship Cake if you leave it limp and loose like that!
“RARRRAH! There must be more pickled snails than that, unless that rascal Alameg has been into the brine pot again! How am I to feed you all, if I’m surrounded by sneaks picking at my stores?
“One hundred and eighty-four for feast, Miss Pottentam, we’ll be needing another dozen sacks of turnips, carrots, and yams for the stew. Send the Pickins Twins on up to the storage cave with the wagon.” And so on and so on it went all day for Wiggen’n Bob.
The Knot of Otters was nothing if not hospitable and the newcomers had barely appeared before all work stopped briefly and the Otters gathered around the visitors, talking and asking questions excitedly. The Knot at Narrows End Bay was populated entirely by Otters, with the exception of a single, lone Coyote who was abandoned by a Rummer ship some years before because of his advancing age. Half-hidden under a large, floppy hat—ringed all around with strings of shark teeth and shells—and a heavy blanket worn as a cloak, the Coyote jabbered loudly enough to be heard everywhere. Poking and waving with an old, well-used harpoon, its wooden handle carved all over with curious names, the elderly Coyote looked like many a seasoned sea-beast. Brown and burly, hair wizened and weathered from salt air and sun, the Coyote had obviously sailed on many a voyage. Moving about rapidly, still agile and active, stopping a moment with each visiting sea-beast, he continually asked the same sorts of questions:
“Where are you bound? What you got for tradin’? Got any fine goods you’d trade for a beauty of a shark’s tooth or a piece of dragon’s tail? Got need of a story-teller aboard your ship?”
Some of the common sea-beasts traded brass buttons or a harmonica or the words to an unknown song to the old Coyote for beautiful, dangerous-looking shark teeth. Others asked him about the dragon tail, showing by their bemused looks that they did not really believe such creatures existed.
“Naw, now, you sun-burned old Coyote, don’t you be swilling your lies at me,” Fishbum growled at the old sea-beast. “Dragons live only in the tongues of cheeky old fibbers, like yourself. You’ve been living in the salt and sun so long, your brain-riggings are rotted. Now get on with bothering the others and leave me to my Brew!”
Taking Fishbum’s response as a bit of an insult, the old Coyote—BorMane by name—demanded harshly, “Do you now! Do you now! Rotten are your own brain-riggings, and you’re nothing but spit-in-the-wind for courtesy either!” Flinging off his floppy hat, BorMane revealed a long, jagged scar that ran all the way from one ear to the other across the back of his head. The scar was so deadly-looking and striking that it took Fishbum’s breath away, and diverted his attention from the curious notches in the Coyote’s ears.
“Now, do you know how I came by that scar—do you?” BorMane scowled. “Well, I’ll tell you...” Sticking his harpoon under Fishbum’s nose, the old sea-beast pointed to one of the carvings on it. “That be the name of the ship I was serving on—the Crust of Luck—when we was broken to bits by a dragon! That scar is the carving the creature made on my skull with his teeth—so don’t you be telling me about the fraying of my brain-riggings. I know perfectly well what I’m about!”
Fishbum offered no more reply, simply gaping back at the terrible scar as he moved away from BorMane. Red Whale, however, hearing th
e exchange, was instantly at the side of the elderly Coyote.
“Dragons, you say, old mate?” Red Whale began. “So far as I’ve heard, the only ships as mention them have been sailing the Voi-Nil. You’ve sailed those perilous seas, you say?”
“Do you know anyone but me as claims to have sailed those seas?” the Coyote replied with a twinkle in his eye. “You think perhaps I carved my own skull or that I bought these bits of dragon tail from a shop?” BorMane fell silent for a moment, fingering the shark’s teeth hanging from his hat. “All I would be wondering if I was you, Cap’t, is how all these shark’s teeth—all of them bigger than you’ve ever seen in your life—got to be hanging on my hat. It might have something to do with this here harpoon of mine. That’s all I’d be wondering if I was you, Cap’t.”
“Crinoo!” Red Whale muttered sharply. “I’ll be the one saying what I ought to be wondering, old salt! What I’ll be wondering is if you would explain yourself to me—tell me what you know of the Voi-Nil—if we have time to talk around my table? You would answer my questions then, I think?”
“You mean, sir, that you would be thinking of having me ship out with you, if I tell you?” BorMane asked. “You’ll have to want me, as well as want my story, if I’m to tell you.”
A gleam of happiness leaped in Captain Gumberpott’s eyes. “Shake on it!” he cried. “Aye, you old sea-bag. Daring Dream has a berth for a story-teller! She’s bound into the Voi-Nil in search of the Outer Rings and we’ve no maps but stories—we’ll be needing the best stories we can get. You’re aboard, Mr. BorMane!”
Captain Gumberpott, taking a long, loud slurp of his Sea Brew, continued, leaning nearer to his new crew member. “Old salt, Daring Dream is not a ship for liars. We’ll treasure your stories, even if there’s mistakes or things you forget—but, mark my words, a conscious lie that puts my crew in peril, and you’ll fight the sharks alone.”
