by David Klass
I remember my father’s warning in the dream to beware of chimeras. Years ago I went through a phase when I read a lot of Greek mythology. I recall that the chimera was some sort of fire-breathing monster with a serpent’s long tail. Could this captain and his ornate ledger be the danger my father reached back through the centuries to warn me about?
The captain doesn’t speak. Silence wielded as a weapon. Eko also used this technique. The best response is silence right back at you.
I stand straight, staring down at him. At the million interlocking wrinkles on his neck, face, and forehead. Like reptilian scales. At his hands, folded on his desk. He wears a white glove on his left hand, and I can see that the limb is a prosthetic.
I sense that he’s felt my glance dart down to his gloved hand. I look up quickly, awkwardly, and our eyes meet.
“You speak English?” he asks. Unexpectedly gentle voice. Russian accent.
“Yes, sir.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to you?”
“I ran away from home.”
He frowns. “So the police are looking for you?”
“Not anymore. I’ve been on the road for a while.”
“Where did you get the boat?”
Careful, Jack. They may have already traced it and learned that it was stolen. I lower my eyes, as if ashamed, and mumble, “I stole it.”
“So you’re a thief?”
“Someone was chasing me and I needed to get away.”
The captain doesn’t like this. His shrewd eyes narrow. “If you steal from me, I will punish you severely. Do you have any useful skills?”
“I’ve never been on a ship before.”
“I will find you work. You must work twice as hard as everyone else. Because your dog is going to eat food.”
“I’ll do whatever you say, sir.”
“Yes, you will.” The icy blue eyes glitter with authority. He leans forward. “What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“Why did you run away from home, Jack?”
“There was an accident.” I swallow. “My parents died. I didn’t want to stick around.”
His gloved left hand drums once, hard, on the desk. “Why are you lying to me?”
“I’m not lying, sir.”
“Then you must be a very unlucky boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like unlucky people on my boat.” It’s an unmistakable threat. “Work hard. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t give me any reason to regret saving you.”
“I won’t, sir.”
His voice stays soft, but it’s no longer gentle. “Because this boat is in the business of death.” The captain’s whisper sharpens till it’s as pointed and lethal as a marlinespike. “We are a factory of death.”
I look back at him. Don’t be curious, Ronan advised. So I nod and keep my face expressionless, even though several questions spring to mind. Is the “D” on his ledger for “death”? Where did he lose his arm? And what exactly will my role be on this floating factory of death?
The captain waves me toward the door with a dismissive flick of his good hand.
44
Hard work. Joint-aching. Bone-numbing.
Scrubbing the deck. Stern to stern. Bow to aft. Do you appreciate the nautical lingo? I’m learning.
What looks like a soccer goal is called a superstructure. The two-story cottage is the wheelhouse. And the flat rear deck is the work area. I wonder if anyone ever cleaned it before I was hoisted aboard.
We’re between fishing grounds, so no one else on board seems to be doing much of anything. Crew members hang out in the bunkroom. Read. Play cards. Catch up on sleep.
Meanwhile, Jack is working for two stomachs. Mine and a missing canine’s. Sweeping and mopping and scrubbing.
I still haven’t spotted Gisco. Keep asking sailors. Where’s my dog? Is he alive? Did you throw him back?
Should have, they say. Bad luck to kill a dog. Worse luck to keep him. Get back to work. You missed a spot.
They’re teasing me. Having fun at my expense.
And the captain is testing me with all this backbreaking work. But the truth is, I’m kind of enjoying it.
Read a lot of seafaring books since I was a kid, starting with Treasure Island. But never really been at sea before.
I like the feel of it. Like the roll of the waves. The salt tang. The open ocean all around. Watching the sea-birds circling above. Sunrise and morning mist. Sunset and evening stars.
I like having other guys around. It was a bit kooky and claustrophobic cooped up with Eko on the Outer Banks. And besides that, since I left Hadley, I’d just been with Gisco, fleeing for my life on trains and motorcycles.
Nice to be with normal people again, who don’t dress up in ninja outfits or ask you to bend sand or tell you that your world is about to end.
These sailors are hard, but they’re fair. They argue. They play practical jokes. They insult each other and bait Jacques about his cooking, which I have to admit is abysmal. But their games—even the cruel ones—are understandable and familiar, and at least the food is filling.
The crew is secretive about where we’re going, but some of the guys are starting to open up a bit. They’re proud of being fishermen. They’re excited because we’re about to let down our nets in a new spot. They tell me that if we rake in a good catch, everyone will get rewarded.
High noon now. I’m on my knees, shirtless, with the sun beating down on my back, as I scrub the deck. Ronan taps me on the shoulder. “Do you play football, lad?”
Football? I squint up at him. Decide not to mention that I once rushed for three hundred and forty yards in one game. New league record. “A bit,” I mutter.
“Fancy a game?”
“Here? Will they let us?”
“It’s a tradition. We always play before we fish. And you’re on my team, so I hope you’re decent.” The ball he tosses me is not a football. It’s round and looks like it’s been whipped around the fleet. Or kicked around. Soccer ball. Ragged. Torn. But still playable.
A few minutes later I find myself in a soccer game with a dozen other guys. Goals set up on the big work deck. “Kick it in the water and you go get it,” Ronan warns me. Crewmen who are not playing stand around cheering and shouting advice.
Soccer’s not my game, and some of these guys are real good. I’d never appreciated just how international soccer is. The African players have their own free-flowing style. The South Americans are wonderfully skilled. The Europeans like Ronan play a more disciplined game.
And then there’s me. An American. The wild card. I’ve played a bit of soccer in my time, though I don’t have their technique. But they can’t match my speed. Jack Danielson. Fastest runner in my school. In my town. In my county. And on this trawler, too.
The game swings back and forth. I kick two goals. They match us. Game tied. Next goal wins. “If I kick the winner, you have to tell me where my dog is,” I say.
“Deal, lad,” Ronan agrees. “But be careful. They’ll take you down before they let you beat them.”
A big German named Rudolf, who is the fishing master, whatever that means, feeds me a long, high pass.
I chest it down, and cut sharply past two defenders. There’s only one more guy to beat, and then the goalie.
Guys on the side shout that he should tackle me. Take me down. I’m loving this. Just having fun in the sun.
I fake one way, then break the other. He can’t match my pace, so he tries a desperate tackle. I hop right over him and blast the ball past the goalie.
GOAL! High fives. Congratulations in six languages.
“Well done, lad,” Ronan says.
“Where is he?”
“Two levels down, the refrigeration control room.”
45
More a closet than a room. Tiny. Windowless. Cool. Machines humming. Something to do with refrigeration. Smell of damp fur.
Moldy rug on
the floor. No, not a rug. Decaying seal carcass. Scratch that. Seal carcasses don’t move and groan. That you, mutt face?
No. I’m dead. Gisco has perished. In the act of dying but still hungry. They’re feeding me scraps. Scraps! You don’t have any food with you?
I’m not room service. It’s time for you to stop dying, get up, and help out. We’re on some kind of mysterious fishing trawler and I’m doing all the work while you’re having a siesta in your stateroom.
There’s nothing for a dog to do on a ship. Anyway, I can’t even stand up. How can I get my strength back when they’re not feeding me anything?
Physical exercise might help, I suggest.
Foolish is the dying dog who expects sympathy from humans. Leave me to my final woe.
Your final woe seems pretty comfortable compared to my busting my butt. Listen, the sailors are friendly enough, but no one will tell me where we’re going. And I’m picking up weird vibes from the captain and first mate.
What kind of weird vibes?
I don’t think they trust me or believe my story about how we ended up in that little boat. They’re working me, testing me, and watching me all the time.
Work harder to win their trust.
That’s easy for you to say. And there’s something else. I dreamed of my father. He warned me to beware of chimeras.
Chimeras? Are you sure you heard him correctly?
Yes, and it’s making me nervous. The chimera was a monster and a portent of disaster at sea, and we are in the mid-Atlantic.
It was a “mythic” monster, who supposedly mothered the Sphinx, the dog corrects me with a professional air. It never really lived. Even the myths are vague. Some say it had the head of a lion, the body of a goat, and the tail of a serpent. Others describe it as a monstrous jumble of different animals. Anyway, it’s just a silly old legend. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.
Jacques, the cook, has sea monsters tattooed onto his arms, I inform Gisco. And the captain has a ledger book with what looks like a serpent on it.
Interesting but probably coincidental. Any sign of Firestorm?
No, not yet. But then I don’t know what it is, so how will I know if I’m close to it?
You are the beacon of hope. You’ll know it when you see it. I wish I could help, but I don’t think I’m up to it.
I have to admit, you don’t look so good. Maybe I can find you a little more food.
Gisco perks up noticeably. Not fish. Upsets my stomach. And tinned meat gives me gas. Beef or lamb would be acceptable. Also fresh waster. Cool but not cold.
Uh-oh. Something happening. Boat slowing and turning.
Cacophony of sounds from outside. Loud voices. People climbing. Running at full speed.
Ronan pounding at the door. “C’mon, lad, there’s work to be done. We’re going fishing! Don’t make the captain come looking for you.”
Right. I know good advice when I hear it.
Gotta go, I tell Gisco. I’ll see if I can get you a bit more food.
Thanks, old bean. Be careful. If this is a bottom trawler, you’re about to see the horror of horrors.
Actually, I’ve been looking forward to the fishing.
Dog turns away and lowers his snout to floor in contempt.
I sprint out the door and up the stairs. Maybe now I’ll get some answers.
46
Reach the deck and pop out into hot sun.
Trawler buzzing with activity. Shirtless men rushing about connecting cables. Manning winches and cranes. Laying out an enormous orange nylon net on the work deck.
Jacques stands with a few of his cronies in the shade of the wheelhouse. “What’s going on?” I ask him.
“We’re about to lower the nets,” he says, and then turns and spits off the side. “For good luck. Your turn.”
I follow his example and spit over the rail. Wind catches my saliva and blows it back into my face.
Jacques bursts into a throaty laugh and his friends chuckle. Then they suddenly look very serious.
First Mate Eye Patch has walked up. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Eye Patch barks out orders. “Freddy and Eduardo, slime line. Scotty, starboard winch. Alex, cable crew. Jacques, when the catch comes in, try to find us something decent to eat. We’ve had enough of the crap you serve.” His gaze turns to me. “You. Bycatch disposal.”
“Sorry, but I don’t know what that is,” I confess.
He shrugs disgustedly. “Not a high-skill job. Here’s your equipment.” Hands me a shovel and walks away.
The other men hurry off to their tasks. Jacques lingers, still smarting from the insult to his cooking.
“What’s bycatch?” I ask him.
“All we’re likely to snag in this fished-out reef,” he grumbles and then looks around quickly to see if anyone heard him complain. Satisfied that no one did, he stomps away.
I watch the crew prepare the net, connecting its different sections to hooks and cables. I can see that they’re laying the sections out in a very careful order.
A tight bundle of netting is hoisted to the top of the stern ramp, so that it can be rolled down the chute first.
I spot Ronan crouching on the work area, sweating in the hot sun. He finishes hooking up a cable and wipes his forehead. He sees me and calls out, “How’s your dog?”
“Alive but hungry.”
“Cod end away!” the first mate bellows. The packed bundle of netting is pitched down the chute.
I follow it with my eyes as it splashes into the water. Ronan walks up and smiles. “This all new to you?”
“Yes,” I answer. “What’s a cod end?”
“The back of the net,” he explains. “Where the fish get trapped during the trawl.”
We stand together, watching the cod end bob in the trawler’s frothy wake.
“If it’s the back of the net, why does it go out first?” I ask.
He grins. “That curiosity of yours is gonna get you into trouble, lad. But I guess it won’t hurt to teach you to fish. We let the net out backward. Pull it up forward. See how the cod end drags the rest of the net out?”
I watch as the packed bundle of netting is washed backward by the motion of the boat. As it’s swept farther away, its weight tugs the body of the netting toward the stern ramp. Ronan and the other men make sure the orange nylon doesn’t get hung up as it slides over the work deck toward the water. Now that it’s all spread out, the body of the net seems incredibly large. You could catch whales in it, or even snag a submarine.
“What are we fishing for?” I ask.
“Orange roughy. Beautiful fish, lad. And it fetches a good price, too. What are you doing with that shovel?”
“Bycatch disposal,” I tell him. “What’s bycatch?”
“Everything that’s not orange roughy,” Ronan informs me. For a moment, his cheerful face darkens. “Which may be pretty much all we get today.” He glances around warily.
His prediction of failure and his fear of being overheard remind me of Jacques’s grumblings. Clearly, something’s wrong. Has the fishing been so disappointing? Is it considered bad luck to complain? Or are they afraid of something else? Or someone else?
The orange netting is now all played out into the water. Ronan grabs my arm and tugs me to one side as the arm of a crane swings past, lifting a length of heavy cable to the edge of the stern ramp. The cable has wheel-like bobbins strung through it that are weighted—they grind loudly as they roll across the deck.
“Rock hoppers. Don’t let them roll over your foot,” Ronan cautions.
“Why are they so heavy?”
“See that cable they’re attached to? That’s the footrope. It keeps the mouth of the net touching the bottom. Those wheels are called rock hoppers ’cause they can hop over boulders. They knock pretty much everything else down.”
Pulverize it is more like it.
I glance over, surprised. Gisco has dragged himself out on deck, and is now standing ne
xt to me, watching, with a strange expression on his face.
I thought you were dying.
I had to see this. Although I don’t know if I can bear to watch.
47
“Footrope away!” the first mate shouts. The heavy cable with its weighted bobbins slides down the stern ramp and hits the water, sending up geysers of spray.
Gisco winces.
You have a soft spot for orange roughy?
It’s one thing to study something horrible when you’re a thousand years removed from it. It’s another to see it happen.
Lighten up. It’s just a big fishing net.
“Final check on otter boards,” the first mate calls. “Disengage on ten.” There’s a sudden frenzy of activity.
“Better keep your dog away from the cables,” Ronan warns.
“Don’t worry. He’s more intelligent than he looks.”
A backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.
“What are otter boards?” I ask Ronan.
“The big doors that hold the mouth of the net open,” he explains. He points to two immense steel plates, mounted on either side of the back of the trawler. “When they’re open, they funnel the fish into the net, down the chute, to the cod end. They could swallow two 747s at once.”
Or just about anything else for that matter, Gisco adds for my benefit. The big dog looks truly miserable. And I sense that it’s not from weakness or hunger, either.
His eyes range over the work deck. He’s watching the winches and the cranes, and following the netting as it floats away. I’m picking up something from him, telepathically, that I’ve never felt before. A burning anger, but it’s not personal, not directed at me or at Ronan.
The first mate finishes his count and shouts, “Ten! Otter boards away!” and the vast “doors” are disengaged from their notched mounts and splash down into the ocean.
The captain walks out onto the bridge, looking tense. Rudolf, the fishing master, begins to call out precise orders to the winch operators. “Bring the net starboard. Give me another two hundred feet.” Crew members carefully lower and position the net with hydraulic winches.
