‘Once I had recovered my common sense and was out of her influence, I remember thinking to myself that I would have to make a collar—a silver collar...’
The fire spat in the grate and I jerked upright. I had no idea how long Sam had been talking but the peat was almost all ashes.
‘The tide,’ I said, alarmed. ‘I must leave.’
‘I haven’t finished,’ he complained, but I was ready on my feet. I opened the door and began to walk quickly down the narrow path we had made through the heather, to where my boat lay, but even as I approached it, I could see that it was lying on its side in the slick, glinting mud.
Angry, I looked back at the croft on the hillside. He must have known. He must have known. I was about to march back and take Sam to task, when I suddenly saw the croft in a new perspective. It was like most dwellings of its kind—timber framed, with sods of earth filling the cracks, and stones holding down the turf on the roof. But it was peculiar shape—more of a mound than the normal four walls and a roof—and was without windows.
My mind suddenly ran wild with frightening images of wood, earth, and rocks. The wooden coffin goes inside the earth and the headstone weights it down. A mound—a burial mound. He hadn’t been able to stay away from her. The same trap had caught him...
I turned back to the boat and tried dragging it across the moonlit mud, toward the distant water, but it was too heavy. I could only inch it along, and rapidly became tired. The muscles in my arms and legs screamed at me. All the time I laboured, one side of my mind kept telling me not to be so foolish, while the other was equally insistent regarding the need to get away. I could hear myself repeating the words. ‘He couldn’t stay away from her. He couldn’t stay away from her. He couldn’t stay away.’
I had covered about six yards when I heard a voice at my shoulder—a soft, dry voice, full of concern.
‘Here, John, let me help you...’
Sam did help me that day, more than I wished him to. I don’t hate him for that, especially now that so many years have passed. Since then I have obtained this job, of night ferryman on the loch, helping young ladies like the one I have in the skiff with me now—a runaway, off to join her lover.
‘Don’t worry,’ I try to reassure her, after telling her my story, ‘we sailors are fond of our tales. Come and join me by the tiller. I’ll show you how to manage the boat. Do I frighten you? I don’t mean to. I only want to help you... ’
MOBY JACK
National Geographic has been the source of ideas for many of my stories. One article even spawned a trilogy of novels (The Navigator Kings). This one obviously came form an article on beluga whales, coupled with factual stories from an uncle who worked on a whaler in the early 1900s. Herman Melville had something to do with it as well.
Call me crazy, but...well I guess I’d better tell you the story, then let you judge for yourselves who’s crazy and who isn’t in this tale of horror and destruction. At this precise moment I’m standing on the bridge of the Titan staring out over the ice-littered Arctic Ocean, off Elwin Bay on Somerset Island. The wild seabirds are dipping and diving, their harsh cries like the screeching of banshees on the wind, symbols of that female spirit foretelling the many deaths that hang in the air above the chopped, cold sea. Deaths of whales, or deaths of men? The birds are uncaring as they drop brokenly to the surface to snatch at some unseen morsel of food, then to rise again smooth-flighted out of the white mouths of waves that snatch blindly at all, and nothing. I am speaking quietly into a contraption, a black box the size of a Gideons’ bible. The coxswain knows that I am muttering, but he can’t hear what I’m saying from this distance. Occasionally he glances over at me, but I just smile and continue murmuring. I am one of the ship’s most trusted personnel, being the man who knows where the whales are to be found. If I look through a viewer in the direction of the island I can just make out the houses of native Inuvialuits, who traditionally hunt the mammals we ourselves are here to slaughter. The landscape around their homes is beautifully decorated with fiery saxifrages and cool pale yellow poppies. My current emotions reflect these colour suggestions, being on the one side passionate and angry, yet on the other calm and collected, coolly considering my position. Above the dwellings I see areas of deep snow on the slopes where shadows remain, the whiteness stark against the purple and black of the folds of the hills. To the east and west of the houses, on the broad, stony beaches below the cliffs are the blanched bones of thousands of whales, scattered widely, almost as if from a single mighty beast which has beached and fragmented itself over the years. You could walk over that ivory plain of skeletons for an hour and still be treading on bone. They are macabre reminders of another age of whaling, when the old Scottish sailing ships trapped beluga schools in shallow inlets and slaughtered them by the hundred. My great-great-grandfather was a harpooner on one of those vessels and I still have the carvings, scrimshaws from whalebone: little figures of men and beasts, whistles, albatross brooches and ships like the one in which he sailed.
The Canadian Inuvialuits themselves kill about 150 beluga whales each year, mainly for the vitamin-rich skin which they call muktuk. Even that number, from an acceptable traditional hunt which supports a population at subsistence level, would tear the heart out of Jacqueline who feels deeply for every single whale life taken by mankind.
The average monthly hunt by the Titan is 800 to 1,000 whales.
Out in the bay are the creatures themselves, the white beluga whales in their great schools, playing like dolphin amongst the lily-pad floes that decorate the slate-black surface of the sea. They form a huge flotilla, as they romp and sing as numerous as a whitebait shoal, churning the dark sea to a white and lime-green froth. They send giant plumes of spume up into chill air. They too are beautiful, but I am one of their hunters who see in their white numbers only profits on the world’s black markets. Their oil may no longer light a thousand lamps, but their flesh is still desirable on the tables of gourmets, their bodily juices still required by many industries.
The Titan is of course the infamous gigantic pirate whaler which militant anti-whaling groups throughout the world have tried, unsuccessfully, to blow out of the water since the turn of the century. It is by far the largest and most expensive craft of its kind afloat. It is unique. Other pirate whalers are clam boats in comparison. It cost several billion dollars to build and is virtually irreplaceable. It also has an impressive array of anti-weapon systems. It isn’t designed to attack, but it is able to protect itself and negate virtually any type of missile fired at it from land, sea, subsea or air. Since its setup is entirely defensive, its anti-weapon systems are legal on international waters.
The Titan is a floating island, self-sufficient, gleaning almost everything it needs from the sea, even the milk for seaweed coffee coming from cetaceans. Essentials which the sea cannot provide are flown in by helicopter. If the Titan sank the company who owns it would face financial ruin, since no half-respectable insurance company would touch it, let alone Lloyds of London. It sneaks in and out of its country of registration and never violates any other national waters, or it might be impounded or even sunk, its activities being illegal in almost every country in the world.
It is a factory ship, totally efficient, able to harvest thousands of whales every year.
The white beluga whales are shot by a bolt of high voltage electricity. If it hits them accurately in the brain, it usually kills them, but occasionally they are merely stunned. They are then hooked onto the deck of the Titan by rows of derricks running alongside the gunwales and guided whole to the slicing machines positioned amidships. The separated bones go to the fore, the flesh aft where the massive microwave cookers are situated. The deck between is awash with blood and gore, waste tissue from the slicing blades, oil and liquid fats. The seamen have to wear spiked shoes to prevent slipping on this deadly layer of slime. In the ship’s wake is a shining trail of oils and fats, stained pink, like the track of some giant wounded creature crawling away t
o die. The stink outside is unbelievable and it’s not often that I venture forth onto the open deck amongst the muck and filth.
At this precise moment we’re not actually steering a course for the schools. In the captain’s absence I’ve ordered the ship out to open waters. We’re being pursued, and even as I record these words I see one white whale whom I call Moby Jack, break from the main school and head in our direction. Without any doubt Moby Jack has our destruction in mind. Moby Jack is without hate or malice, without even rancour, for as with its forerunner, Moby Jack’s intentions are cast upon it by the shadows of the hunters.
However, unlike its forerunner, Moby Jack is not an act of God, but an act of Man.
I foresee only one survivor of this encounter, but this time he will not be called Ishmail. The survivor will be this black oblong box: an unsinkable device carrying my words. On contact with the water, the box will emit a signal which it is hoped will be tracked and the source discovered. Whoever you are, who has found my voice, I ask that you pass it on to Jacqueline Jones, my murderer, with the message that I love her.
I met Jacqueline while an undergraduate at the Bright’s Institute for Marine Studies. I was doing an Honours Degree in Cetology, while she, I discovered, was doing a post graduate paper on something called Ocean Political Studies. Her first degree was in Marine Engineering Design, so her Masters seemed to me to be a radical change in direction.
‘What’s with the Masters?’ I said, over our first cup of coffee together in the student canteen. ‘Are you going to organise fish shoals into democracies?’
‘No,’ she said, laughing. ‘Although it’s a good idea. What I’m interested in is the exploitation of the marine world by business organisations and countries, purely for profit.’
Jacqueline’s high principles did not interest me at the time. She was, however, extremely attractive: dark-haired, high cheekbones, very dark eyes. I would guess Armenian by ancestry. She had wider hips than most men prefer, but not me. I have always been attracted to a hippie woman with a swivel to her walk. I like my bed-fellows to be intelligent and clever too, with a touch of earthiness about them: bright she was and definitely of peasant stock. Her father was a bus driver and her mother a part time waitress.
‘So, you want to figure out some way of policing the seven seas?’ I said.
‘Something like that—I hope you’re not sneering.’
‘Who, me?’ I, feigning surprise. ‘I’m not a great believer in altruism or any of that crap, but if other people want to make the world a better place to live in, then I’m all for it. People have to understand that certain commercial activities are good for the ocean too.’
‘Give me an example.’
‘Okay—culling the seals allows certain shoals of fish to maintain their numbers to survival level. This keeps several types of predatory sea bird alive, as well as species of predatory fish which might die out if there’s no prey.’
She grimaced. ‘It also keeps a number of businessmen with fat wallets.’
‘Don’t knock it,’ I replied. ‘The sealskin industry keeps people in jobs, in food, with a roof over their heads, and therefore alive. Don’t let’s forget the most important animal on the planet—humans. They need to survive too.’
‘I’m not sure I agree with that,’ she muttered. ‘I’m a few years older than you and I’ve seen what people do to the planet in the name of assisting humanity.’
‘Oh God,’ I cried in mock distress, ‘a die-hard conservationist. How green is my soul!’
Several people in the canteen turned to stare at us and I immediately felt like a crass idiot. Jacqueline looked as if she wanted to leave straight away and I put my hand on her arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘that was uncalled for. I tend to shock people for effect—that is, I try to be controversial. I find you learn more about things that way, rather than if you agree with everything everyone says.’
She stared at me doubtfully, then smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right. My younger brother was always doing that with my parents. One day he came in and said he thought a Fascist government might not a be a bad thing for a change, but he was just trying to shake them up and find out what their ideas about politics really were. He’s about as far away from Fascism as you can get, really.’
‘That’s right. I mean, hey, if you just nod your head and say, “Ummm that’s how I feel about things too,” how are you going to get a good discussion going? You have to play Devil’s Advocate sometimes, to get at the truth.’
By the time the evening was over we were on a better footing and I made a second date with her. Within three weeks we had been to bed and found, in that respect, we were very good together. The fact that she was seven years older than I was seemed to be a bonus. I mean, I was only twenty-two and I knew next to nothing about sex. Jacqueline taught me everything.
Lying together one summer afternoon, the sun shining through the open window and a sea breeze blowing the lace curtains over our naked sweaty bodies, Jacqueline said to me, ‘You don’t know how much I envy you, studying cetology. I just love whales, don’t you? Magnificent creatures. All that weight and yet they are so graceful, so agile, their flukes kicking up spray—the utter delight on their faces as they roll and leap...’
‘You’re anthropomorphizing. That smile of happiness on the face of dolphins and whales is not a smile at all, it’s just the way their skin wrinkles. How can you know they’re enjoying themselves?’
She turned on her side and began stroking my hair. ‘The sheer joy in their movements. And the sounds they make. Look at the belugas, your favourite whales—the sea canaries. Look at the songs they sing, the range of sounds. From squawks, yelps, warbles, trills, chirps and whistles, to blats, snores, croaks, clicks, creaks and brays. How can you listen to the recordings and remain unconvinced?’
‘The, er, sounds—most of them—originate from sacs and organs near the oil-filled melon in the beluga’s forehead. There are fatty pouches through which they force the air to sputter. During the moulting season...’
‘Oh, come on Danny, less of the biology—why do they do it? I think it’s because they’re full of the joy of life. By the way, have you chosen your special subject yet?’
I hesitated before answering, but finally told her, ‘I’m studying the migrational routes of the belugas.’
She frowned when I said this, as I knew she would, but it would not have been any use lying to her.
‘I hope your security is good. If those routes were to fall into the wrong hands it would endanger over a hundred-thousand white whales. I think...’
‘Jacqueline,’ I said, ‘Professor Kinchmier is happy with the arrangements, so I don’t think you need to worry. To enter the files and get at the charts you have to use five different codewords at each stage.’
‘Who’s supplying you with your source material?’
‘The professor herself of course—who else has tracked the belugas across the Arctic? We all know they move with the ice fronts, staying ahead of the solidifying sea, but precisely where the processions of belugas travel along that front is known only to Kinchmier and a handful of her students. I’m to be one of them, as it happens, whether you like it or not.’
She sat up and stared at me for a moment, a trickle of sweat running down between her breasts, catching my attention. I licked it away, trying to divert her, but she was not to be distracted that easily.
‘Oh God, Danny,’ she said, ‘I hope you’re who I think you are—who I want you to be—under that skin. I’m in love with you—really in love with you—but if you should turn out to be a louse, I’d kill you, you know that don’t you?’
I tried to laugh this off. ‘The vegetarian animal lover, member of Greenpeace, Earthwatch and a dozen conservationist organisations, is in reality a cold-hearted killer who would destroy her lover at a stroke.’
‘I would too, Danny—oh, darling, please be who I think you are. Please be you.’
I began to get ann
oyed with all this melodrama and pulled away from her to sit on the edge of the bed.
‘Hell, what do you think I am, some kind of monster? Would I betray my own profession?’
‘What is your profession, Danny? What do you want to do with your life?’
This irritated me even more. ‘I don’t know yet, Jacqueline. Shit, it’s all right for you—you come from a family whose expectations for you are low—almost non-existent. Mine expect success—and success in their terms is money. My father was a millionaire by the time he was thirty. If I don’t at least repeat that I’ll be considered a failure. Actually my generation is supposed to do much better.’
She hooked an arm around my neck and hugged me to her.
‘I know—I know. Just don’t betray me, Danny, that’s all, because I’m deadly when it comes to saving the creatures of the sea.’
It was a good time to tell her that my great-great-granddaddy was a whaler and my reason for choosing the creatures as my area of study. I was surprised to find she was not angry. In fact, she approved of my reasoning.
‘It’s right that you should study whales when your ancestor was a hunter of them. In hunting them he must have come to understand them a little. You want to deepen that understanding, in a more enlightened age.’
‘You don’t—disapprove of him?’
‘Then was then, now is now. I haven’t any patience with people who judge another age in retrospect. It’s easy to look back and condemn the buffalo hunters, the foresters, the whalers, but they didn’t know any better then. We shouldn’t be ashamed of our ancestors for doing what was acceptable in their time. The fact is, it’s unacceptable now. No one has an excuse in this day and age. We have proof of whale intelligence, we have proof of deforestation, we have proof of endangered species. What may have been right then, is wrong now.’
Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales Page 30
