The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  ‘Speak Icelandic, man!’ says Jón Karl, whose mouth is beginning to water as the hash oil warms up on the foil.

  ‘The nothing gets its existence on loan from the existence itself,’ says Stoker, stirring the aromatic tobacco with dirty fingers.

  ‘You’ve given this a lot of thought,’ mutters Jón Karl.

  ‘Yep!’ Stoker grins again.

  ‘But if the nothing is dependent on the existence,’ says Jón Karl after a moment’s thought, ‘couldn’t you just as well say that the existence is dependent on the nothing? I mean, otherwise it wouldn’t be existence. It’s the nothing that distinguishes existence from being, you know … not being, right?’

  ‘Well …’ Stoker shrugs his bare shoulder.

  ‘I mean …’ says Jón Karl, sitting up straight, ‘the only thing that makes existence is is that it’s not nothing!’

  ‘Yeeaah … maybe …’

  ‘So the nothing does exist.’ Jón Karl smiles widely. ‘In fact, it’s the basis of everything that is. When something that is disappears, the nothing disappears as well. You said it yourself! And that which can disappear, that can also be. I mean, otherwise it couldn’t disappear. So if the stage set that we sense, live in and call “the world” is the one and only existence, then the nothing must flourish in its shadow – it is its shadow and reigns beyond it, beside it, all around it. Where the stage set ends, the nothing takes over. So there you have it!’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Stoker coughs a little. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that when the stage set disappears, so does the nothing.’

  ‘And then what’s left? Nothing?’

  ‘Which is logically impossible,’ says Stoker calmly. ‘Which tells us that the stage set won’t disappear. It can’t, from a philosophical point of view. But – nota bene – it’s going to change! As day becomes night, so will —’

  ‘But while the stage set is, then the nothing is as well.’ Jón Karl leans back on the couch with a triumphant smile. ‘Like two sides of the same coin. End of story!’

  ‘Very well,’ says Stoker with a careless sniff. ‘But since you’re granting a specific world view – that is, existence on the one hand and nothing on the other – you must grant some kind of purpose that —’

  ‘Life is without purpose,’ says Jón Karl, silencing his host with a piercing glance and domineering gesture. ‘There is nothing in nature that could be called a higher purpose. Purpose is simply an empty word that humanity uses to excuse various actions. Basta!’

  ‘A bit of a simplification, maybe. Your point of view is narrow, your attitude unyielding and your mental world black and white … but, even so, you’re not so dumb.’ Stoker returns to his customary leer. ‘I saw right away that there was some glint in your eye. Something that —’

  ‘Take it easy, mate!’ Jón Karl stands up from the couch and snaps his fingers in Stoker’s face. ‘Snap out of it. None of this “me and you” bullshit, huh?’

  ‘Take it easy yourself,’ says Stoker, wiping the leer off his face. Then he turns to concentrate on mixing the warm tobacco and the melted hash oil.

  ‘Um, tell me …’ says Jón Karl. ‘When did you get interested in all this … this mumbo jumbo?’

  ‘When?’ Stoker turning his suspicious raven eyes towards his guest.

  ‘Yeah.’ Jón Karl yawns.

  ‘“Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein”,’ intones Stoker dramatically, his voice trembling. ‘“Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning”.’

  ‘I see,’ says Jón Karl, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table.

  ‘So says Job in the Old Testament,’ says Stoker and he stuffs a short, black, wooden pipe with the oily tobacco. ‘The Leviathan he mentions in his Lament, where he curses the night he was born, is the Hebrew name for Tiamat, the snake or dragon of disorder that’s coiled in the abyss and has been worshipped and raised up by the followers of Kutulu for hundreds and thousands of years.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Jón Karl with a nod.

  ‘Since I was born into this world I have been one of the few who fight against the many.’ Stoker presses his thumb into the bowl of the pipe. ‘“Let that day be darkness” – to quote Job again – “for they will know nothing but misery and woe who know the truth and see through history’s web of lies”.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to light that, man?’ asks Jón Karl, rocking back and forth.

  ‘You asked,’ says Stoker. He presses his thumb even harder into the bowl of the pipe and looks calmly at his guest, who is losing patience. ‘And I’m going to tell you about the primordial powers that were worshipped and called to meetings with humanity long before the days of Kabbalahs and the early Christians. I’m going to tell you about The Ancients from the religious writings of the Sumerians, who are the oldest culture in the world and reigned in Sumeria where Iraq is now, and Mesopotamia was before. For some reason this great nation disappeared from the face of the earth, in the blink of an eye, but their language is still whispering in the Shadow beyond Time, and in the dark corners of the Western world you can find age-old manuscripts that tell of the ungodly and terrifying powers that wait beyond the Gate, ready to break through and usurp the power anew!’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ says Jón Karl, snapping his fingers. ‘Just get that fucking pipe lit!’

  ‘All good things to those who wait,’ says Stoker with a cheeky grin. ‘Hannibal Lecter, this time, not Job!’

  ‘I’m warning you.’ Jón Karl points a threatening finger at his host.

  ‘If you don’t start calming down, I’m going to spit in the pipe instead of lighting it,’ says Stoker, his voice shaking. He takes a deep breath and straightens his back.

  ‘Then I’ll tear your head off and throw it all the way to hell!’ Jón Karl thumps the table so hard with his clenched fist that the books bounce and the flames flicker.

  ‘And there’s a hearty fire in hell.’ Stoker lights a match. ‘Because I’ve worked so hard shovelling coal for the Master!’

  ‘Just light the pipe. After that you can shovel coal in hell till the fire reaches God’s arsehole.’

  ‘Ha ha! Bloody good!’ says Stoker, putting a match to the pipe and the pipe to his lips, then drawing the fire into the tobacco and the smoke into his lungs, between bursts of chilling laughter. ‘God’s arsehole! Ha ha! The fire reaches to heaven! Ha ha!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Jón Karl, irritated, and reaches out his right hand. ‘Come on, let me have the pipe.’

  ‘Ha ha! The clerics may have managed to turn things upside down and got the masses to believe that the devil is inferior to God, that he’s down there and really just a shadow of the Godhead, whose only purpose is to tempt man and punish him but the truth is something else entirely.’ Stoker speaks while inhaling then hands the pipe to Jón Karl. ‘The Sumerian creation myth recognises the personification of evil as the oldest of all ancient gods. Christianity teaches us that Lucifer was a rebel in heaven who fell into disgrace with God, who is supposed to have sent him to earth to be punished, taught and humiliated.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Jón Karl, preoccupied with drawing the heavy, thick smoke into his lungs which then send it throughout his body like a burning-hot cloud.

  ‘But, in truth, the future creator of the world and godfather of mankind rebelled against the gods of old, killed the eldest of the ancient gods and made the universe from his body, which was the body of an enormous snake,’ says Stoker, blowing smoke through his nose. ‘Our Icelandic Eddas confirms this. They tell how the sons of Bor killed the giant Ýmir and moved Ýmir’s body to the centre of Ginnungagap and made the earth from it, the ocean and lakes from his blood, and the mountains from his bones … and woman, all humankind.’

  ‘This is good …’ Jón Karl closes his eyes and lets the smoke slide like a headless snake out of his open mouth.

  ‘Therefore mankind’s position in creation is eternally between a rock and a hard place,’
says Stoker with a leer. ‘In our veins runs the blood of the enemy, the vindictive and fearsome ancient gods who do not live but dream all the same, while our spirit is a gift of the gods of old, creators of the universe, mentors and protectors of mankind, this childish offspring of evil and the Holy Ghost.’

  ‘Here,’ says Jón Karl, handing back the pipe.

  ‘But the snake that doesn’t live but dreams all the same, it hides in that endless outer space and pitch-black abyss which they call man’s subconscious,’ says Stoker, taking the pipe and drawing in the smoke. ‘That dragon of disorder coils and twists like a spring … like the galaxies of the universe … like the snake that twists in each of us and biologists call the code of life … DNA.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, my fucking friend. You can go on talking as long as that pipe is lit.’ Jón Karl takes the pipe again. The smoke coils and twists in his lungs like a spring and turns into snakes, dragons of disorder and endless galaxies … that coil above the flame, merge with Stoker’s incoherent stories, change their shapes and dance with their own shadows in the air of the cabin …

  ‘… Which is a story that starts in the darkness of the human soul, winds through valleys of shadow and ends in the continent of eternal winter, where death has reigned for more than forty million years and the awesome mountains are like abandoned castles in the ghostly light of dawn …’

  ‘Don’t talk any more …’ Jón Karl says, putting the pipe down on the edge of the table. His head is full of hot darkness and his limp body melts into the couch. The smoke runs like glowing syrup into his blood, which is heavy as lead and brown as melted chocolate … and nightmarish, chaotic images of his wife and daughter plague his mind like mosquitoes in the feverish heat of the East … rotten flesh and putrid blood and infected eyes that weep metal splinters …

  ‘… But their day will come. That will be the day when the gates open and the dreadful truth will become clear to condemned mankind. The short-sighted man will wake to the nightmare that the ship they thought they were sailing towards progress and a bright future has been going in circles for thousands of years. It is a ship of fools, steered by fools who look to the stars and ignore the currents in the sea of eternity … And not until then will they fetch new helmsmen in the insane asylums and in the dungeons of the big cities, but by then it will be too late!’

  ‘Ha … What ship?’ Jón Karl half opens his eyes.

  ‘They are there, always … forever,’ whispers Stoker, giggling through his beard. ‘And Kutulu calls!’

  ‘I hate this ship,’ mutters Jón Karl, closing his eyes again.

  ‘There is a curse on this ship!’ declares Stoker, his voice rising. ‘Originally it was named Noon and under that name it was infamous after a police investigation of two murders and three suicides that were committed on board over a two-year period.’

  Silence.

  ‘Originally it belonged to Jews, but now it belongs to Muslims.’

  Silence.

  ‘The fourteenth letter of the Hebrew alphabet is N or Nun, pronounced “Noon”. Nun is the thirteenth tarot trump card, because the first trump is a zero. In the Kabbalah teachings “Nun” means the single fish that swims in the great sea and has all creatures in its stomach, and trump number thirteen is death.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ says Jón Karl, sitting up. ‘Got to lie down. Nauseous … Haven’t eaten for …’

  ‘The ship itself may not be evil, per se,’ says Stoker with a grin. ‘But it is pregnant with evil!’

  ‘Christ, you’re boring company.’ Jón Karl checks his watch. He sees that it’s three minutes to two. Then he slides out to the end of the couch and stands up.

  But he has to grab the edge of the table to keep from falling as the ship pitches violently.

  Boom, boom, boom …

  ‘Listening to you talk makes me want a cold shower,’ says Jón Karl and he steadies himself like a drunken man against the table and walls as he lurches towards the door.

  ‘Hey, pal!’ says Stoker, catching hold of the pipe as it slides off the table. ‘I still haven’t asked you your name.’

  ‘You’ve said my name three times this evening,’ says Jón Karl after a moment’s thought. ‘So you must be able to work it out for yourself.’

  ‘Eh? What?’ says Stoker, scratching his tousled head. ‘What name?’

  His only answer is the click of the cabin door closing behind Jón Karl.

  XV

  04:10

  Second mate Jónas’s face is pale, almost blue, and he looks around with eyes that have stayed open so long they’ve stopped moving in their sockets.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Jónas asks hoarsely when Jón Karl finally makes his appearance up in the bridge. ‘It’s ten past four! You were supposed to be here for your watch at precisely three o’clock. Methúsalem was furious! He talked about cutting your pay.’

  ‘Relax, man,’ says Jón Karl, feeling his way in the dim light, red eyed and unsteady on his feet. ‘I just took a little nap. Did we hit an iceberg in the meantime?’

  ‘It’s no joke! Around here men are expected —’

  ‘Is there anything to eat here?’ asks Jón Karl, grabbing hold of the handles on one of the instruments in the middle of the bridge.

  ‘You stink of hash, man,’ says Jónas, throwing up his hands. ‘Have you been with Stoker?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Jón Karl with a crooked smile. ‘Or in hell. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Which means he’s pretty fried down in the engine room.’ Jónas sighs.

  ‘Are we allowed to smoke hash here?’ Jón Karl says, surprised.

  ‘This ship belongs to Arabs. They allow hash but alcohol is completely forbidden.’ Jónas shrugs to show he can’t fathom the Arabs’ attitude. ‘But that doesn’t mean men can be stoned on their watch.’

  ‘Go, Muslims!’ says Jón Karl with a low laugh.

  ‘There’s coffee and biscuits over there,’ Jónas says, nodding towards the dim alcove near the back of the bridge. ‘See if you can’t shape up a bit.’

  ‘Can’t we turn on the lights in here?’ says Jón Karl and steadies himself on the wall as he heads for the bridge’s port wing, which is about the size of a studio apartment.

  ‘No,’ says Jónas as he takes a seat in the captain’s chair. ‘Then we couldn’t see out.’

  There’s a red light shining on the coffee maker, which is attached to the wall beside a small sink, and the glass jug is full of hot coffee.

  ‘Great,’ says Jón Karl under his breath. He half fills a clean mug with steaming coffee, which he sweetens with ten sugar cubes and fills up with milk from the little fridge under the table. Then he takes out a whole packet of digestive biscuits from the cupboard above the sink.

  On a long counter opposite the coffee corner there are two dimmed screens, two keyboards, two printers, three powerful transceivers, a long-wave radio and a sort of telephone which, like the screens and transceivers, is built into a specially designed console of varnished wood.

  ‘Is that a regular phone?’ Jón Karl nods towards the black receiver as he holds his balance with the coffee mug in one hand and the packet of biscuits in the other.

  ‘Satellite phone and telex,’ says Jónas, blinking dry eyes. ‘We’ve also got an NMT-phone, but it doesn’t always work.’

  ‘Remind me to phone home later on.’ Jón Karl puts the mug and biscuits down on the portside windowsill, which has a view over the lit-up weather deck and the bow, which sinks down, breaks the waves and tosses the foam high in the air.

  Boom, boom, boom …

  And the salt-filled spray rains over the ship, from bow to stern.

  ‘Listen,’ says Jónas slowly, stepping out of the chair and pulling a chequebook out of his shirt pocket. ‘I wrote you a cheque.’

  ‘A cheque?’ says Jón Karl as he sits down in a chair by the window.

  On the windowsill there’s a little dashboard Jesus on a glued-down spring. It wobbles back and forth with ou
tspread arms, palms forward, and stares through the glass with its black-painted plastic eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ says Jónas, tearing out the cheque. ‘It’s for those five million you wanted. Or were you just joking?’

  ‘No,’ says Jón Karl, accepting the cheque, looking at it and folding it once before sliding it into his right-hand trouser pocket. ‘But cheques aren’t all that dependable a currency. You understand?’

  ‘It’s not as if I could get to a bank!’

  ‘You could phone,’ says Jón Karl, opening the biscuits. ‘You could get them to transfer the money.’

  ‘First I’m going to have to sell my house. You can’t cash that cheque until we get back to Iceland.’

  ‘For your sake,’ says Jón Karl, breaking a biscuit before dunking one half in his sweet, milky coffee, ‘… it’d better not bounce!’

  ‘That’s my problem,’ mutters Jónas, his eyes going dark.

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘Who?’ asks Jónas, stiffening.

  ‘That brother-in-law of yours,’ says Jón Karl, smacking his lips on the biscuit.

  ‘No … I …’ Jónas goes white and then purple around his nose and mouth, as if he’s about to suffocate.

  ‘Relax, man. As if I give a shit!’

  ‘I’m just a weak man,’ says Jónas, drawing a deep breath like a sheep with lung disease. ‘But you are a devil in human form.’

  ‘Whatever. At least I don’t have to sell the roof over my head in order to silence people who don’t even know what they’re being silent about, do I?’

  ‘You …’ Jónas gives up.

  ‘Did you say we’re on our way to Sumeria?’ asks Jón Karl, breaking another biscuit in two.

  ‘Suriname.’ Jónas rubs his swollen eyelids with the palms of his hands.

  ‘Right,’ says Jón Karl and looks distractedly out the window at the darkness outside. ‘But it doesn’t look as if we’re going anywhere at all, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Listen. I’m going to the toilet. You just take it easy meanwhile.’

  ‘Real easy,’ says Jón Karl, noisily chewing the coffee-soaked biscuit.