The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  On a shelf under the working bench, a heater fan slowly revolves and in front of it there is something black and sticky, about the size of a tomato, sitting on a five-page-thick pile of newspaper, opened to a double-page spread. Stoker pulls the newspaper off the shelf and places it on the workbench. The black sticky thing glued to the newspaper is the heart of the fifth pirate. It’s shrunk to half its size and become much darker, but it’s still resilient to the touch and the newspaper is still absorbing blood, which colours it black and brown almost out to the edges.

  Stoker grins to himself and slides the paper back onto the shelf in front of the heater. Once the heart is completely dry he’s going to grind it into a fine powder and keep it in a locked copper casket. Powdered heart of pirate! How much for a gram of that on the black market in New Orleans or Casablanca? If it’s even on offer!

  But he’s not going to sell this treasure. No, he’s going to …Stoker is startled out of his daydreams when he hears a heavy thud.

  Or was it?

  He listens carefully but hears nothing but the tiresome rattle of the generator engine.

  Boom, boom, boom ...

  There!

  ‘What …’ Stoker switches off the lights in the machine shop and walks out to the engine room. What’s that banging? Who’s hitting …?

  Boom, boom, boom ...

  He walks over to starboard side and into the storeroom. Is the banging coming from above or …

  Boom, boom, boom ...

  Stoker walks into the boiler room and from there up the steel ladder leading to the electrical workshop. That’s where the banging is coming from, he could be pretty …

  Boom, boom, boom ...

  Yes! He turns to the right and along a corridor, totally unlit apart from a faint green light from above the door leading to the empty hold. On the cold steel floor are pools of oily dampness, the walls are covered with old and new rust, and the clacking of his wooden clogs echoes along the corridor.

  Clack, clack, clack …

  ‘Is somebody there?’ calls Stoker, who has figured out where the heavy blows are coming from. Someone has left the door to the hold open, and the heavy metal door swings with the movement of the ship, slamming every now and then into the doorframe, which shudders, and the metallic blow is magnified in these empty metal surroundings.

  Who opened the door to the hold?

  Stoker holds the door with his left hand and the doorjamb with his right. then sticks his head into the darkness and calls into the cool emptiness.

  ‘IS SOMEBODY IN THERE?’

  There is no answer. Of course there’s nobody in there! Who could be there? Jónas? No. The door opened by itself. It’s the only logical explanation.

  ‘Bloody stupid,’ mutters Stoker and straightens up. Just as he’s about to step aside, the ship takes a heavy blow and he slips on the floor, losing his grip on the door, which swings …

  XXXII

  31°W 8°S

  It’s now or never! Well, maybe not never, but this is the right time, that’s for sure. If they mess up this opportunity, there’s little or no hope of another one.

  Guðmundur stands out on the starboard bridge wing and checks the weather, then glances at his watch.

  The sun is shining in a clear sky, the temperature is nearing thirty degrees and it’s ten past eight in the morning. He goes back in the bridge and looks over the control board and the table. He has compass, charts, pocket calculator and sextant. He’s recorded all the necessary information in the ship’s log: everything about the ship, the crew and the events of the past few days, in both Icelandic and English. Everything’s ready. If the foghorn were working he’d blow it as a sign that everyone should prepare to depart.

  But since the foghorn is out of commission, the captain keeps shouting out to his shipmates as he makes his way down to B-deck.

  ‘IS EVERYONE READY? WE ABANDON SHIP IN TWENTY MINUTES. ALL HANDS ON DECK!’

  When he walks out onto B-deck Sæli and Satan are there already, so he could have saved himself the shouting. Stoker is doubtless down in the engine room, fetching something or making some final adjustments.

  ‘Hello, lads!’ says the captain, who is both excited and anxious about the pending boat trip. ‘Ready to go?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Sæli. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Are you abandoning ship in this thing?’ asks Satan. He gives the inflatable a kick so it turns in a half circle on the slippery deck.

  ‘Yes,’ says Guðmundur, putting on a lifejacket and then tossing one to Sæli and another to Satan. ‘This boat is our only hope.’

  ‘How far is it to land?’ Sæli asks as he puts on his lifejacket.

  ‘About 110 kilometres, maybe more,’ says the captain with a shrug. ‘We should get to shore before dark, if all goes well.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ says Satan, throwing his lifejacket to the deck. ‘This thing’s going to sink, that’s for sure. I’m not leaving a million tonnes of steel to get in a bath toy. No way!’

  ‘You have no choice!’ says Captain Guðmundur, his eyes going red. ‘This ship is on its way to hell! One hundred and ten kilometres is quite a way, I’ll grant you that, but sunset tonight marks the end of any chance we have that this ship will ever be found! It could drift out beyond the earth’s atmosphere, as far as that goes – there’s just about the same degree of shipping traffic out there as in the godless depths this rustbucket is heading for. So there!’

  ‘No need to get all worked up, man,’ says Satan, squinting against the sun and lighting a cigarette. ‘Can’t we just drop anchor and hang out here until some losers find us?’

  ‘We might as well hang Christmas lights on the ship as drop anchor,’ says the captain with a grim laugh. ‘At a guess the water here is a good five kilometres deep.’

  ‘You must be joking!’ says Satan, his eyes widening as he blows smoke through his nose.

  A good five kilometres! That’s about the length of the drive from the Höfðabakki Bridge all the way to Snorrabraut in the west of Reykjavík. Satan is dizzied by the thought of water so deep and dark that it may as well be bottomless. How long would it take a human body to sink a good 5000 metres? Six hours? Twelve? A full twenty-four? Or would the enormous pressure have turned it into pàté halfway down?

  ‘If we don’t go now,’ says Sæli, slapping the side of the Zodiac, ‘we’ll never go.’

  ‘All together now!’ says the captain and grabs one of the Zodiac’s handles. ‘Let’s get this dinghy afloat.’

  ‘Fuck it!’ says Satan and sticks his cigarette in his mouth before also grabbing a handle. ‘I’ll help you launch this junk but I’m staying on the ship, thank you very much. This wading pool is going to sink and I don’t plan to sink with it. No fucking way am I going to bob around in the water for days on end just to be smelled out and eaten by a shark. No way!’

  ‘Up to you,’ says the captain with a sigh as they lift the boat and head for the steps leading down to the weather deck.

  ‘There aren’t any sharks around here,’ says Sæli. ‘Are there?’

  31°W 8°S

  Desert upon desert as far as his distorted consciousness can reach; a burning hot desert, yellow and deadly …

  The sun is shining on Jónas’s sickly face, salty sweat runs into his eyes, there’s nothing to be seen but the flaming sand and dancing mirages in the distance …

  He’s walking and walking but can’t feel his legs …

  Maybe he’s on horseback?

  He doesn’t know where he’s going but he carries on, he has to carry on, he can’t do anything but carry on, gliding as if in a dream …

  Maybe he’s dreaming?

  Buzzing heat that paralyses his lungs, scratches his flesh and forces its way into his rotting body, which glows like the thread in a lightbulb …

  When he’s just about to give up …

  Give up? He has no choice. He just is until he stops being.

  … and die …

  Dyin
g’s not so bad. Not when life is desert fire. Hopefully death is cold and crisp, endless depths of blue water.

  … he catches sight of something that sticks up out of the soaring mirage fires …

  Intersecting lines …

  A house!

  He remembers the house in Mosfellsbær.

  There’s a house up ahead, and it’s slowly coming closer, and little by little becoming clearer …

  Maybe it’s a roadside café?

  Water, water – he must have water …

  The heat is overwhelming and the sun paralysing. It sucks away life like a fly sucking blood …

  But there are people coming, people coming out of the mists! Two men coming to help him …

  Somewhere a door opens, there are voices and …

  ‘Water!’

  His eyes are full of hot seawater and his legs drag along the hard sand. They hold him up and carry him towards the house, which throws a triangular shadow on the sand …

  Shade!

  He must have water! His head is full of red fire, the sun has bored a hole in his forehead and lights up the dark …

  The house, the house …

  The house isn’t a house but an iron pyramid that lists to one side like …

  A rusty pyramid that …

  That isn’t a pyramid but the bow of a freighter that’s sticking up like …

  ‘NO, NO, NO! NOT THE SHIP!’

  He tries to resist but the men won’t let him go. He looks closer and sees that they aren’t men – not living men …

  Two skeletons wearing beige suits drag him to the altar of the iron god that towers over them like a man-made mountain and stares out at the desert with empty, square eyes …

  31°W 8°S

  The captain is on board the Zodiac, which is roped to the starboard side of the ship. Sæli and Satan are holding the outboard motor out to him over the railing.

  ‘Don’t drop it in the water, skipper,’ says Satan as he lets go of the motor. Guðmundur crawls to the back of the boat holding the motor as if it were a baby, and attaches it to the platform in the stern. The others toss twenty-five Coke bottles on board: twenty containing petrol, five water.

  ‘That is a ticking time bomb, lads,’ says Satan, who’s bare to the waist, tanned and shiny with sweat.

  ‘Do you need help?’ Sæli calls out to the captain.

  ‘You’re welcome to call it off and stay on the ship with me,’ says Satan and he lights a cigarette.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ says the captain, wiping the sweat from his forehead. ‘Why don’t you just jump aboard?’

  ‘What about the engineer?’ asks Satan, scratching the bandage above his left ear as he blows out blue smoke. The bandage is dirty and soaked with sweat, which is dissolving the dried blood.

  ‘I’d forgotten all about Stoker!’ says Guðmundur as he tosses the bottles of petrol into the compartment at the bow of the Zodiac. ‘What’s he thinking of, the fool?’

  ‘Guys!’ says Satan, shading his eyes with his left hand. ‘Do you see what I see?’

  They all stare out to sea, where the waves glisten like mountains of silver in the strong sunlight.

  ‘Is that …?’ mutters Sæli, squinting.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ says the captain, standing up in the Zodiac.

  About a hundred metres south of the ship is the big lifeboat, rocking to and fro as it approaches.

  ‘Lads, jump aboard!’ says Guðmundur as he tugs on the mooring line to pull the Zodiac up to the railing. ‘We should head out before the lifeboat runs into the ship.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ says Satan, tossing his cigarette overboard. ‘You’re not going anywhere in this inner tube when we can use that big one! I’ll come with you in that one.’

  ‘We have no idea what condition it’s in!’ says the captain, his voice sharp. We leave now – THAT’S AN ORDER!’

  ‘How about the engineer?’ says Satan, picking up a coil of rope from the deck. ‘Are you going to leave him behind?’

  ‘ALL ABOARD!’ screams Guðmundur, clearly quite frantic. ‘If we don’t leave now we all die! Can you understand that? If you don’t jump on board I’ll go ashore alone!’

  Skuggi is running back and forth on the weather deck, looking from the captain to Satan and whining constantly.

  ‘Gummi? Gummi?’ says Sæli, hesitantly. ‘He’s right, we should …’

  The captain starts the engine and begins to loosen the mooring ropes.

  ‘YOU GET ON BOARD, BOY! I DON’T CARE WHAT —’

  ‘You shut your bloody mouth, motherfucker!’ Satan screams at Guðmundur, who goes silent and stares at the seaman, a hysterical gleam in his eyes. ‘You’re not leaving anyone behind and nobody’s going anywhere in that inner tube of yours!’

  ‘You …’ The captain clenches his pale fists and closes his mouth in mid sentence to control his trembling lips.

  ‘I CAN’T SWIM, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’ shouts Satan, expanding his chest muscles like a wild animal preparing to attack.

  ‘Look! It’s Jónas!’ says Sæli, pointing at the lifeboat, which is now only ten metres from the ship.

  The ghostly face of the second mate can be seen through the window off and on. They can see no sign that he’s conscious.

  ‘Is he dead?’ asks Satan, breathing deeply through his nose.

  ‘I can’t see,’ says Sæli.

  ‘He’s going to hit the Zodiac! I knew it!’ says the captain, escaping onto the weather deck and abandoning the boat. ‘Don’t let him hit the Zodiac!’

  ‘You and your dinghy,’ spits Satan. He climbs onto the railing with the coil of rope over his right shoulder and launches himself onto the bow of the lifeboat.

  ‘NO! NO!’ shouts the captain as the Zodiac gets jammed between the lifeboat and the ship.

  The outboard motor mutters in neutral; the rubber groans when the heavy plastic lifeboat shoves against the Zodiac and twists it; two patches pop off, and several petrol bottles fall in the water.

  ‘Here comes the rope!’ says Satan, throwing the coil across to Sæli after tying the end of it to a hook on the bow of the lifeboat.

  ‘See what’s happening?’ bellows Guðmundur, pointing at the Zodiac, which is losing its air as it is squeezed into a knot, until its motor dies and pulls the rubber boat down into the deep.

  Sæli ties the lifeboat to the railing then leaps aboard, while the captain sits down on a hatch and wipes the sweat off his neck and forehead with a white handkerchief.

  ‘Hello?’ says Satan, knocking on the window of the lifeboat. Then the second mate blinks and licks his lips with a swollen tongue. ‘He’s alive!’

  ‘We can get in at the back,’ says Sæli, feeling his way along the enclosed lifeboat, which is rounded and difficult to negotiate.

  ‘We sail at noon!’ the captain shouts from his hatch. ‘We load petrol and supplies and sail at noon!’

  ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ Sæli calls back. ‘We have to look after the second mate!’

  ‘I’m going to take a nap,’ says Guðmundur, sliding off the hatch and setting off for the stairs up to the starboard side of B-deck. ‘We load petrol and supplies and sail at noon.’

  Skuggi lies down on his belly on the hatch and watches as the captain leaves.

  ‘I’ll go in and get him loose if you help lift him out,’ says Sæli as he opens the entrance at the back of the lifeboat.

  ‘Christ, what a stink!’ says Satan, holding his nose as foul air streams out of the lifeboat.

  ‘Water!’ says Jónas hoarsely as Sæli lifts him up.

  ‘Take it easy!’ says Sæli, dragging the second mate towards the door. ‘You’ll get water.’

  ‘Got ’im!’ says Satan as he gets a grip on Jónas’s shoulders.

  ‘He’s dehydrated,’ says Sæli, gripping the second mate’s legs and pulling him, back bent, out the door of the lifeboat, which is lying parallel to the ship, its stern banging by turns against the railing and the side o
f the ship, depending on just how much the ship lists to starboard.

  They choose their moment and manage to heave Jónas onto the weather deck, where they each take an arm and carry him between them into the shade of the wheelhouse.

  ‘He’s pissed and shit himself, for Christ’s sake,’ mutters Satan with a grimace.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ says Sæli softly.

  Just before they reach the staircase leading to B-deck, the second mate comes to, opens his swollen eyes and tries to resist.

  ‘NO, NO, NO! NOT THE SHIP!’ he screams, his voice breaking as he struggles with his shipmates.

  ‘Stop it, man!’ says Satan, taking a firmer hold on Jónas, who is staring at Satan with terror in his shiny eyes.

  A slow, heavy wave tips the ship, then it straightens as it lifts up on the wave.

  ‘Satan! Look!’ calls Sæli, twisting around and looking along the weather deck.

  ‘Oh, fuck. NO!’ screams Satan, letting go of the second mate, who falls forward onto the deck.

  As the ship lifts, the lifeboat is sucked under its gigantic hull. Its mooring line snaps under the pressure and the eighteen-man plastic boat disappears in front of their eyes as the ship settles all its weight onto it, thrusting it deep into the water.

  ‘Oh my God!’ says Sæli, on his knees. ‘I don’t believe …’

  A muffled explosion can be heard when the plastic boat caves in underwater, then the sea foams violently as air, petrol and debris shoot up to the surface.

  32°W 10°S

  ‘Right, it’s ready, finally,’ says Satan as he places a casserole dish on the table in the seamen’s mess. Then he takes off his oven gloves and sits at the end of the table nearest the door. Captain Guðmundur sits at the other end and Sæli in the middle, to the right of the captain.

  ‘Have some before it gets cold,’ says Satan, serving himself.

  He has dismembered two chickens and thrown them in the pottery casserole along with cabbage, onions and potatoes, and seasoned the whole with salt and pepper before tossing it in the oven and cooking the whole show for three hours.

  Silence.

  ‘It’s time you dropped this fucking gloom,’ says Satan as he shakes the meat off a wing and a thigh. ‘If you don’t start showing some signs of life I’m going to lock you in the freezer with the other stiffs.’