The Master remained seated, his face a mask of rigid determination. The one who was to give the flogging came forward with the cat. Brutus, after a struggle, was positioned with his naked back turned to the flogger. Ramsey stood, observing the procedure, but whether his eyes were on what was in front of him or not could not be said. In truth, he was wishing someone would overrule him, or maybe God would supply a substitute, as in the case of Abraham and Isaac, but he was not a man to admit to a mistake.
The Master spoke once again. “Mister Ramsey, in your role as boatswain you are the assessor of punishments, and I will not overrule you. We are all servants of a power greater than ourselves, the power of the law, and it were better that a man should die than that the law should suffer even the slightest harm. Law is that which stands between us and the animals. But are you certain that the law proscribes a punishment of eighty lashes in this case?”
Ramsey answered, “Are you implying I have made a mistake?”
What an odd thing to ask, thought the Master. Of course this was what he was implying. He had thought the implication must be clear to all. “I must insist – “ he began, but then thought better of it. “As I said before, I will not overrule you. Please proceed.”
So, when all was ready, “One,” said Ramsey.
The flogger lifted the cat and let it down gently on Brutus’s back, barely scratching the skin.
“Oh, come on, man,” said Ramsey. “Will you make a mock of it? Give it a lash. Dole it out as it must be done. Hard, man. A hard lash.”
The flogger looked back at him.
“We start again,” said Ramsey. “One.”
The flogger administered the lash. Brutus writhed in pain. Runnels of blood bore down his back and he cursed them with a most vehement and a bloody curse, because they had forgotten to gag him as they ought. He cursed them all and he damned them, both Ramsey and the Master and all their progenitors and all their generations that were to come, with a loud and a clamant oath.
“Two.” Again the lash. Brutus writhed again, the blood now pouring freely. There were tears of unendurable pain in his eyes and the curses that he cursed were a woe to be heard. The Master and the men looked on, observing in grim silence, seeing to it that justice was done.
“Three.” And again.
After ten, Brutus stopped moaning.
After fifteen, the Master retired to his cabin.
We’ll turn our eyes away. But what of Tom? They’d searched for him diligently over the entire vessel, but nowhere was he to be found.
Tom, when he’d spluttered to the surface of the frigid waters, saw the ship being borne away into the night. He tried to shout, but there was none to hear him, and his voice didn’t carry over the squalling of the waves and the wind’s suspiration. The last he saw of the ship was the yellow twinkle of the Master’s cabin light disappearing in the fog. He did his best to stay afloat, but the water was cold, so cold, with an aching freezing chill that got into his bones and wouldn’t get back out again. He found his head was dipping below the waves more and more, and he was having a harder time fighting his way to the surface, where he’d take in great gulps of the icy salt water. He was just on the point of giving up the ghost, and of letting his self drift down for the last time, when looking below, he never knew quite how, but he saw a great fish – the speckled back of a great fish he was certain it was, darker than the dark waters beneath it – swimming up towards him where he waited treading water. He saw it turn and pass just under him. But it didn’t pass, it kept going, and going, and going some more. The breadth of it was enormous, and there seemed to be no end to the length of it. He counted several intervals till he got tired of counting before the great tail of the beast finally passed below him and he smacked his lips together almost with glee that here, at the very end of his life, he’d been granted a sight of that great marvel he’d heard so many seamen speak of, the monstrous leviathan that sits at the sea’s bottom and gnaws at the edge of the world. And as he went down for the last time the great fish turned again and opening its cavernous mouth it took Tom in and swallowed him whole.
Tom was grappled as it were with a shoal of rough fishes and being engulfed down the gorge of the brute found himself slipping over the lip of a waterfall and into a pool of salt water, where gasping and spluttering he was able to catch his breath. He was floating in what resembled a lagoon filled with fish, or bits of fish, swirling in gentle currents around and through a series of troughs marked out by innumerable cartilaginous membranes visible in a hazy pearlescent glow that was diffused by the walls. He sat up in astonishment. Surely he had passed safe and alive into the gullet of the enormous fish he had seen swimming beneath him.
He staggered to his feet and looked around. His first thought was could he survive here? He tried to get a sense of directions. He was looking down a long ribbed tunnel. The walls of the tunnel were a dingy sort of red, and they were alive, heaving rhythmically in huge, shuddering gasps, in and out and in and out again. When he turned around he could see the waterfall over which he had passed. The water descended down a vertical wall perhaps fifteen feet in height. It came gushing in torrents, falling into the pool at his feet and then passing down the long membranous tunnel. If he could somehow ascend that wall, fighting upward against the water’s flow, he might then be in a position to reach the creature’s mouth and perhaps escape, although escape would almost certainly mean death by drowning in the ocean’s depths.
The water in the pool in which he stood came almost to his waist. There were a number of fish of various sorts swimming in it, and there were also fish heads and tails and other parts that might have been torn or chewed by the monster’s teeth. He proceeded down the tunnel. From time to time he was flooded by an inundation of water from the giant’s mouth which would sweep his feet from under him; but mostly he was able to plowter along in his waterlogged shoes. His passage was illuminated by the pearly luminescence he’d seen at first that seemed to be exuded by the walls, or what he thought of as walls, which were likely the lining of the fish’s intestines or stomach or some other internal organ. As he proceeded he found that the tunnel divided and was full of elaborate passageways culminating in caverns or grottoes of one sort or another. He was overcome with wonder at the vast hugeness he’d discovered in the leviathan’s bowels, and felt as if he was an explorer descending into caves in the deepnesses of the earth except that the walls were constantly shuddering and quivering, and he was almost always walking in water up to his waist filled with fish and crabs and other crustaceans. If he had to spend any time here he’d certainly not lack for food, though many of the fish were kinds he’d never seen before, with odd colors and queer mouths. But he’d likely die first from lack of water, as he could not drink the brine sloshing all around him. Seeing no point in descending further he turned back and attempted to retrace his steps, but found himself lost in a bewildering confusion of canals and tunnels, and finally, exhausted, he lay down on a patch of relatively dry seaweed and went to sleep.
When he awoke he was confounded for several moments by the complete unfamiliarity of his surroundings. Gradually returning to consciousness he recalled being swallowed by the fish and his subsequent explorations of the halls and corridors in its vast belly. He also came to the slow realization that amidst the various swishing and whistling sounds that seemed to surround him there were other muffled tones carried faintly from somewhere far below that were unmistakably musical. As he listened, he could make out a melody accompanied by a bass continuo, as if being played on the pipes of a mysterious organ. At times the music would halt and then start up again, repeating the same passage, as if the keyboardist was practicing his fingering. As best he could, Tom tried to identify the direction from which the sound was coming and then follow it to its source. He was led down a long and juddering tunnel past innumerable branching passageways, finally debouching into a large enclosed space which as best he could determine was the fish’s stomach. He was amazed to see that this s
pace contained several large wooden boxes, hogsheads, barrels and other containers, things which the leviathan must have swallowed at one time or another and which, being indigestible, had ended up here. But the most amazing sight of all was a man seated on a keg at the keyboard of a small pipe organ who was playing the music. He was a chubby man with enormous buttocks. As soon as he saw Tom he stopped playing and jumped off the keg, evidently as astounded to see Tom as Tom was to see him.
“You’ve arrived,” said the man.
“Have I now?”
“I’ve been expecting you.” Tom thought there was nothing more remarkable this man could have said. He went on, “I summoned you, and here you are. I am Colophus of Demarest. No doubt you’ve heard of me.”
“Certain it is I have not.”
“Well, you know of Demarest, of course.”
“No.”
“No . . .? The Torpentine Seaboard . . .? The Capitols of Upper Toravia . . .? None of these mean anything to you?”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve no knowledge of any of them.” Tom considered that the fish he was in must have traversed considerable distances and was familiar with geographies that were well and away beyond any seas he’d ever known.
“Well, you are astoundingly ignorant. Perhaps that was to be expected. At any rate it is no matter.”
Tom looked about. The large and enclosed space in which he found himself was filled with the most varied and disparate sorts of objects. There were crates crammed with merchandise of all sorts, glassware, furniture, objets d’art; a fantastic confusion of all sorts had been set adrift here in the bowels of the leviathan. He must have swallowed argosies, great galleons full of all the artifacts of human merchandise, that now, having been consumed by this monster of the deep, had jumbled themselves together, as in a huge storehouse of a fabulous museum, all the odds and ends, the old bits that no longer fit anywhere else, jam packed and put away till their final disposition could be determined. It was no wonder at all that Colophus had found an organ and been able to put it up and get use from it. There were contraptions even odder, for many of which he could not even imagine a purpose, unless perhaps for some arcane torments or pleasures of which he had no conception. He was so rapt in amazement he realized that Colophus had been speaking for some time and he had not been paying attention.
“So I’ve been whiling my time away, toiling here in the land of the dead, all alone, but my time has been my own and I assure you it has not been wasted. I’ve been pursuing investigations into a diverse array of philosophical questions relating to the purpose of existence and of nonexistence, as well as putting the final touches on my memoirs.”
“So you’re writing your memoirs, are you?”
“Oh yes. In death I’ve finally found the time I needed. Never could do it when I was alive, there was just too much going on.”
“In death you say?”
“Yes. Oh I am sorry but I assure you we are both dead. I have been here alone in the land of the dead for some time. It’s impossible to know how long, there are no days or nights here, there is only eternity. But in my loneliness I longed for a companion. I have prayed for one devoutly, and my prayers have been answered. You have arrived, another dead soul with whom I can share this everlasting Purgatory. Welcome.”
“I’m disinclined to believe I’m dead.”
“Perhaps this comes as a shock.”
“I’m not dead at all. I can see I’m breathing, and I feel my heart beating. Surely those would be alarming symptoms in a dead man.”
“It is all an illusion. Your dead soul has disguised itself in the trappings of a living body. The air you appear to breathe, the blood that appears to be pumping through your veins, these are all phantasms. Where else could this be, but Purgatory?”
“We’re not in Purgatory at all. This is the belly of a very great fish. We’ve been swallowed and we’re at the bottom of the sea.”
“The belly of a fish? Did you say we’re in the belly of a fish?” Colophus broke out in laughter. “Why that’s ridiculous. Do you have any idea how large such a fish would have to be to carry us around in its belly? Why that’s – “ he broke off, nearly crying with laughter.
“Yes, I fell off a ship, and – “
“Why that’s ludicrous!” Colophus was now rolling on the floor, unable to contain his mirth.
“I fell off a ship and saw a great fish, the mighty leviathan, swimming from the depths, and I saw it open its powerful jaws and swallow me down as easy as a man would swallow a crumb. Then I was consumed along with several schools of fish and bolted down into his gullet where I wandered around a bit and fell asleep. Then hearing your music I climbed down to where we are now, which I believe to be the leviathan’s enormous stomach. Why, how did you come to be here?”
“Well, I certainly wasn’t swallowed by a fish.”
“No?”
“No. I was poisoned by my enemies. They had it in for me. It was a nasty plot and one I should have seen through, but I’ve always been of too trusting a nature. I was very close to the Emperor, you see, I was in his inmost counsels, and my plans were on the point of being put into effect. Naturally, my enemies could not allow that to happen.
“So they invited me to a luncheon on a pleasure barge belonging to Duke Onorio. I ought to have known the Duke had been suborned, he was always of a weak and vacillating temperament, and that’s where the dirty deed was done. I am uncertain which dish it was, although I suspect it was the snails in a peacock relish, they knew of my fondness for it, it would have been just like them to select such a choice viand as the means of my demise, but it might have been – oh, who knows – anyway, where was I?”
“You were meeting your death by poison.”
“Oh yes. How regrettable. So the last thing I can recall is consuming those snails and then being overcome by drowsiness. The next time I opened my eyes I was here. This is clearly Purgatory, where I have been placed so that I can undertake the completion of certain worthy tasks that were left undone while I was still alive. Upon the completion of my penitential labors I shall be taken into Paradise where I will bask in the love of God almighty for all eternity. But while I was here I was lonely, so I prayed devoutly for a companion, and the presiding powers have sent you. Admittedly you are an oaf, in complete ignorance of the civilized world, prone to rustic conjectures such as being in the belly of –“ here he broke off, unable to contain his laughter, “the belly of a fish!” He laughed for several minutes, looking at Tom and shaking his head the whole time. When he was finally able to speak again he concluded by remarking that the benefits of companionship, no matter how lame-brained, outweighed the dreariness of a lonely existence.
“Certain I am you are right,” said Tom. “I am an oaf. It would not astonish me if I was the stupidest man ever to walk the face of the earth. I had the love of a fine woman, a kind and a smart woman who looked on me as her sweet boy, her lover, and her one and only for now and forever. The sun rose in her eyes when she saw me and for me it was just the same. I loved her and I love her still with my whole heart, and all my senses would be pleased and perfected if they could just behold her here before me now. And for some reason I took it into my head to go to sea and leave her far behind, hoping for a pot of gold that would make everything good, when everything already was better than any pot of gold could ever make it. Yes, I’m a stupid man. I’ve no argument with that at all. But for all that, still I say we’re both alive, you and I, and we’re being carried hither and thither in the belly of a great fish.” And just as Tom said that, a tremendous wave of water came through the space where they sat, washing all the odd bits of flotsam and jetsam about, rearranging the furniture as it were.
When things had settled down again, “I imagine,” said Tom, “when they thought they’d poisoned you they probably threw you overboard, and then the fish swallowed you. You were unconscious the whole time and when you came to you were already in the fish’s stomach.”
“Well, we’ll se
e. This fish must be one of the folk legends of the primitive tribe you come from. I’d guess you can’t conceive of the world without it. Anyway . . . what was I talking about?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Nor have I. You see, this is what happens. I’ve a great chain of thought, but if I get off it I never know where to get back on again. I think I was calling you stupid. Oh, but that’s no use. Anyway, I’ve been at work on a great treatise on the purposes of existence. Seemed like the thing to do here in Purgatory.”
“How do you survive here? I can see there’s plenty of fish to eat, but what do you drink?”
“Oh, there’s gallons to drink. Here,” and he found a goblet, which he handed to Tom, and then led him to a cask with a bung and a spigot. “There’s sherry. Huge amounts. Seems like the perfect drink for Purgatory. Glorious sherry, fill your glass.”
Tom did so and took a deep draft. “That was refreshing,” he said. “My mouth was becoming sadly parched.”
“For food there’s an abundance of fish. I don’t know why fish exactly, possibly some religious symbolism there, but an abundance I assure you. Unfortunately you’ll have to get used to eating it raw. I tried once lighting a fire. I’ve flint and iron, and there’s plenty of paper, but the walls started palpitating and the water came sluicing through something awful. There was no way to get that fire going and I assure you I’ve not wanted to repeat the experiment.”
“No, fire in his innards’d give this fish quite a vexation I should think.”
“You and your fish. Well, as I was saying, I’ve been at work on a dissertation intended to expound all the possible purposes of existence. Don’t you think that’s the sort of thing God would want to see completed? Now that I’ve got eternity to diddle around in, might as well get at it. By the way, don’t you think that’s the worst tasting sherry you’ve ever had a mouthful of?”
“Actually I was thinking it’s not that bad at all.”
The Devil's Workshop Page 11
