No Beast so Precious

It was a squally day at sea. Pin­prick rain struck from clouds like loom­ing anvils. Nip­ping wind riled up black and gnashy surf. Miles east, the thin eye of a light­house blinked through fog. The same dis­tance west, a gasp­ing geyser lift­ed from the sea, fad­ed into mist.

In her wick­er crow’s nest, the look­out focused on that sil­very spout, squint­ed through water-bead­ed lens­es. Moments lat­er, anoth­er geis­er fol­lowed, like a damp cough. The look­out pulled her spy­glass away, licked salt-chapped lips.

“Cap­tain!” she point­ed. “There she blows!”

Aside the creak­ing helm, shiv­er­ing in a hood­ed pea coat wet with rain, the Cap­tain star­tled. He blinked up through drops.

“Bear­ing?”

“Forty port­side.”

The Cap­tain turned to a thin and leather-bound man at the rail. His cloth-wrapped fin­gers clutched a stand of tas­seled pipes. “Let ’em know.”

The piper nod­ded, spat a dol­lop of pink to the deck. His bel­lows swelled. The chanter touched ver­mil­lion lips. A drone split the damp air, lay­ered with stac­ca­to melody. The deck erupt­ed like a kicked anthill. 

Some fifty meters astern, two gun­boats* respond to the cod­ed lilt. They put out oars, pulled to over­take their moth­er ship. Each sport­ed a har­poon tur­ret at its prow, two-ton coils gleam­ing with spray.

“Car­boye,” said the Cap­tain, turn­ing to his beard­ed helms­man.

“Aye,” he nod­ded. Rough hands spun over the wheel. Afore, swad­dled crew­men let out slack. The craft’s many sails bil­lowed, went taut. Tim­ber and iron creaked. They matched speed with the gun­boats, sailed in an invert­ed tri­an­gle.

“Merl­cot, put out the Weep­er,” called the Cap­tain.

Mid­way down the deck, by a set of stout-boomed cranes, Merl­cot respond­ed. “Aye!”

He and pair of sailors worked the winch of one crane. They lift­ed a huge cage shed­ding water from a three-meter tank in the deck. Some dark hulk lay inside, shift­ing weak­ly. The boom jerked. A wet hic­cup sound­ed in the cage, mis­er­able. Then, a sonorous wail.

Gri­mac­ing for the noise, Merl­cot and com­pa­ny craned the thing over the gun­wale, let it drop. It smashed into the waves, slow­ly sunk. They let it hang and drag at a depth of three meters. Even there, its cry was audi­ble. 

Some­where to the west, a deep­er cry respond­ed, pen­du­lous and song­ful. It fad­ed, echoed over the water.

At the rail, the cap­tain pro­duced his own spy­glass, looked out. For min­utes, there was not but steel-blue chop, the snap of sails, the drone of pipes. Then, not five hun­dred meters out, a jet of sil­ver from just under the sur­face, foamy and wide as a tree trunk. It quit, became a roil­ing trail of bub­bles fast approach­ing. Anoth­er rum­bling groan sound­ed, loud­er. 

“He’s inter­est­ed,” said the Cap­tain. “Bull cachalot. A real big lad.” He turned to his piper. “Tell ’em to load nine-points and run hard.”

The Piper nod­ded. His tune grew faster, briefly flut­tered to con­vey the cod­ed order. The gun­boats lurched ahead. Gun­ners clung to their swivel­ing har­poon guns, dashed by waves spewed over rush­ing prows. They fixed salt-stung eyes on the approach­ing bub­bles.

“Get wary,” said the Cap­tain, eyes locked on the pop­ping spume just before his gun­boats. A shad­ow swelled beneath, breached.

A ten-meter dome of black-blue flesh rose from the water. A neck­less, rub­bery, walleyed thumb of a head. Its down­turned maw, so wide and toothy as to eas­i­ly take in either lead­ing boat, gaped with indo­lent wrath. Its tiny eyes, shot with rage, rolled in their pits. It groaned, so volu­mi­nous­ly deep as to shud­der the heart and rip­ple the sea.

Gri­mac­ing for the cachalot’s cry, the tur­ret gun­ners loosed their shot. Man-length darts ripped chain through wet air, thumped feet deep into rub­bery hide near eyes and gap­ing blow­holes. The beast­’s scream moment­ly pitched high­er, pierc­ing­ly, deep­ened again. Pen­du­lous flip­pers of arms lift­ed from the sea, swat­ted and grabbed at the embed­ded darts with nub­by fin­gers. They tan­gled in the chain, tugged the gun­boats slow­ly inward.

Both gun­boats, yanked and bat­tered by waves crash­ing cross­wise over their hulls, released the chains of their har­poons. They began to cir­cle out of arm’s’ reach. On each deck, sod­den, shout­ing crew scur­ried to fer­ry new shot to the tur­rets.

As the gun­boats cir­cled, the cachalot twist­ed, kicked, rose fur­ther. A titan­ic trunk of flesh emerged, taut with blub­ber and mus­cle, bit by bar­na­cles. At ten meters in girth, it put a shad­ow on the sea.

“Shite,” mum­bled the Cap­tain, face dark­ened.

“Bloody oath,” shout­ed the Helms­man. “That’s one tub­by lad. Must be a hun­dred bar­rels.”

“Bring us clos­er.”

“Aye.”

“Ready lances,” said the Cap­tain. The Piper con­veyed this. Sailors scram­bled over the deck, untied bun­dles of cru­el lances. The ship rocked for­ward to cir­cle with her gun­boats.

Har­poons flashed dul­ly as they leapt from hand to blub­bery hide. Though many slipped into the sea, those that struck bit deep, jerked in the seiz­ing flesh, drew thin drib­bles of oily blood.

The cachalot beat up great craters of water, dumb­ly mauled at its cir­cling foes. Over the shouts and the rush of sea, there was a hard crack of steel. A har­poon bit below the beast­’s armpit. It elicit­ed a pitched wail. The sailors aboard the gun­boats cried and clutched their ears. Anoth­er har­poon bit clean through one flip­per and hit the head, thread­ed the chain clean in behind. The cachalot bel­lowed, lunged. The sailors of the west­ern gun­boat screamed as its shad­ow bore down on them.

The beast missed them, slammed into the sea. There was a crash of water. A shock of spray went up, ten meters high. The gun­boats rode high on the shock­wave, near­ly cap­sized.

For a moment, there was calm. The beast was but a reced­ing bas­so groan. Dual lengths of chain clicked from the har­poon tur­rets’ spools, pulled out steadi­ly by the cachalot’s retreat.

“Well,” said Car­boye, the helms­man. “Looks as though the lad’ll give us a nice sleighride, after all.” **

The Cap­tain frowned. Rain bead­ed on his knit­ted brows. He pulled out his glass, looked to the sur­round­ing sea, the unspool­ing chains. “No,” he mum­bled. Some fear tinged his voice. “He’s gone straight down.”

At that moment, the gun­ships’ chains ran out. With a crunch and a set of screams, each boat flipped like a toy and jerked, gut­ted, as its spool was yanked out down through the keel. Thrash­ing bod­ies and splin­tered wood bled from the wrecks.

Blood had fled the Cap­tain’s face. He looked on with bulging eyes. Amidst the wreck­age, those sailors who were not still and float­ing were floun­der­ing, tear­ing at the water as if they could lift out of it. They were dashed about by frigid licks of waves, eyes fixed, rolling in ter­ror at the dark below. On deck, their fel­lows rushed about, attempt­ed to throw lines to the strand­ed. The piper had quit his song.

“Cap­tain.”

He did­n’t respond. Car­boye shook his damp shoul­der. “Cap­tain, he’ll come back for the Weep­er.”

Slow, the Cap­tain peered over the rail. Below, huge bub­bles welled and popped. A shad­ow swelled there, larg­er by the sec­ond. “Togeth­er, we’re doomed,” he said, unbut­ton­ing his coat. He dis­card­ed it. 

“What are your orders?”

The Cap­tain shook away his coat. He stepped one boot atop the gun­wale, then the oth­er. He looked down to meet the helms­man­’s eye. Car­boye shiv­ered.

“Aban­don ship.”

The Cachalot

Some five decades past, a curi­ous beast was har­pooned off the queer and dis­tant Gate of Sloe: A blub­bery giant. A neck­less, lat­er­al-eyed thing; all bul­bous, bar­na­cled head.

The whalers who speared it dubbed it “cachalot,” Island tongue for “big head.” So large was the beast, they chopped off its long arms and stumpy fluke-legs, left them for the sharks. They flensed its rich flesh, yanked the ivory from its down­turned maw, and split its skull for the bone. 

To the whalers’ sur­prise, there was not bone beneath that blocky dome, but a sac of warm and run­ny wax. Paraf­fin wax, they’d lat­er learn. Three thou­sand liters of the stuff; a small for­tune worth of the Coast’s most val­ued fuel. ***

With this dis­cov­ery, there is now no beast so pre­cious as the cachalot. Paraf­fin, use­ful in all manor of appli­ca­tions, has begun to replace the long­time sta­ple that is whale oil. It is an essen­tial lubri­cant in mod­ern machin­ery, a supe­ri­or medi­um for soaps, and a can­dle wax of excep­tion­al puri­ty. When dis­tilled into kerosene, it is an unpar­al­leled fuel in lamps† and steam engines; the fiery emblems of Coastal moder­ni­ty. 

Civ­i­liza­tion demands ever more kerosene. To sat­is­fy its mount­ing thirst, whalers sail for ever-dark­er waters in search of their leviathan prey.

The Hunt

To catch a whale is no small feat. Hunters must spot a beast­’s spout, stalk it upon the sur­face, spear it, then ride out its thrash­es and throes, all but gam­bling it flees and dies of exhaus­tion rather than flail and wreck their puny whale­boat. 

To kill a cachalot is mon­u­men­tal. Sim­ply locat­ing one is a feat, for they are scarce and cagey, apt to learn where Lit­toran†† whalers prey. Cachalots will only reli­ably gath­er on the shores of far North­ern fjords, where they knuck­le-walk to clum­si­ly and thun­der­ous­ly mate. ††† No folk will dare attack a cachalot there, for fear of being tram­pled.

To aid in the loca­tion of cachalots, whalers employ a cun­ning lure. A “weep­er,” they call it. A cachalot calf shut in a cage, made to cry, and let to hang like a shal­low float along­side the whaler. Catch­ing a weep­er is easy, for new­ly-weaned calves will suck at the hulls of whalers, tricked by the scent of blub­ber ren­der­ing in the try­pots with­in.

Weep­ers are endur­ing­ly effec­tive, for even the wari­est of cachalots will approach a trap bait­ed with their own young. Not all are fools, though. A grow­ing num­ber come for the weep­er not as res­cuers snared by a ruse, but as com­bat­ants wise to whalers’ tricks. They approach a whaler with intent to bat­tle. 

This is the stuff of whalers’ night­mares. Ide­al­ly, the hunters strike first, mor­tal­ly lanc­ing an unsus­pect­ing cachalot at the sur­face. A com­bat­ive cachalot yields quite the oppo­site. They will take first blood as their own, often approach­ing a whaler at depth and staving it from below. They pro­ceed to breach repeat­ed­ly, deliv­er­ing crush­ing blows with heavy clubs of arms. A whaler becomes splin­tered, sink­ing wood in short order.

With every beast that meets a whaler and lives to tell, the rest grow wis­er and more fatal. In their lan­guage of bel­lows and creak­ing groans, cachalots share lessons of war and vig­i­lance.

Rumors tell of hoary, scarred indi­vid­u­als, sin­gu­lar mon­sters of unsur­passed age and many vic­to­ries. They pass secrets of sur­vival to the young, impede the whalers’ hunt. These elder cachalots are tar­gets like no oth­er, leg­endary foes. To kill one is to strike a pal­pa­ble blow for all whalers, to earn fame as a mas­ter of the sea.

The Gate of Sloe

For all the elders felled, and despite the devel­op­ment of armor plat­ing, steam-screws, and har­poon guns, the Coastal cachalot hunt grows dead­lier and more scarce with every pass­ing year. In home waters, there are few­er beasts than every before, and those that remain are hard­ened and dead­ly. 

In search of fur­ther prey, whalers turn to the place near­by cachalots were first caught: The far and for­bid­ding Gate of Sloe, an North­ern­ly island strait of ter­ri­ble renown. For cen­turies, no sailor would pass through its cold and steely waters, for fear of the alien sea beyond.

Now, whalers will­ing­ly brave the Gate. They slip from the world into waters tossed by cru­el, thin-aired wind and heav­ing with mon­sters. A cru­el place; the home of the cachalots.

Here, whalers reap a fresh and unsus­pect­ing crop. Faced with weapon­ry and tricks devel­oped over fifty years, the cachalots of the Sloe fall like mere whales. 

Paraf­fin flows to the Coast in unprece­dent­ed bulk. Noth­ing can stop it. No hor­ror for crews locked by sud­den frost and turned to can­ni­bal­ism. No fear of hid­den sea ser­pents large and as ancient as death. No fear of resur­gent elders and mount­ing resis­tance. 

No pity for the cachalot, for there is none.

Author’s Note

As it hap­pens, I rather like whales, espe­cial­ly old Moby, but I dear­ly dis­like the giants of today’s gener­ic fan­ta­sy. I call this a com­pro­mise.

I’ve elect­ed not to over­ly detail the ways of oil pro­cess­ing, here, nor the tech­ni­cal­i­ty of whalers, whale­boats, and their crew. Moby Dick is unpar­al­leled in its descrip­tions of these, any­way.

This may bear some changes, in the future, but it stands for now.

Footnotes

* Though the term “whale­boat” is still applic­a­ble, it has gone out of fash­ion with the advent of heavy gun­springs. Said guns, while more effec­tive than hand-thrown lances, are both expen­sive and prone to mal­func­tion dan­ger­ous­ly if struck. Thus, there are still many man­u­al whale­boats on the seas.
** A sleighride is what whalers call a typ­i­cal hunt. They catch a beast at the sur­face, spear it fatal­ly, then let it drag their craft behind until it dies or weak­ens suf­fi­cient­ly to be fin­ished by a long lance, known as a mis­eri­corde.
*** Paraf­fin and kerosene had been pro­duced on the Coast before the advent of cachalot hunt­ing. Sup­plies of req­ui­site coal, how­ev­er, were so mar­gin­al­ly slim as to make the stuff unten­ably scarce. Puri­fied kerosene makes a supe­ri­or light­ing oil, as it is unsur­passed in bright­ness and lack of scent.

† For near­ly two hun­dred years, whale oil has served as the Coast’s pri­ma­ry means of illu­mi­na­tion. In the coun­try, oil lamps are stan­dard. In the city, mod­ern homes are fit­ted with the nec­es­sary hard­ware to auto­mat­i­cal­ly feed oil to fur­naces and switched light fix­tures. Oil is kept in a pres­sur­ized tank in the cel­lar. It may be filled from an access hatch on the street.
†† “Lit­toran” describes any indi­vid­ual hail­ing from the Coast, be they human or oth­er­wise.
††† Occa­sion­al­ly, cachalots will decide to mate in atyp­i­cal places. In the Musée de Sartre, there hangs a con­tro­ver­sial piece depict­ing cachalots mat­ing explic­it­ly against a light­house.