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Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
Alright. This officially marks the beginning of a “Travel Log” I’ll be keeping, as I go about my first, of likely many, voyages aboard the ‘venerable’ Pequod.
No, it’s not a diary.
I know it’s a little ironic to call it a “Travel Log” now, when I haven’t even stepped foot off-shore, but this is all part of the voyage too, okay? You don’t just get on a boat and sail off yonder right away.
Surprising amount of work that needs doing first… mostly just shopping. Some basic training, though we’re setting sail in about… a week? So it’s pretty surface-level stuff.
I already met and spoke to the Captain, which is apparently out of the ordinary for “green-hands” like me.
[Continued.]
...I just want to clarify. The first question that might pop into someone’s head if I told them about all this, would be “Why the hell would you leave a cushy office job to go on a glorified fishing trip for pitiful pay?”
That question, is how you know somebody’s never worked an office job.
It takes very little time holed up in a cubicle before you get the irresistible urge to walk the streets knocking people’s hats off their heads.
And I’ve been in there for a whole lot more than that.
So I thought, if I was going to “snap”, I may as well “snap” in a way that was productive. Whatever happens, I’ll at least end up as an officially-licensed Fixer.
Pay’s honestly a little ridiculous, though…
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
Well, first, you have to be licensed as a sailor.
Pretty standard bureaucratic deal. Paperwork happens to be an old enemy of mine, so I knew how to easily defeat it. Go here, sign there, talk to this person, go there, stamp this, et cetera.
While I was waiting on a clerk to verify my documents (again), I noticed a pair of older men, seated in the ‘outdoor’ area of a pup which was right across from the service counter, and therefore, right across from me.
By their attire, I could tell they were Captains, maybe retirees who couldn’t let go?
They were shooting the breeze over cups of tea, sometimes croaking out giggles like overgrown schoolboys; when suddenly, one of them turns to me. Asks if I was a “waitress”, or if I “got lost on the way to the hair salon”. Some shit like that.
I pretended not to hear, and just wished the pencil-pusher would get on with it before I had to endure one too many “jokes”.
...Then, one of them, finally accepting that I was an actual sailor(to-be), asks who my Captain is.
“Ahab.”
They got real quiet then. Like all the energy had left them, like I had just broken the news of their mother’s death.
They turned away from me and back to each other, now dour and cold, all the life drained out of the conversation. Hell, maybe even their drinks got cold. I was just happy they finally stopped bothering me.
After the work had done and I was leaving, papers in tow, I heard one’s parting words for me, in which I could detect no sarcasm:
“Good luck.”
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
Staying at a local inn. Boarding’s tomorrow, setting sail the day after.
The owner made it clear that I’d have to share a room and bed with someone. I didn’t… take too kindly, to the notion, but well. What can you do.
I was getting all huffy over it, sat on the bedside, when in walked the most frightening person I have ever seen. My roommate.
...Look, I’m not ashamed to admit it (okay, maybe a little ashamed), but I screamed. Just, understand my position here: She was huge, at least three of me in height and weight; she had dark tattoos covering her from head to toe, her arm ended in a sharp blade I was entirely convinced was her hand.
If she wanted to kill and eat me, there was exactly fuck-all I could’ve done about it.
...And for at least a minute, I really thought that was what was about to transpire.
...It’s all so silly to think about, now.
So, I scream, and she looks at me like you’d look at a stray cat that made a funny noise. Says nothing, walks off into the “en-suite” bathroom. I’m thinking I should just book it, forget the trip, there was absolutely no way I was staying with this person overnight.
...But I don’t. She walks back into the bedroom… and we start talking.
I’ve met a lot of people in my life. I want you to know that I’ve never met a single person who carried themselves so gently, with so much kindness, as Queequeg.
I’ve shook hands with smiling suits & ties who had infinitely more repugnant personalities. I’m writing this beside her, now. Conked out early, must’ve been a long day.
...Maybe the trip won’t be so bad after all.
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
All aboard.
Again, we haven’t actually set sail yet. Lot of prep-work to do first.
The Captain gathered us round and started haranguing us about the “Whale”, which is supposed to be the ultimate target of the voyage. She employed a lot of… odd language, but judging by everyone’s reaction, this was all business-as-usual. Riling up the men and such.
I tuned her out and tried to get a lay of the land, or rather, a lay of the place I’d be staying for who-knows who long, away from land. There were roughly a couple-dozen people on board, including me. There was the Captain, of course; there was First Mate Stubb, who, judging by the stupid grin on his face, was going to become a problem in the future. There was First Mate Starbuck, who looked like what you’d imagine if you thought of a “Whaler”. There was Queequeg, the Harpooneer, standing next to me.
Then there were an assortment of auxiliary and logistics crew; the ship’s carpenter-slash-blacksmith, the ship’s chef, various handymen and such. I was counted among this bunch.
There was also… Pip. A child. What the hell was he doing here? He wasn’t anyone’s kid, I came to learn. I asked an older fellow and he said that he was a “ship-keeper”, that he was useful for “solving problems in tight spaces.”
...Feel like I should be filing a complaint. No way the kid’s licensed.
Anyway. I’m off to do some rigging.
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
There’s a whole lotta nothing that needs doing, when you’re at sea.
We’ve been out for around two weeks now.
I’m seriously getting paid to stare out the window, listen to the seagulls and write. Sure, there’s a lot of this and that to do around the ship, usually maintenance or scrubbing the deck or what not. But at some point, you’re just doing it to look busy when the Captain’s making her rounds. She spends most of her time hidden away in her quarters, probably hanging upside-down from the ceiling or whatever. You can tell when she’s on the prowl by the thunk, thunk, of the harpoon-leg hitting the deck. (note: ask about this at some point)
[Continued.]
There was a lot of emphasis placed on the “Waves” when I was reading up on the job, at port.
It’s this “system” that the Lake runs on. The whole place is separated into “zones” that you can only spend an arbitrary amount of time inside, and if you loiter too long, well…
Honestly I’m not sure what happens.
We’ve passed by a few now. It’s one of the upsides of being a “lackey” rather than the one in the driver’s seat: these things aren’t your problem to stress over. The sight of a “Wave” in action is… Well, first of all there’s this unbearable noise; like a thousand panes of glass shattering at once. Then, it’s like, something crashes down on the “zone” with great force, kicking up massive spouts of waters. Get a good enough look, and you can almost see something swimming around deep below.
It’s nothing to worry about, though. Apparently, those who spend long enough on the Lake know the ‘timing’ for just about every zone like they know their own birth-date. Maybe even better.
Really, all it’s done is make me jump out of my skin every now and then; which that prick Stubb thinks is the height of comedy.
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
A fellow vessel hailed us today: The “Rachel”.
There’s etiquette to vessel-to-vessel communication, and the poor fellow Captain tried to speak with such in mind, until good old Ahab, ever-polite, planted her foot upon the gunwale and shouted at him like she was scolding a child.
“Have you seen the Pallid Whale?!”
When he replied in the negative, she promptly said… something. I still can’t quite make out the sailor’s dialect… But it made Queequeg chuckle, so I laughed too. I’ll assume it was something to the effect of “then piss off!”
[Continued.]
Killed my first Mermaid today. I know this seems like an event worthy of its own log entry, but… Honestly, it was a fairly unremarkable process. Handful of “strays” climbed aboard the ship, and were swiftly dealt with. It was first time actually fighting with a harpoon, though… It could hardly be called “fighting”. Apparently, there are Mermaids who wander off -or are cut off- from their “host” Whale, quickly devolving into little more than… aimless sea-slugs. These particular specimen moved as though blind and deaf.
Just “point and stab”, really. Pest control.
...It still hasn’t been made entirely clear to me what Mermaids are.
Far as I can tell, they are aquatic megafauna who form symbiotic relationships with Whales. Any further biological facts are difficult to discover, because nobody wants to give me a straight answer!
When I’m back on shore, I’ll surely find the truth in some manual. Or maybe I’ll wrench it out of Starbuck.
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
Now that the ship had claimed its first batch of Mermaids, it was time for the chef to debut.
Up until now, we subsisted on all manner of canned “goods”: Peas, raisins, moldy cheese, biscuits that tasted like pencils, the like.
But here came the sailor’s delicacies: Salted Mermaid Tail. Mermaid Salami. Mermaid Fin Soup. Oh my!
I can’t keep this up for long. It was all disgusting. But I knew that if I were to evacuate my stomach of the revolting slime in front of anyone, Stubb would never let me hear the end of it.
So as far as I was concerned, it was mother’s cooking.
Stubb kept pestering the poor old chef to “feed the Mermaids” which were supposedly circling the ship. Made him put on a little show of it and everything.
I’m growing more and more sick of this bastard every minute.
[Continued.]
The Captain, making her timely exit from her dread tomb (also known as her quarters), immediately took note of the traces of viscera coating parts of the deck, and ordered Stubb to do the cleaning. Likely only because he was just the first person she saw.
Stubb refused, of course, and she turned away from him dismissively, waving her hand as if to say, “get on with it already.”
Stubb, once again, refused, saying that he “would not lower himself like that.”
That prompted the Captain to turn to face him again, announcing, as if it was simple matter of course, that she would therefore lower him into his grave.
Finally wiped off the prick’s shit-eating grin for once. Pipe almost fell out of his mouth, too.
Now I have something to hold over our dear First Mate’s head!
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
A Whale! An actual Whale in sight! I was starting to think this ship was just for sight-seeing.
Most certainly not this oh-so-famous “Pallid Whale”, though. Just a regular one, with a… healthier complexion?
I, of course, am not participating in the hunt. Starbuck, Queequeg and an oarsman set off on a skiff to face it. Just means I get to watch the show as I write this.
Queequeg’s launching harpoons at this thing that could wipe a man off the face of the earth! Even I’m feeling it!
[Continued.]
...I will not be writing down the full details of the events of the last couple hours. Again, this is not my diary, and it’s not the place for that kind of reflection. If I have, by any chance, published this in the future, please understand that you, the reader, are not by default privy to my every thought and feeling.
I will say this: I was ordered to descend into the cavity within the Whale, which was now hanging in the air, suspended at the ship’s side. Stubb insisted that this was work for the “likes of me.” I was unable to refuse.
The objective was to extract a sufficient quantity of the Whale’s oil. There were… complications.
I learned two things upon the conclusion of the “work”, and through resumed efforts to pry information out of Starbuck. They are as follows:
One: I owe Queequeg my life.
Two: Mermaids are -were- human beings, and, had I waited a moment more, I’d have become one.
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
We were hailed by a lone man, upon a lone skiff.
The Captain looked down at him, as though a Captain looking down upon the wandering monk, now in his court. He was asked to identify himself, to name the ship from which he came. He remained silent.
The Captain, not one to suffer fools of course, was on the cusp of telling him to get lost, when, after a sudden beeping emanating from somewhere on him… he began to speak of “the Whale”.
He didn’t say much, all in all, but it was enough to convince the Captain to bring him aboard. Whereupon, I was able to get a much better look at the mysterious fellow. He was not a Whaler. That much was clear upon first glance. He wore a flowing white cloak, that came down to right above the ankle; beneath it, was a clean black suit and tie. He did carry a harpoon, shining black with gold trim, looking as if it was forged that morning. There was a curious ‘chain’ visible, that connected to something, in his breastpocket.
This man was not a Whaler, he possessed no physical features resembling those of Ahab, yet… They were both formed of the same substance. The same graven aspect, the same indescribable ‘otherness’, that rendered them a duo from another world entirely. Their own world, where only they and the Whale exist.
I could somehow tell that, even though I had never known this man more than a minute, he bore the same ‘mono-mania’ that drove the Captain onward, towards the “Whale”, the one certain Whale which she could not go ten minutes without cursing out.
I couldn’t tell a single word of the conversation they had, as they stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye, the Captain’s hateful gaze matching the man’s grey emptiness. But at the end, the Captain declared that the man would, in fact, be accompanying us. At least for a time.
Whereupon, finally, he gave out his name:
“Fedallah.”
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
...Pip fell overboard.
Nobody saw it happen, nobody even noticed until we heard him scream. The ship had already gained distance from where he’d fallen; he was too far away for a rope to descend for him; so Starbuck attempted to “lasso” him using the longest coil we had. His aim was right, but as he pulled, the rope grew taut around the poor kid’s neck…
...I had to look away, then. I can stomach a great deal, but… not that. Thankfully, I didn’t have to, as there was enough length left to loosen, for the rope to fall slack; then Pip was able to take hold of it and be dragged onboard again.
...I would, then, breathe a sigh of relief and try to forget the ordeal, if it wasn’t for what Pip cried out, as he struggled for life. Not “Help me!”, or “Save me!”, or just guttural nonsense, but,
“The Whale is down there!”
...It’s impossible, of course. Nothing that large could be beneath us without us taking notice. I expected the Captain to scold him for this mis-leading, but instead, she drew him close, and spoke to him…
Now, he follows her around like a dog, as they exchange whispers on occasion.
...Something horrible’s happened to Pip. Far deeper than that brush with death. I just hope this is temporary.
[Continued.]
There’s a beeping, intermittently producing, faintly, from the Captain’s quarters. Must be that man. I have a pretty good idea as to what they’re talking about, in there.
...Has Ahab finally found a comrade, to share in her lonely war?
The Captain may be an abrasive and sometimes unbearable presence, but… I don’t hate her, or anything. If she can somehow find an ally, or even a friend, in this “Fedallah”, then, well, I wish her the best.
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
Fedallah is dead.
I… don’t know how.
...Let me start from the beginning.
We were sailing through dense, unrelenting fog, when the man upon the mast-head cried out “Ship!, Ship!” Then, it was visible. A ship of a design entirely unlike a Whaler, red and imposing. Starbuck recognized it right away. “Twinhooks.”
He began to detail a plan for the Captain, saying that they likely hadn’t spotted us yet, that we had the advantage, that we could sail off and avoid them with ease if we just… Then, the Captain made her decision. We would set course towards them.
I have never seen Starbuck make the expression that fell upon him then, before that moment. Disbelief. Hatred.
Everyone grew tense as the Captain’s intent became clear. It wasn’t long before the Pequod was almost parallel to their vessel; I scanned the deck, and saw maybe four unassuming sailors, or rather, pirates. Whatever was about to befall us, it’d be over quick, at least.
...But then, sensing prey, their true force appeared. Thirty, or even more men came flooding out of the lower decks, a veritable armada of murderers and slavers, the… trademark, I suppose, hooks glinting ominously over their hands.
Then, they descended upon us like swarming flies.
I’m no Zwei Fixer, certainly no killer of men. I hadn’t even received combat training for human opponents. So I stood there, harpoon in hand, dumbstruck- as utter chaos erupted on the deck. I saw Stubb and Starbuck back-to-back, hacking away like at just another Mermaid. I saw Queequeg crush a man’s skull between her fingers; I saw the Captain shouting and laughing, I saw sailors fight with hammer and butcher-knife and boiling oil and rope; but most frightening of them all, was Fedallah.
He twirled his great harpoon with blinding speed, gathering water from the air itself around him, enveloping him like a living hurricane, rooted on the deck, then, a beep would cut across the pandemonium, and he would launch himself across the deck with a great stomp, movement so violent it produced crashing sonic waves as he tore through the air, then he’d be upon someone, skewering them tenfold before they could even fall lifeless. I was so captivated by the display, that I failed to notice the hulking pirate beside me, who, by dubious fortune, chose to strike me over the head with his fist, rather than his blade. I hit the deck, hard.
...I must’ve been out for, a minute? When I awoke, Queequeg was over me; the fighting had ceased, bodies littered the deck. All of us were largely unharmed, and a headcount proved all present… all but Fedallah. Then the beeping told us where he was.
All but the Captain gathered to look down at him, in the water. Fog obscured all but his corpse, as though he floated beside the ship, the air itself his hearse. He bore no clear injury except for his right leg, which had been severed clean at the knee. And his eyes… though I should not have been able to see them through the fog, I knew. I knew he was looking at me.
I went to ask the Captain -who paid the scene no mind, and gazed upwards, as though one renewed with vigor and hope- what had happened to Fedallah, when I saw her… laugh, quietly. Then louder, and louder until there were tears of joy in her eyes.
Then, she shouted her proclamation for all to hear.
“I am the Master of my fate! I am the Captain of my soul!”
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
Queequeg’s taken ill. It’s serious.
I can’t imagine a fever on earth that could overcome her, she must’ve been… poisoned, during the melee. I don’t know.
I’m writing this sitting at her bedside. I’ve been here for hours. I’ll be here as long as I need to be.
...I can still hear the beeping, in my head. I think I hear it from dark corners of the ship, at times. I can still hear it, growing fainter and fainter in the distance, as we abandoned Fedallah on the water.
[Continued.]
It’s the middle of the night, or thereabouts. My throat became so dry, I had to step out for a moment to find something to gulp down. I spotted Starbuck, pacing in front of the Captain’s quarters, carrying his harpoon.
He was muttering something to himself, with this intense look on his face.
He was briefly startled when he noticed me. I asked him what he was doing and he just said, “Thinking.”
[Continued.]
...Feels like everyone’s on edge today. It’s pretty quiet on the ship. We’re passing through this… uninviting red zone, where everything is coated in this pinkish haze, and the water’s… blood-red.
I just want this to be over. I want to go home. You never know what you have until you lose it.
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
It’s been days. The Mates came to a decision; they’re commissioning the ship carpenter to build Queequeg’s…
…
I can’t write down that word. I can’t even think about it.
[Continued.]
“Pallid.” No living creature should be described that way. Pallidity is a trait of the dead and dying. Those who Life has turned its back on.
So what does it mean, then, for a creature to be fundamentally “pallid”? To be born pallid, to have turned its back to Life?
[Continued.]
I must have looked awful. I was slouched on the floor of the deck, staring at this stupid diary, the only thing that will listen to me with no complaint; everyone’s so distant now, and Queequeg doesn’t respond anymore.
...When Pip approached me, handing me his share of rations. Untouched.
I will admit, I’ve been skipping “meals” recently. Just don’t feel like it. But it was his, he surely needed it more than me. I couldn’t accept it.
...But, he insisted. Assured me that it was okay, because he “didn’t need food anymore.”
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
...I have no idea what just happened.
Queequeg was… dead? She must’ve been. She had no pulse!
The coffin was finished, and brought into her quarters, where traditional sailor funerary rites were to take place, then she’d be lowered inside, and cast off into the water, as is often the sailor’s grave.
I have no issue talking about any of this now, because, well. After she had been interred in the coffin, I was… Guess I’ll admit it. I was crying. Openly sobbing. I didn’t, and still don’t care what Stubb thinks or if it made me look “un-sailor-like” or whatever. None of that mattered.
...Even Stubb acknowledged the gravity of what was occurring.
But then, she… got up? She got up. Climbed out of the coffin like it was a comfy bed. Scanned the faces of absolute bewilderment filling the room. Asked what everyone was so sour about. Asked me why I had been crying. Said that, there was “a lot of work to do”, and strolled off onto the deck.
If it wasn’t for everyone else’s expressions, I’d have been convinced I completely lost my mind.
When I.. trailed after her, like a lost puppy, I saw the Captain, who was absent from the “funeral”, for some reason.
At the sight of us, and especially me, she just laughed like it was a quaint little joke to her. Then, she said, “See? None of you will die until I allow it.”
[Continued.]
There’s a sickening quiet. Stillness on the ship. I would be glad for it, since I still need to process… everything, but this isn’t the stillness of peace. This is the quiet motionless-ness, of a forest that has detected a predator.
...Fog’s rolling in again. It had dissipated a while, but now it looks twice as blinding.
It’s times like this, that make you wish there was a lot more to do, aboard a ship.
---
Travel Log, Day XX/XX:
Stubb…
“He” is in front of me now, behind a locked door, in the deepest, darkest cellar of the Pequod.
There was… a whale hunt. I’ll spare the details since they are, frankly, irrelevant. What is important to note, is that the whale was severely injured when we had sighted it. Great chunks torn out of its flesh. No harpoon did that.
Stubb, poor Stubb, sensed easy prey. He took Queequeg and an oarsman and set off to finish the work of whatever horror had wrought this upon the beast. And… it was, easy prey. The whale put up little to no fight.
...Until the final harpoon was let fly, and the whale, possessed by some intent far greater than that of an animal, heaved and spat a flood of oil from within its perforated inner depths, directly over Stubb…
I thank whatever stars above watch over us for saving Queequeg and the unfortunate oarsman from the attack, but… As much as I disliked Stubb, as much as I relished seeing him put in his place on occasion, no one deserves this fate.
No one.
The Captain ordered that he would not be given a merciful death. He would be interred within the bowel of the Pequod, wherein he would lead us to the Whale, wherein, he would be our compass.
When I asked how this could be, as it was not the Pallid Whale which had “turned” him, she said that, all Mermaids belonged to the Pallid Whale; all Mermaids were subservient to whales, and all whales were subservient to Moby Dick, “For He was their Lord.”
...Pip comes by, on occasion, to listen to “Stubb” gibber and scratch at the door. There’s such a joyful look on his face. While I remain here, as I write this, as a form of… vigil. If there is no one to remember Stubb, in the end, then his memory shall be preserved herein.
...It’s still so dark out. I could’ve sworn a full day has passed but, the sun has yet to rise.
---
Travel Log. Day after which there will be no other days.
I see it now. I can see it so clearly as I write this, standing on the deck. It is impossible not to see it, for there is nothing else to see, for there is nothing else left in the Heavens and the Earth, there are no stars, everything that is and was has been swallowed whole by absolute darkness and fog; except for this ship, this crew, this Captain, and the living God. There is no lesser word to adequately describe it. Ahab exaggerated not a single word of her sermons. At first, nothing could be seen for there was impenetrable fog, but blessed Stubb sang out holy dulcet words that flowed over the water like honey and was answered, and the fog made way for our procession, for this sacred and unbearable moment where we would all lay eyes upon It. It is so, utterly… My head is pounding. Infinitely Great and terrible, light and nimble, It dances in light and in shadow, beyond Life, beyond Death. The Captain has killed us. She has taken men of soft flesh and dull metal and pit them in a place where there is no time against a Being which knew that we would be here before we did, before there was a Pequod, before there were harpoons or men to wield them, before there was a City or a
My ears are ringing. I think I’m bleeding? I can barely even read whatever I just wrote down.
The Whale is… approximately fifteen minutes from our location. Only a matter of time now.
The air is thick enough to choke on, here. Queequeg is staring at me. Starbuck is looking at the… thing, saying something under his breath. Pip is skipping about, to and fro, giggling, devoid of all fear, the thumping of his shoes on the deck the only other sound that can be heard aside from the furious whetting of the Captain’s harpoon.
The door to her quarters is wide open, now. She’s there, hunched over with the whetstone, eyes bloodshot. The walls and ceilings are covered in…
I don’t have the energy to describe anything, anymore. I am so, so tired.
Stubb-… where is Stubb? I don’t see him on the deck.
...The hunt is soon to begin. I’ll update when this is all over.