The Wondermark Gazette

Our story thus far: At sea aboard the H.M.D. Flopsy Bunny, I have seized the cap’n’s hat from Cap’n Narwhal, and we now stand at odds for control of the vessel.

“One in, one out,” came the low murmur from the gathered crowd. “One out, one in.”

Cap’n Narwhal and his crew narrowed their eyes as one oddly-synchronized, forty-eyed, forty-armed beast. The Kippers — the rag-tag street toughs whose lot I’d thrown in with back ashore — were chanting. Those old men, young, dirty, dirtier — they spoke in one voice, approaching the Cap’n and his mates, the resonance of their collective voice throbbing through the deck-planks into and into my wobbly feet.

“One in, one out,” they said, save for one castrato who warbled a Latin refrain in high register over the rest. A nice counter-point, melodically, though mostly lost to the wind. The chant was what carried. “One out, one in.”

The Kippers lived by a strict code of ethics, among them the mandate that no single member could wash his own trousers — all trousers were washed by all members, in a sort of communal bonding ritual that oftentimes made for breezy evenings. Also, and more germane to the present situation, they enforced their rigid social order by maintaining a constant number of members at all times: should a new face join the crew, an old one would be ejected; likewise, should one individual be removed (say, hurled overboard, as I had done to my idiot nephew Josiah just moments ago), another must be quickly drawn in as a replacement, oftentimes without prejudice, predicated strictly on that person’s proximity to the group. It made for startling diversity among the membership, if little else.

And so, the Kippers advanced on Cap’n Narwhal. “One in, one out,” they said, seizing his limbs, those silver-hook’d meat-tubes sheathed in Target-surplus velvet. “One out, one in.” With this they drew him into themselves, turning away from me and the crew and inward as a mass, until the Cap’n’s spotted coat was fully hidden by brown Kipper garment. They worked the alchemy of indoctrination on him, there on the fore-deck; as I recalled from my University days, it involved a lot of peeing on people.

The ship’s first mate, a strapping Hindoo fellow by name of Pranjit, stepped forward to wrestle the Cap’n free, but he was quickly absorbed by the mass of Kipper flesh; he disappeared into the writhing mound with not even a muffled plea for Christian burial. At this, the crew burst from their frozen shock; with rally cries echoing, they took up whatever weapons were handy; some found oars, others lengths of rope or chain, but most simply drew off their breeches and fashioned them quickly into nunchaku, using the traditional nunchaku knot that all sailors of the Crown are taught at christening. I had seen it many times, in my days working the wharf-front as a cheese-twirler; I must also admit to having felt the red welt of that vicious knot more than once as well, usually after the rare cheese-transaction gone sour. Sailors under the flag of the Crown swear a solemn oath never to abuse the nunchaku-knot in service of a common tavern-brawl or fetish-ridden night at a pier-woman’s; so here, the fact that so many mates had so quickly slipped their pants off, over, under, then tightly cinched them at the twain meant they were ready to do serious business.

Promising for my sake was the fact that the crew now seemed more concerned with the Kippers and the Cap’n than with me. I still meant to take control of the ship, and head it for Dublin; now, with the wheel-man tying his breeches into knots, seemed the ideal time to advance on the tiller. I hugged the railing to avoid both the mates and the moaning lump of Kippers, who seemed to be assigning the ceremony a bit more gravity than may have been strictly necessary, and made for the helm.

The wheel was bigger up close, with gnarled knobs worn smooth from years of stormy toil. It was heavy to my touch, and I could feel the pressure of the sea against its motion.

I squinted at the horizon, tasting the breeze, trying to pinpoint the source of that faint clover aroma that would direct me to the green shores of Ireland. I could almost sense the far-off leprechauns calling to me with their sweet, telepathic siren song; I would have to steel myself against their psychic assault, if I cared to survive this journey with my moustache intact. The buggers apparently would lure unsuspecting men to their fetid warrens and then tear the mens’ lips and cheeks from their skulls — then, wearing the beards and moustaches of honest men as disguises to infiltrate the land of humans, wreaking havoc on livestock or stealing chickens or getting with farmers’ daughters or whatever they did after that. I wasn’t really up on the lore beyond the moustache thing. But that was bad enough!

The wheel moved sluggishly, despite leaning my weight into it; it seemed not to accept my direction, no matter how I made to rotate it, springing always back to a central position. And then I saw the reason — a lever-operated lock, no doubt to hold the helm steady should the operator be called away. A brass latch engaged the lock, and I moved it to the open position. It was tight, but it gave way with a squeak.

With vigour the wheel spun itself from my hands, the sea instantly taking command of the ship’s direction. At once the whole of the vessel rocked as though struck by a wave. The main-sail snapped around to catch the wind, its boom swinging wide and fast o’er the deck, trailing ropes like streamers. I struggled to control the wheel, but it snapped and spun too quickly for my hands to find a grip, tearing and biting at my fingertips, spinning wildly.

A mighty heave of the ocean sent me sprawling from my feet and the Cap’n’s cap sailing from my brow; I grasped at the headgear, but my fingers closed on empty air. Shouts filled the air around me, and far-off commotion above the sound of crashing waves; I tumbled, feeling wet wood rolling beneath me for ten long seconds before the ship found its balance again. Smashed against a bulkhead, I dared not open my eyes for thirty seconds following the tumult, and dared not un-clench myself for a minute following that.

When I did, I found the deck empty.

The Kippers were gone. The crew was gone. The Cap’n was mostly gone; one of his hooks was sunk into the main-mast, along with the better pieces of an arm. The rest of him was gone. All that remained was three inches of foaming brine, sloshing over the surface of the swaying fore-deck.

The sea had taken them all.

No! Not all! I saw a stir from the below-deck ladder — Marcello, the organ-boy! Woozy but yet alive, his pants loosely-done, clutching a copy of Josiah’s news-letter! He must have been on the head during the commotion. His presence was quite a relief — for should I come to need any new organs, after all that knocking around, it would be good to have him still about.

The hull creaked. And then, with a horrific, rending screech, the main mast leaned, curved, bent, and then snapped, sending splinters airborne in a huge, dusty cloud. I glimpsed Marcello’s eyes for one-half second before the mast made him the same height as the news-paper in his hand.

The boat shuddered, but settled. And then I was alone, on a suddenly still sea.

NEXT: Adrift

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