Ahab's Wife, or the Star-Gazer

  “Do you like her?” I asked.

  “The sea or Mrs. Maynard?” Robben put in puckishly.

  I laughed. “That’s just the sort of confusion Mrs. Maynard fosters.”

  “I did not expect to see you again,” Ishmael said. “I think that you must surely have a gloomy association with me. At the party, when you found out I was the survivor, you quickly turned away.”

  “Do you like the sea at all?” I repeated. His answer was important to me.

  “No one who knows the sea—no, let me say more narrowly, more close to my own experience: no man who worked a whaling ship did not both hate and love the sea.” His countenance grew contracted and dark. I had seen Ahab draw into himself in just such a mood. “When we kill her mightiest creature,” he mumbled, “her great, oil-saturated baby, surely we show that we hate the oceanic mother.”

  “Did you know my husband well?” My heart quailed. I did not know how far I wanted to pursue the subject.

  “As I said, the last voyage of the Pequod was my first one with Captain Ahab. In the beginning, he was quite mysteriously removed from all of us. We sailed on Christmas Day—”

  “I remember.” Even to Ahab, even then, that had seemed an unfortunate, sacrilegious gesture.

  “And only after the weather moderated did Captain Ahab come on deck.”

  “He had had a fall,” I said. “He was not entirely well. Before he left, the ivory leg splintered and gored him.”

  “So I came to understand.”

  We all paused. He seemed to look at me for permission to continue. Again, his eyes bewitched me. I must have granted assent; I do not know what my own countenance said.

  “So after the weather was better, Ahab was much on deck—”

  “I hope there were beautiful days.”

  “Days as lovely as a Persian sherbet, held in a great glass.” Another pause. “And Queequeg—”

  “Queequeg?”

  “Yes. A friend as dear to me as though we were a married couple. Our acquaintance, our appreciation, began, in fact, with the renting of the same bed at the Spouter-Inn. Queequeg.”

  “Then this is the fourth and not the third time I’ve seen you. I saw you going aboard with Queequeg, in the fog, accosted by Elijah.”

  “Whose prophecies all were true…. Did I know Captain Ahab well? Queequeg and I often heard him speaking to Starbuck or Stubb, the carpenter, the cook, Pip. He rarely spoke to me, for I was the greenest of the green at whaling. As green as yonder green fellow.” He gestured toward the centerpiece of the garden.

  “But sometimes I heard him speaking to himself. It may be impudence in me to say so, but yes, I think I knew him well. I think I knew him as someone connected to myself, as though I were a man on a monkey rope—you know the device?—and he held the other end.”

  “Whatever possessed you to go a-whaling?” Robben asked his guest. And I was grateful to Robben, for I had heard enough, for the time being.

  “Well, I had been several times in merchant vessels. I wanted not just to cross the ocean like an errand boy, but to live with her, to live upon her heaving breast, to know her creatures, not to consort with some silly merchandise in the hold. I had no money in my purse, and I had a melancholy in my head.”

  How melodiously he spoke. Whole paragraphs rolled from his tongue.

  “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; whenever I feel like deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. Which of you has not sometimes felt that way—half in love with death, senselessly combative, restless, and what do you do with yourselves then?”

  “I’ve walked. Sometimes in deep snow, to unpredictable destinations.”

  “I grab my chisels and mallets and a block of wood and have a go at it.”

  “Sometimes,” I added to my declaration, “I have climbed aloft.”

  “Ah, a very philosophic perch,” Ishmael put in.

  “Sometimes I sew, or read, or even write,” I added. “Or fish.”

  “You have too many resources. I can go to sea or, like Cato, throw myself upon my sword. But I don’t. At least not so far. I quietly take to the ship.”

  “You can also write your story,” Robben said mildly.

  “Ishmael,” I said, “you have an unusual name.”

  “My name is David Pollack.”

  “David Pollack!”

  “Yes. Is it so remarkable a name?”

  “I know a David Poland. He is a very dear friend.”

  “Well, then, the name augurs well, though I would seem to be an informal, bastardized version of your friend. I call myself Ishmael, and I ask that you do also.”

  CHAPTER 154: Plans

  HE STAYED a few days at Robben’s house, during which time my tongue wagged like a bell clapper, right and left. To the south a new friend, female, old, wise, a kind of dispassionate mother. To the north a new friend, male, of my own decade, a whaler, a seeker, the survivor of a wreck. I rebounded between them—and it was a joyous clanging of that clapper, my tongue, for they both listened as well as they talked. And always in the background was the sound of children let loose, self-sufficient, ordering their own small society with minimal interference from adults. How would any one of them have remembered those October days on the sand? What would Pog have said of his multiple playmates, the bright and cooling weather?

  But then the south house fell vacant again, and Ishmael, too, returned to the town. Robben must have felt my loneliness, for he and Judge Lord appeared with a hot pear flan. I was in my own window-faceted room watching the sea, but I smelled the flan and heard them enter into the main room and the scuff of chairs on the floor. How comfortable to have separate neighbors, but all our houses open to one another. I imagined them seated at the table, the pie upon it, waiting patiently; and when I entered the room, all was just as I had envisioned.

  “We have a proposition, Una,” the judge said.

  “And?”

  “To come to the point,” he smiled, “Robben and I have decided to travel together to Italy and Greece.”

  “How fine!” Then the north house, too, would be vacant? The distant flashing light my closest friend? The summer people were already gone. No house in ’Sconset was inhabited.

  “And we want to take Justice and Jim with us,” Robben said.

  “You may think them contented children—” Austin said.

  “We think they may run off to sea, otherwise. Probably you did not notice. The day after Maria’s comet—the judge said you were sleeping late—they spent that day at the wharf, interviewing captains. The judge received a visit from Captain Mayhew—”

  “The Jeroboam?” I asked. “The Jeroboam was in port?” Would they all come back, again and again, but not the Pequod? What of the Samuel Enderby? I heard the clack of ivory, of Boomer crossing his bone arm with Ahab’s whalebone leg.

  “The same Jeroboam. Mayhew said he had given Justice a promise long ago to take him—”

  “By all means, he and Jim must travel with you two instead. Believe me, I know too well what can happen to cabin boys.” I thought of Chester, whose curls resembled Justice’s. “I know it far better than either of you. I will never be able to thank you enough if you will take them.”

  “And Jim’s mother?”

  “I will speak to Mary. I can tell you already, she will be exactly of my mind. But I don’t know about the expense—” Here I felt awkward, for if I had had my old resources, there would have been no question of Jim’s expenses. “Mary and Isaac would not have so much, I think.”

  “There was another reason for Mayhew’s visit to me,” the judge said. “He had a good report. His investments in the new earth oil have done well. I looked into yours, Una, the investment of yours that was meant to bolster his. My d
ear, you are, if not rich again, at least prospering.”

  “Kerosene is the name of the new god,” Robben said.

  They stayed a bit longer, and we all chatted happily about their prospective voyage, but when they left, I could already feel the emptiness on both sides of me. The furniture seemed like Shakespeare’s bare branches, “where late the sweet birds sang.” In my mind’s eye, the two houses beside mine hulked like ghost ships, drifting and derelict. I put my head down next to the pretty pear confection. The savory, fruity heat from the pastry warmed my forehead.

  To my surprise, I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up into the gentle eyes of Robben.

  “You feel we’re all deserting you,” he said.

  I sat up and wiped away the tears. “No, Robben. I want you to go. If I came, it would be no adventure for Justice.”

  “You have your writing, Una.”

  “And I can visit in town, occasionally.”

  “And Ishmael will be here.”

  “Ishmael?”

  “I forgot to mention. I’ve sublet my house to him. He’s a bit of a wild one. You won’t feel uncomfortable having him next door?”

  “Next door?” It was as though the Frost Wind—strange, fresh, inevitable—had come down from the sails to blow around my body.

  “Phoebe got to him first and told him he should sublet Mary’s house, but when he heard mine was falling vacant, too, he said he preferred to share the hedge with you.”

  “The hedge?”

  “Well, it’s some kind of dividing line. A sort of bundling board between yards.” Robben’s eyes were merry. I put my hand in his gray curls and tugged.

  CHAPTER 155: Recitation by Beach Fire

  ONE MILD, moonshine night on the ’Sconset beach, after we had laid down our picnic basket and our quilts and gathered driftwood for a future fire, I watched Pog cavorting in the sand. The dog picked up sticks with his teeth, pulling up the half-embedded ones and bringing them back to our collection. Again, as I had done many times, I admired the shaggy creature. I thought of my old friend David, who had come to me in wolf skin.

  Pog wrestled another sand-encrusted stick up from the beach. A zaggy stick. He carried it delicately, his lips curled away from the sand, his ivory teeth gleaming. We—Ishmael and I—sat on our quilt and watched silently. Angular and heavy, the zaggy stick tilted out of balance. The dog persisted, dragged the stick to me with one of its ends trailing in the sand. When I took it from him, I saw it was not wood at all, but glass. It was the mark lightning can make when it strikes the beach and fuses the sand particles into its imprint. I thought of Ahab—the zaggy mark on his face.

  The moonlight touched the tips of the waves with silver, and, as I had done many times alone, I walked to the shore, took off my clothing down to my camisole and drawers, and entered the water.

  “Can you swim? Can you swim?” Ishmael called after me, as though I had taken leave of my senses. He followed me to the hem of the water, then shed all his garments and threw them inland so that he could overtake me, for I swam out without hesitation.

  I glanced over my swimming shoulder to see his long naked legs and body, the head cloaked with hair and beard, as he stood on the sand.

  When I heard his shout, I looked back again and saw his long arms snaking over the water. He was smiling. I let myself swim too fast, trying to show off my prowess, but I knew when it was time to turn around and how to monitor my endurance. But he had not caught me before I turned. He chose to tread till I reached him, and then we swam back together in the face of the retreating tide. On the return, I fancied my companion to be Poseidon, so easily did he breast the waves.

  “Who taught you such swimming?” he asked me. “You’re at home in the water.”

  “Sweet Robben, whose house you inhabit.” (But I had little extra breath for talking.)

  “I’m a hermit crab then.” The hair of his mustache and beard, studded with droplets, parted in a smile. He swam a few strokes side-wise, like a crab.

  “No.”

  But I could not say what I meant. I tasted the salt water on my lips. My body felt cold, but I kicked on, sure that the necessary warmth would well up within me.

  As we swam, Ishmael said for me to look, and his finger came dripping up out of the water to point. Porpoises were leaping, their bodies an arc of phosphorescence.

  They came close to us and surrounded us with their big bodies, but never touched us. The thudding of their bodies, returning to the water, shook the air, and the vibrations through the water vibrated us. Our bodies were as slick and unfettered as the dolphins, but only they were phosphorescent, fiery green, crimson, silver, in their leaping, traveling circle. Amidst those cold fires we swam to shore.

  We quickly dried and dressed ourselves, and he struck a sulfur match to light the driftwood. I shall always remember the spurt of the match, like a small star exploding, white-hot in the center. The flare of the tinder, nestled in the tent of driftwood. We lounged, propped up, looking into the flames, with quilts under us and the soft sand for mattress under that. How comfortably, how companionably, we lounged at ease—just so had I rested by a campfire in Kentucky with the first David. Was that Milk the donkey chomping the spring grass? Here, too, at ’Sconset, was campfire ease. Ishmael spoke as softly as the flamy tongues tasting air, as the liquid tongues lapping against the shore:

  “When I was floating atop the coffin—Queequeg’s coffin-become-life-buoy—sometimes as the waves rocked us—I say us, for I was wedded cheek to wood, and I and the coffin were one as surely as death and life are one, as surely as we are one”—he glanced at me, did not touch, spoke on—“I heard within that hollow a lightly sliding noise, a movement as though something shifted, sledded within, over the planks. I listened for diversion. And that long night, also to divert by touch, my fingers explored the minutiae of my buoy-world.

  “This finger”—he held it up—“following the tarry seal between lid and side, discovered eight inches of fresher slickness, a place where the line of oakum and tar had been broken and resealed. There the tips of my fingers glided all night along that dark, short track where the hardened tar became softer, less baked. Long days of hanging in the air, from that time the ship carpenter caulked and converted the closed coffin into buoy, had stiffened the rest of the seam into something impenetrable. The buoy had hung in the stern like the heel of a shoe.

  “A coffin for a heel! The Pequod’s heel it had been, the last of us shown to the Samuel Enderby, and finally to the Rachel.” He mused silently, then continued speaking into the flames.

  “Along eight inches, perhaps six, my fingers traveled, wondering, along the seam of softer tar.” He rubbed his fingers back and forth over the stitches of the quilt, as though to relive that time.

  “Till I concluded they had broken the coffin seal to slide something flat and slight inside, and it moved there now. Slip-slip, I heard the cargo when I laid my ear to the wood. Some wafer, I thought, some sustenance.

  “Before morning came, I, like a ship’s rat working the corner of a cracker crate, gnawed the coffin corner nearest my mouth. I had hardly to move my position for my teeth to find purchase on an angle of the boards.

  “I gnawed on, splinters between my teeth, splinters working like needles into my gums. The taste of tar was like black blood in my throat—why should I alone survive!—the sharks swam round, their mouths padlocked, it seemed—till there was a chewed place big enough for hand and wrist to enter. So I groped within, like a midwife blindly searching out her prize.

  “When ocean tilted just so, a paper slid against my fingertips. So thin a sustenance! But what else but paper could have entered that coffin’s vacancy by so narrow a passageway?

  “Whose words writ on that strangely hinged paper? I thought how I must coax an eye to open to a slit, for my eyes had sealed themselves. My pupils acknowledged daylight, sometimes pinkish, sometimes yellow, as through a veil. Floating stomach-down on the swaying coffin, in one hand I clutched the
paper, with the other I took a finger and massaged an eyelid till moisture came and unglued the crusty eyelashes.

  “I rolled on my back—which took some care, for I did not know if I should roll accidentally off my sanctuary whether the sharks might not count me prey, or whether, indeed, I would have the strength to pull myself aboard again onto the coffin—I read, and then slept like Beowulf on his bier but with this thin crisp of paper pressed against the salt-stiffened cloth covering my chest.

  “I dreamt seabirds were ripping away cloth and then my flesh. They swooped down on me again, as I lay upon the box. I dreamt I was a string of bones in human form, clutching a message not its own. The harpies would ride me at times, their claws encircling the curve of a rib.

  “But it’s not Ishmael’s dream you would hear. Whose handwriting? No doubt you wonder, dear Una, if Ahab might yet speak to you from beneath the waves through those words I pried my lids apart to read? Or if good Starbuck had mailed a final missive penned during those last days? For your nimble mind thinks, who but Ahab or Starbuck would dare to broach the sealed, life-buoy coffin? Insouciant Stubb? He had the nonchalance but not the imagination for it. So, was it Starbuck’s or Ahab’s hand had slid words into the postbox life buoy?

  “Both. For there had been two pages posted there, separately. And those sheets had found each other. In extracting one, I extracted both, Ahab’s and Starbuck’s pages melded along the side as inextricably as their fate. My fate, you know. ’Twas to be picked up by the Rachel.”

  “Can you read the letters to me?”

  “Nay, Una, but I can recite.”

  “I START WITH STARBUCK’S, but his words are mostly of Ahab. They give the portrait from the outside:

  “Mary, I looked in at him among his charts. Yet not among them, for his head was down, exhausted, and he slept. The charts but offered thin pillow for whatever raged within his skull, his old hair all splayed in disarray.

  “I thought of murder. I had thought it before. I had thought it all my life, so long concealed but mutinous now—to murder authority, to strike and topple, though I willed my knee to bend, though I commanded my hand to serve. To serve God had been my devotion! Would I strike God? Had all my piety, my devout and earnest desire to ever obey the laws of God and those who spoke with just Authority, come to this? Was not this the fated heresy in our Quaker faith, we who sat on our benches without minister but equal to each other?