• • •
No. I’m getting ahead of myself again. In retrospect there is such a sense of inevitability. But they don’t know that.
• • •
And so: even the birds disappear, and then they are really alone, at sea. Floating in all that vastness like a smut in a saucer. Someone wise has said, an ocean voyage consists of nothing more and nothing less than hours of tedium, punctuated by moments of terror, and this, it seems, is true. For every moment they spend with their hearts in their mouths—surrounded by crashing crockery, tumbling luggage, a chaos of spilled beakers and rolling funnels and shattering vials, science itself upended, papers loosed from beneath their weights, whirling like moths—and themselves as well, whirled around, whirled around, as the Narcissus hops and bucks and spins upon the waves—they will spend a hundred more languishing idly in their berths, perishing of boredom, pressed close by the rushing blackness of the sea.
It is very close, that sea. It is just there, on the other side of that wooden hull, which, after all, is a membrane merely, a flimsy man-made thing, a floating illusion, porous as a sieve. Why else are Blackstone’s men constantly below, manning the pumps? So as to stop them slipping through, into all that cold, black water.
Harry and Leo sleep poorly in the cabin they share, inches away from all that cold blackness and the million unseen, uncomprehended lives lived within it. They lie awake for hours sometimes, the two of them, not speaking, each assuming the other is asleep, listening to the chuckling rush of the water—then Harry Owen looks up, sees, in the shifting gloom, the tiny luminescence of Leo Dell’oro’s candle, suddenly lit in the opposite berth. What’s that noise, Harry? Did you hear it? That noise—that’s it—that one, there! But there are so many noises. The Narcissus is never quiet. There is a constant groaning, rending, wood upon wood, bone upon bone, strange thuds, thumps; it vibrates, deeply—shudders—from deep within the fragile shell separating them, just barely, from the sea.
’Twas just the timbers settling. That was the night watch, throwing down a rope. It’s just the rain on the quarterdeck—
They paddle desperately, together, trying to keep the flimsy illusion afloat.
• • •
It’s easier, for some. John McIntyre and Felix Girard, for example, are seasoned travelers, drawn violently together by the magnetism of a strong mutual dislike. It is not unusual to find them, in the saloon, at any time of day or night, regardless the weather, angrily disputing the nomenclature of the Satyridae, while all around them plates and saucers are borne floorward by the violence of the waves. My mother, in the same weather, may be found on deck, hugging her shawl around her, trying to tease the sailors into teaching her how to tie a granny knot, or a carrick bend, or a Matthew Walker. Under—around—and up—!
For she is fearless, mother mine.
But others are suffering. Linus Starling, Felix Girard’s new assistant, becomes, from the moment of departure, a strange, enigmatic beast, remaining below deck, working at who knows what in Girard’s laboratory, perhaps at nothing at all. Here he is: see the glint of his glasses in the swaying lamplight as he staggers along the dim, rocking passage between the cabins and the scientific workrooms. There is a sudden buckling heave; all at once he is thrown violently against Harry Owen, who is creeping along uncertainly in the opposite direction in that narrow, pungent space; lapels gripped for support, obsequious smile a pale, smudged, rat’s grimace in the briny darkness, his Begging your pardon, professor, a pathetic squeak, neatly swallowed up by the ferocity of the gale. Then quickly they separate, the dance has ended, Starling moves past with a strange, unnerving, crabbed motion, clinging once again to the walls: he is maddened by mal de mer, and will not be seen above deck until the Narcissus reaches the calmer waters of the tropics.
There is something unsavory about this fellow. My father dislikes and distrusts him, though without knowing why. In this, the restless ocean, the cat’s paw, not now at play but in earnest, is his ally. Containing that which is best contained. Though this cannot last forever. Eventually, hidden things emerge.