Ahab's Wife (32 page)

W
HAT IS THE WEIGHT
of a cat's meow?” Kit asked.

Looking as cheerful as a man on a Sunday stroll, happily smoking his pipe, Mr. Stubb, the second mate, led Kit past me on a chain.

“Those are cats meowing in your trees,” he said, glancing up in the yardarms.

Behind Kit, a sailor carried the blankets and covers that had been our bed, and a hammer in his hand.

“Here, kitty, kitty. Here, Topgallant. Here, Royals. Here, Sky Catcher.” Kit called the names of the uppermost sails.

The men entered the hurricane house. Hammering within. Kit moored inside. Then the sailor nailed a blanket on the inside, over the window. But he did not nail fast the bottom, for Kit lifted it and looked steadily out at me, as though he had lifted the curtain at the window of a passing coach. I could not meet the detachment of his gaze.

When I looked down, I saw the feet of Ahab.

“It's been three days he's been below,” Ahab said. “Time enough for the soul to go to hell and back again.”

I heard the yardarms meowing against the masts. “A cat will come down if you leave out a bowl of milk,” I said.

“Mrs. Sparrow,” he said. “Listen to me.” He touched my shoulder to get my attention. I looked at his fiery eye and the long hair, here snowy, there gray as old snow. With an act of will, he seemed to dampen the blaze of his eyes like closing the door to the tryworks oven.

“Chained belowdecks would make a sane man mad, a mad man madder.”

I said nothing.

“Ye should go down now, Mrs. Sparrow. Take the hammock. Ye've been as chained up here as he down there. Go sleep and rest. Ye'll be sick yourself, if ye don't.”

“May I not keep my husband company in the hurricane house?”

Ahab muttered, “ 'Tis aptly named, for his mind is a hurricane.”

“I know him.”

“When did the madness come?”

“We were at sea in an open boat. Many weeks.”

“Aye, that may do it.” But he looked at me as though I might tell him more, if I chose.

“The
Sussex
.” My mouth went dry.

“A whaler! And rammed by a whale.”

“Yes. A whale large and dark as a promontory or a new island pushing up from the sea. Black as lava.”

“Ye were not married then? To someone else?”

“No.”

Ahab paused in his interrogation. Indeed, he abandoned the factual path altogether. When he spoke again, it was in a gentler tone, one
something akin to fatherly compassion. “Ye have a curiosity about the sea, then?”

“I have a curiosity about all of life,” I said.

He laughed. “But ye are nothing of chatterbox. Where are the questions?”

I saw Kit let the curtain fall. What was he looking at now? The board walls inside of an empty box. The hurricane house had been unfurnished for the coming winter weather. Perhaps Kit liked it so. Perhaps he invented furnishings fit for a king in his mind. It was kind of them to leave the blanket curtain unnailed; and it would add warmth to the little room.

“He asked to be taken up here, then?”

“Aye.”

“You have been good to us, Captain Ahab.”

“What is your first name, Mrs. Sparrow?”

“Una.”

“Then, Una,” he said, and his tone was like a cove, tranquil and protective, “obey your captain and go below to rest.”

W
HY, WHEN
I
SPEAK
to this poor girl, flesh of the flesh of a madman, is my soul all peace? Is it the latent father-part of me? Even God wanted himself called Father. There might have been children of mine scattered in the isles of paradise. And is she one of them, grown-up?

There's something of me in her.

W
HEN THE CURTAIN
'
S DRAWN
, then, that's the time to whisper confession. On your knees. What's in a knee? Cartilage and gristle. A knee's a kind of bone knot. And my throat's another knot. Untie that lacing in my neck. The neck is tied off, wrapped round and round with inner cords I cannot loose, though I would speak, whisper, confess.

She forbids it. Let us confess to each other, she says. As though she were the world. No. I should put my mouth into the sea, press my lips against its great watery belly. Blubber my secrets there to Mother.

Perhaps Giles would hear me. We did it for love of one another, he would say again. I see his lips moving underwater. What soldier has done less? he would say. Don't soldiers kill to preserve those they love? Don't they kill for the sake of the men who stand beside them? And if all of their comrades have fallen, they kill for their own sweet sake. It's natural.

She
would say I'm glad to be alive. Glad. She did not see herself with rubies on her mouth. What would it benefit the world, she asked, if we were also dead?

He used his knee to crack their long bones, and out of the splinters, his finger lifted the fat marrow and took it to her lips, and all in a smack and a swallow, it was gone. But she closed her eyes, and Giles fed her the horror, and spared her.

He didn't spare me.

“Kit Sparrow,” he said to me, the last thing he said to me. “Kit Sparrow, change your name to Kit Sorrow.” As though a new name could give me a new life.

Cursing him would be as good as confessing.

Yet, there he is all bright at the bottom of the sea. A phosphorescent skeleton-angel. Something wondrously strange that though I see I cannot see, for he's a bleary light. He wants me to use him like a lantern, to find my way through the midnight depths, my movements wavy, slow, cold. Uncertain and unreal.

I
N A MANNER
particularly upright, with a careful humanity, Starbuck said, “Ye ought not sit in the wind, Mrs. Sparrow. Move to the lee. I'd not let my Mary take so much wind.”

“Have you and Mary children, Mr. Starbuck?” I asked.

He patted his shirt, and I heard the crinkle of paper.

“I durst not take it out lest the thieving wind make off with it,” he said. He smoothed his chest with the palm of his hand.

“She writes you of your children, then?”

“My boy.”

“When did you see them last?”

“Two years ago I waved good-bye to Mary. Him, I see him only through her words, first and last.”

I was shocked to think of the young mother so long without her husband. “Have many letters found you?”

“This is the second, in as many years.”

No wonder he treasured it next to his skin!

“All at once, I have a son, and he is one year, four months of age.”

“What's his name?”

Here he laughed. “She does not tell his name but calls him ‘Baby,' and ‘Beloved Child,' and ‘Puck,' but she would not name him Puck—there's nothing of Quaker in that, or Christian even.”

“There's Shakespeare in it, or it is in Shakespeare.”

“Sometimes she writes ‘our son.' He recited: ‘I bought our son a little boat, and yesterday we sailed it on a puddle before the door, the puddle-water was all crimson with the setting sun, and I sent the boat, about the size of my flat iron, across to him and he to me till the sun was down and a star shone in our puddle.' ”

“Not for naught, then, is your name Starbuck.”

“Eh? But she doesn't say that.”

All of Mistress Mary's words in the letter had been memorized by her husband. Sacred writ to him, and he would not have added one jot or tittle.

“It's strange,” I said, “that she doesn't give the child's name.”

“Sometimes my Mary will tease a bit. But I'd rather have the babe himself with no name than a name and no dear babe.”

I wondered what kind of woman Mary was who could tease so upright a man as Mr. Starbuck. He seemed to have no fun in him, but was filled to the brim with a sweet seriousness.

“In what part of Nantucket do you live, Mr. Starbuck, if I may ask?”

“Ah, Mary will not have any place but 'Sconset.”

“And what is particular to 'Sconset?”

“It's against the open water. It's as close to coming to sea with me as she can get. Our house is almost of the beach. It's a hard, lonely, eastern end of the island, where the waves from the open sea pound the land.”

“Kit's mother—she was a baker—used to send buns to 'Sconset, by the coach.”

“You must come out to see us when you get Mr. Sparrow settled.”

Mr. Starbuck's eyes gazed into mine, and I saw there sadness for us, and pity, that our landfall would be far less joyous than his.

“Where do you suppose Mr. Sparrow and I might best live on the island?” I asked.

His blue gaze held mine steadily, but he shifted his feet though the ship had not rolled under us. He hesitated and then spoke calmly. “I expect Mr. Sparrow will have to stay in the madhouse.”

I
HAD JUST
come to the top of the companion way when I noted Ahab standing on deck, gazing north. One hand rested on a dead eye in the standing rigging. He was alone, his back to me, but speaking.

“So, Old Winter, where art thou? Ten times, nearing home in November, we've shaken hands over these gray waters. What news of the polar bear? and the Lapman herding his reindeer? And hast thou tucked in the nation of Canada?”

Ahab paused as though he were waiting for the North to answer.

“What! would make Ahab wait? Well, Thou art older, 'tis thy privilege.” He fetched a sigh. “Older even than Ahab. Will Time hump my back as well as whiten my hair?” He grasped into the rigging,
seeming to flex his back. Then he spoke too loudly. I hoped no one else would hear. “Where is thy rude blast, Winter?”

He clasped both hands behind his head, stretched his back again, lifted his chest, and spoke lightly and rapidly. “Thou hast donned thy spectacles? Panes of ice, I'm sure. But they sharpen thy eyesight, for all of that, and mine as well. For now I see why thou waitest. There's Spring aboard the
Pequod
. There's no place for Winter, where Spring is, and her name is Una.”

Quickly I fled down the companion way, amazed that his thoughts had turned toward me. And pleased, too.
Somebody
aboard the ship was glad I was there.

Dear Uncle Torch, dear Aunt Agatha, dearest Fran,

I write to you from the stormy North Atlantic, aboard the
Pequod,
headed home—which now I name Nantucket. For it is Kit's home, and Kit is my husband. Before this letter, I hope you received my earlier letters, one sent by the
Reconciliation;
in the second writ aboard the
Albatross,
I described the terrible mishap. That letter was given over to a passing ship, the
Thistle,
New Bedford–bound, but I know full well that letters often lie moldering in the hulls of ships themselves sunk, without so much as a surviving scrap. I have often wondered how many fond letters sank with the
Sussex.

Nonetheless, I cannot bring myself to repeat those details; I hope to see you soon, and then I will answer any question. Knowing now what I did not when I decided to run to sea, that it is agony to be anxious about the welfare of a loved one, I do want to repeat that I am sure I caused you much anxiety on my behalf, dear family; and if I prayed, I would pray that you forgive me. I have heard nothing from you or from my mother, yet for a letter to find me on the high seas would itself be a kind of miracle. I must ask my heart what your disposition toward me is. And there I find pain, but little anger. There I find your sincere hope that all has gone well. I grope within
my own heart to find that you wish we may all see each other again, you three and your new babe. Perhaps if you make another trip to Boston, you will put in at Nantucket Harbor?

The
Pequod
arcs north, then home, for Ahab would have one more whale.

Exactly how Kit and I shall make our way, I do not know. Perhaps kit will wish to take up his mother's trade of baking, and I will help him, yet hat requires some capital, and our wages went down with the
Sussex.

I must tell you with heavy heart that Kit is not well. You may recall his saying his mother sometimes suffered mental infirmities, and with the duress of our ordeal something of that instability has surfaced in Kit. Yet, when he was able, he was, indeed, the most loving and kind of husbands to me, and I intend to see him through what is surely only a temporary indisposition.

There is a part of the first ordeal of which, even if you received my earlier letter, you have no knowledge, Giles's accident having occurred aboard the
Albatross
but after my letter was taken off by the
Thistle.
Even now, sitting at the broad map table in the cabin lent me by Captain Ahab, my fingers grip and grip the quill but do not want to form the letters. I would give those fingers, hand, and arm to sand out what Fate has already written. Though these words appear formed with ink, my pen is really dipped into heart's blood. Giles fell from the topgallant mast into the sea. I saw him fall. Nevermore will we see him again.

 

My letter to you has sat unsent a week, but now there is a west-bound clipper sail in the distance. Perhaps we will draw together, before it passes us, though the sea is rough and the wind blows very chill. So I say good-bye, with love and hope, to you whose names wring my heart—Torchy, Agatha, and Frannie.

P.S. The clipper breezed by the
Pequod
with just a polite dip and nod, and so I shall post this when we come to Nantucket, and you will know that Kit and I arrived safely. Ahab has sailed north to take a final whale. The cooper prepares new barrels.

I saw a strange, low, white ship in the north today and asked Mr. Starbuck, the first mate, what manner of craft she was. He replied that what I saw was an ice floe driven down from the Arctic. Tonight, he said, the
Pequod
would meet the first of her winter gales.