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Lazarus and the Gimp
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Whale-raping abomination
Aug 2000
time: 05:23
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This is the closing instalment. Remember all those Civ games where you've sent a plucky little galley far out to sea?
Remember the thrill you got when you saw the waters around it lightening promisingly?
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At the very bottom were the barnacles- the hard little cases of the common barnacles and the long and graceful fleshy stems of the goose barnacles, their delicate tendrils sifting the waters. They clung to the underside of the hull, a dark wall of oak that crawled with life.
That oak had been cut from their homeland ten years earlier. Once a hard and unyielding barrier to the ocean, it was now infested with Toredo worms who were slowly transforming it into a spongey and leaking wreck. Above the hull, the slimey and stinking mass of the gravel ballast, and past another few inches of oak was the open deck where men and cargo took what shelter they could against the elements.
This was "The Cormorant", the greatest work to emerge from the Five Ports. Over fifty feet in length and nearly ten feet across, it dwarfed any other fishing boat on the waters and could carry enough stores to take it's six man crew far out to sea to chase the offshore shoals, and return carrying twenty cartloads of herring. It had made Oswulf prosperous, and he took as much pride in it as he did in his family. Sadly, it was now ailing and in great danger.
Oswulf stood at the stern and gripped the rudder as he savoured the night air. There is no stench like the stink of an old ship. Fish entrails, scales, and fins mixed with years of men's sweat, urine, faeces and vomit, and much eventually dripped down into the ballast to rot and fester for the rest of the ship's days. Only in the stern, upwind of the rest of the ship, was the air sweet and Oswulf guarded his captain's position there jealously.
It had been the stories that had brought them to it. The Phoenician trader with the milky cataracts had sipped at his ale and told his tale- "In the far west there are shoals of herring so rich that a man could walk across them and not get his feet wet. Sail two weeks out and you will find them". In the warm fug of the harbourside tavern it had seemed so tempting- the onshore fishing banks had been plundered for centuries and were now nearly fished out. The fishing boats now returned less than half-full, and carrying only poor fish dragged from the depths- all pop-eyes and teeth- so hideous that few would eat them.
The price of good, sleek herring had soared in the past decade and the prospect of a full load of air-dried herring made Oswulf's mouth water. One such trip would turn him from a prosperous man into a rich man, and would enable him to build a second ship. With a fleet of two ships capable of reaching these distant shoals he would be the richest man in the Five Ports within a few years.
It had taken him two years to pluck up the courage. No home vessel had ever sailed more than five days out into the open sea, yet he now planned to sail three times further. It would be dangerous- while the sun would guide them by day, at night they would be lost and helpless beneath the bewildering stars while the great sea-monsters loomed and moaned about them. Oswulf was prepared to gamble, however. His ship could carry enough supplies to take them far out and back again with a substantial safety margin.
Or so he had thought.
For ten days they had ploughed through the swells with no problems. They had all spent idle moments staring up at the extra riggings added to the square sail in order to take the expected huge haul of herring to dry in the air. Then the sky had turned a sickly grey and a terrible storm had swept in from the east, and their gods turned against them.
Oswulf was no fool. He knew the sea like a lover, and he knew better than to blunder into the heart of a storm so savage. Instead he had raised full sail and ran before it in the hope that it would blow out or swing away from the, but it had chased them like a pack of hounds. For four weeks they had raced ahead of it, barely able to sleep in their terror. Now the storm had finally died away, but "The Cormorant" was in desperate trouble. While the rainfall meant that they had plenty of drinking water, their food stocks were low enough to be worrying. Worse still, they had entirely run out of pitch and had no means of sealing leaks any more. Battered by sea and sun, the swelling and contracting timbers were now letting in water to the extent that one man on every watch spent all his time bailing. It could only grow worse. They were over five weeks from any known land, in a ship that might not make the journey home. The prospect made Oswulf's mouth dry with fear. He shuddered in the pre-dawn chill and pulled his cloak around him, listening the relentless scraping and splashing of Cerdic's bailing by the mast. The remaining crew- Penda, Ceol, Ceawlin and Uffa- slept fitfully under the canvas awning.
He picked at the splintering oak of the steering oar. Everything was hard and unforgiving at sea- all splintered timber, rough canvas and rusting iron. He craved softness- the velvet of his wife's breasts and belly against his skin. On that last night before he had sailed, she had clawed desperately at his back almost as if she had been drowning beneath him. Oswulf closed his eyes and savoured the memory of her legs wrapped around his hips while he sank into the heat of her hidden depths. Again the thoughts rose in him....would she now be pregnant again? Would the child ever know it's father?
As ever, the reverie passed leaving him a cold and frightened man nursing an erection born out of frustration and loneliness. He sighed and stared up at the sky which was turning dark blue as it heralded the coming dawn. Then he turned back to the empty seas before him.....
.....except they were no longer empty.
Between the sky and sea on the horizon, something was outlined against a wide bank of low cloud dead ahead. Oswulf sprang to his feet, hitting his head on the steering oar in the process. He swore, and yelled to his mate.
"Penda! Take the rudder! I'm going up!"
Kicking the sleeping Ceawlin out of his way, he grabbed at the rigging and hauled himself up the mast hand over hand, not pausing until he had reached the top, thirty feet above the deck. Grabbing hold of the mast with one arm and shielding his eyes with his free hand he stared forward.
It was a sail. A strange, triangular sail attached to a small boat. The sort of boat that never strays more than a day out from shore. Then the improving light made him realise the full extent of the shocking sight before him. That was no cloud bank behind the strange boat.
It was a range of low hills, overlooking a harbour.
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27-12-2002 04:49
There are a few good ones out there that aren't "in the annals of history" though. 
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