The Water-Method Man

There wasn't much else that was clear, though. Couth commented on the appropriate symbolism of the Maine fog around the house, and Bogus laughed. Biggie said that men were so queerly involved with themselves that simple things escaped them.

With the excuse of too much apple brandy, that was too deep a subject for either Couth or Bogus to pick up. They went to bed.

Bogus was still awake when Biggie and Couth made love in their room down the hall. They were quite discreet, but it was too familiar a silent tension for Bogus to mistake it. Surprised at himself, he realized that he was happy for them. It seemed the best thing in his life that they seemed so happy - that, and Colm.

Later, Biggie used the bathroom, then came quietly into Colm's room and checked his covers. She seemed about to check the covers on Bogus, too, until he whispered to her, 'Good night, Biggie.' She didn't come near him then; it was dark, but he thought she smiled. She whispered, 'Goodnight, Bogus.'

If she'd come near him, he'd have grabbed her, and Biggie never misread signals of that kind.

He couldn't sleep. After three nights with them, he was aware of himself as an imposition. He went down to the kitchen with Akthelt and Gunnel, time for a little worn Old Low Norse and a big glass of ice water. He liked the feeling of all of them asleep, and him their guardian, taking the night watch.

Affectionately he murmured some Old Low Norse and read over the part where Old Thak is killed. Betrayed in the fjord of Lopphavet! Slain by the foul Hrothrund and his cowardly band of archers! Old Thak is lured into the fjord by a false message: that from the vantage of the cliffs above Lopphavet, he can observe Akthelt's fleet returning from the great naval victory at Slint. Standing on the prow of his ship, Thak glides close under the cliffs, but just as he is ready to leap ashore, Hrothrund and his archers let fly at him from their ambush in the woods. Thak's man at the rudder, Grimstad, turns the ship out of range, but Old Thak is too riddled with arrows to even fall down; as prickled as a pincushion, he clings to the jib like a failed hedgehog.

'Find the fleet, Grimstad,' Thak says, but he knows it will be too late. Faithful Grimstad tries to make him comfortable on the foredeck, but there is no flat surface on the old king's body; there's no way he can even lie down. 'Let me lie in the sea,' he says to Grimstad. 'I am so full of wood that I shall float.'

So Grimstad ties a line to Thak and lowers him overboard; he fastens the line to the gunwale of the ship and tows Old Thak out of the cold fjord of Lopphavet. Trailing behind his ship, Thak bobs in the sea like a buoy full of darts.

Grimstad sails out to meet Akthelt's fleet, returning all happy and gory from its great naval victory at Slint. Akthelt sails alongside his father's ship; 'Hail, Grimstad!' he calls. But Grimstad can't bear to tell Akthelt about Old Thak. Akthelt's ship comes closer, and he spots the line tied to the gunwale; his eyes follow it to the curious sea anchor dragging behind, the feather ends of some arrows still above water. Thak is dead.

'Lo! Grimstad!' Akthelt calls, pointing to the line running from the gunwale. 'What lies astern?'

'That is your father,' Grimstad says. 'Foul Hrothrund and his bastard archers betrayed us, my lord!' And while the great Akthelt beats his breast and the deck of his ship he realizes what Hrothrund's plot must have been: to kill Thak and seize his ship; to sail out to meet the fleet flying Old Thak's flag; and to ambush Akthelt too, as the ships came together. Then, commanding the fleet, Hrothrund would return to claim the kingdom of Thak, would take Akthelt's castle and violate Akthelt's tender wife, Gunnel.

All this boils through Akthelt's mind while he tugs on the line with violent heaves, bringing the body of Thak aboard. He thinks of the long, sharp instruments Hrothrund had in mind for him, and of the thick, blunt instrument he has in mind for Gunnel!

Akthelt smears his body with the blood of his father, orders himself lashed to the mainmast and commands his men to whip him with the shafts of the fatal arrows until his own blood runs with his father's.

'Are you all right, my lord?' Grimstad asks.

'Soon we'll be back at the castle,' Akthelt says oddly. But he has a curious thought; he wonders if Gunnel would have liked Hrothrund.

Early in the morning, Colm found Bogus sleeping on the kitchen table.

'If you come down to the dock,' Colm said, 'then I can come down to the dock too.' So they went, Trumper having difficulty aiming his feet.

It was high tide; far out in the eddy the gulls were circling a large mass of seaweed and flotsam - from the look of it, what was left of a castaway rowboat. Trumper was thinking of Old Thak, but when he looked at his son he knew what Colm was thinking.

'Is Moby Dick still alive?' Colm asked.

Trumper thought. Well, why not? I can't provide the kid with God or a reliable father, and if there's something worth believing in, it ought to be as big as a whale.

'I guess he'd be pretty old,' Colm said. 'Very old, right?'

'He's alive,' Trumper said. They looked out to sea together.

Trumper wished he could really produce Moby Dick for Colm. If he'd had a choice of any miracle he could perform, he would have chosen just that: to make the bay roll and swell, inspire a cacophony of gulls to circle overhead, raise the Great White Whale from the depths and make him leap like a giant trout, let them both be showered by the spray of his splashing fall as they stood in awe on the dock, have Moby Dick roll ponderously in the water - show them his scars, his old harpoons and things (but spare Colm the sight of the rotted Ahab lashed to the whale's great side); then watch the whale turn and steam out to sea, leaving them with the memory.

'He really is alive?' Colm asked.

'Yes, and everyone leaves him alone.'

'I know,' said Colm.

'But no one hardly ever sees him,' Trumper said.

'I know.'

But a wild part of Trumper's brain was chanting, Show yourself, Old Dick! Up out of that water, Moby! Such a miracle, he knew, would have been as much a gift to himself as to Colm.