THE LAMB
The cabin sways and tosses beneath Starbuck's feet. Outside, the storm careens past the windows like a dark, hellish zoetrope. Waves keep lashing and licking the ship, trying to break through. It is as though they have stumbled into a black void where all that is true is the sound of the roaring thunder and the split of the forked lightning. It is endless. Remorseless. Insufferable.
Finally, the tempestuous mood of the Captain and his crew has spilled forth from the Pequod, and out over the rolling sea. Starbuck feels like the only rock in the wild currents. And yet he is breaking apart, slowly but surely. Nothing could withstand this hurricane.
He performs his supplication once again. It is a ritual now - his tentative step into Ahab's cabin; the way he will stand before his desk, head bowed and hands clenched as though before some indefatigable higher power; the words which will spout automatically from his mouth. Let us return to our mission, Captain. It is not too late to turn back. Nothing but death and darkness lays down this path.
For Ahab, though, the darkness is the light. Oh, how he hates whiteness - the pallid sheen of that whale, the carven scars across its great milky head, the snaking ashen curves of its tail. He would rather lurk in the shadows, waiting, watching for the burst of that spout upon the lurching waves and the way the earth will turn for the arrival of him. Him. Moby-Dick. So far have they come now that Starbuck almost believes there will be a great calamity as he rises from the sea. Like the Last Judgement at the end of the world. All time will stop when Ahab finally spots his prize.
So why he is here again, stumbling in this bouncing cabin, trying to stay upright? If it is so inevitable, why does he still try?
Maybe because he wants to believe there is still hope left in him. That beneath all this weakness and falsity is a good man. Somewhere.
"Ah, Starbuck," Ahab says. The lantern swings above him, slicing through the heavy air like a pendulum. Its light oscillates on and off of the captain's drawn face. "You have not given up on me yet. You are my morality. The pure sky above my raging seas. What it must be like to not have a soul bound up in chains, riven with hatred and anger. What it must be like to see the world through clear eyes."
"I don't know, Captain." Starbuck swallows his vulnerability. It is already as though Ahab can look right into his soul. He does not need to display his darkest emotions all over his countenance. "Please," he says instead. "Let us return to our vocation. We should turn away from this fruitless quest. Do not tangle the crew in this madness."
Ahab is again not moved by Starbuck's heartfelt plea. Why should he be now? He has heard it so many times that the words fall, bare and meaningless, to the swaying deck. "They do not wish to leave this path," he says confidently. "If they returned home, it would be hollow. Every ship they saw leaving the harbour would be a mockery to them. Each word of every preacher speaking of the sea would be a taunt and a cry of so many demons. Each whale brought ashore would be a reminder of their failure - a meagre token compared to what they seek. They shall not be satisfied until they spy this white beast and make him spout black blood. Until this ungodly creature is exorcised."
Starbuck wants to tremble. So many times has he also heard this speech, but he cannot be as stoic as Ahab. He is weak. And frightened. Just as the crew are frightened of the imperious captain. That is truly why they follow him. His wrath and power are even more terrible than this cetacean phantom. The creature is no more ungodly than an insect or a bird or any other beast on the earth. What is ungodly are the feelings Ahab has pinned to it.
"Do not harm them," Starbuck hears himself saying. "This crew have warranted no punishment. Their only sin is this insanity they have been caught in. If anyone, you can harm me. My soul has already been sacrificed and broken. I cannot fit the pieces together anymore. When I look at myself, I cannot tell who I am. I cannot see a good man. I have not raised a hand when I should have. I have stood by and watched. Now, I bear enough guilt for the rest of them - those innocent souls."
He takes a breath. He has not meant to say so much. But it is out of him now, the confession hanging in the cabin. It should have been spoken to a priest, a man of God, yet no, it has been spoken to a man who thinks he has no link with God. That, out here, the only divine law is what he utters. So far away from land and civilisation, maybe that is true.
Ahab considers him slowly. He is being analysed and dissected like a fly caught in a trap. The spider's limbs curl around him. "You are a martyr, Mr Starbuck. Is that your comfort? You wish to be a sacrifice. How very noble."
Starbuck shakes his head. "It is not noble. It is the only thing I have left. But if it means ending this madness, then so be it. Do as you wish with me. But leave this crew."
It is like inviting a demon to possess his body, in hope that the pure soul its eyes are set on will be saved. Starbuck stands in the path of hell, feels the flames lick his body. He realises Ahab is suddenly at his side, hand upon his arm. He tries not to flinch away. "Come with me," the captain intones.
They rise up through the bowels of the ship and onto the deck. The storm, free and wild beyond the confines of the cabin, screams and shakes. It whips and abuses Starbuck who staggers and stumbles in the ferocious rain. His feet slip on the soaked wood. But Ahab walks steadily and surely, his fingers curled about his elbow, guiding him. That whale-bone leg beats the ground - loud even above all this chaos. He leads him to the forecastle and there, before all the dripping, beaten crew, has him stop.
Starbuck looks at those faces. They melt and fade in the tempest. He can barely distinguish one from the other. Is this really who I am doing this for? he wonders darkly. Or is this for myself? A punishment. A martyrdom.
Ahab's gnarled hands suddenly grip his cheeks. His head is wrenched around to face the old man, all at once so close. That one dark eye, the other milky with the lightning-white scar, sear into him. "You believe this storm has been sent because of my madness?" he shouts. Starbuck does not have time to reply. "You are wrong, sir. This storm is sent straight from hell to disguise one of their own! Moby-Dick is out there, hiding from me! His shelter is this screaming cyclone! It must end! And only purity will soothe the anger of this tempest!"
Starbuck stares at his captain, as crazed and wild as the storm, and cannot fathom what he has become entangled in. He has only himself to blame. He stands, frozen, trembling.
"Kneel before me, Mr Starbuck."
The words cut through the screaming calamity. Starbuck is paralysed for a moment more. And then, slowly, like a man going before the altar, he drops down. His knees hit the slippery deck. To look up at Ahab would be too much like veneration. So he keeps his eyes upon his boot and the thick presence of that whalebone leg. "You are trembling," the voice says above him. "Are you afraid I will kill you? Your words to me but a few minutes ago were: if anyone, you can harm me."
"I am not afraid of death, Captain. Only what comes after. And I fear I do not know where I will go now."
Ahab does not reply. Does he think of what lays for him in the beyond? Or does he only care about what happens here? In this raw, unpleasant present.
He moves away, only to return a moment later. Starbuck plays the supplicant, before Ahab's fingers close around his jaw. He is forced to raise his head and look up at this dark figure looming above him. Ahab now holds a lance in his hand. Its point glows in the lightning. Like before, the green kiss of St Elmo's Fire dances on the metal. Starbuck stares, as rapt as the crew were then.
"Give me your hand, Mr Starbuck. You wish to sacrifice yourself. I shall make use of your noble plea, when so often I have ignored your others."
Starbuck has no choice. His quaking hand reaches into the sky, Ahab's fist clenching his wrist. All eyes must surely be on this strange, heathen spectacle. But all Starbuck can see is the winking, sparking lance as it approaches his upturned palm. Ahab speaks, yet it may as well be in dark, unknown tongues. Starbuck's heart echoes in his ears.
The blade cuts deep. He feels the cracking and splitting of his skin, that slow, agonising draw of the weapon. Ahab ensures that every second means something - that every instance is worthy. Blood spills hotly. It dribbles down Starbuck's outstretched arm, staining his jacket, dripping onto the deck, pooling with the never-ending rain. He pierces his teeth into the inside of his lip, trying hard not to cry aloud.
And then the blade is gone. He wants to clutch at his wound, stem the weeping, but Ahab keeps his hand aloft. By his wrist, he drags him to his shaking feet. In a second, he finds himself at the bow, leant over the churning, raging waters. The world spins. Great demons seem to stare up at him, mouths gaping in those abyssal currents. Maelstroms suck at the Pequod, trying to drag her under. "Let this pure blood soothe the raging seas!" he can hear Ahab shouting. "Reveal the white whale! Let him hide no more!"
His hand is wrenched out over the edge. Blood pours forth, red droplets cascading down into the grey surf. Starbuck must be hallucinating as he swears he sees the wild ocean retreat from the sacrificial offering. Scarlet hues flood and spread like paint dropped on a wet canvas. Soon, the entire sea is turning colour, engulfed by the crimson. Dark forms writhe and twist beneath the surface. The chthonic gulf is ripped inside out, unveiling all its secrets and all its hidden treasures.
He thinks he spies a white blotch amongst that black and red.
And then Ahab is letting him go and he is falling back onto the deck. And further, further, right down, down, down.
He awakes afterwards with barely a memory of what has happened. The ship bobs and rocks calmly around him, the sound of the bells tinkling through the decks. Men run to and fro about their business. The storm has gone. No longer do winds howl against the vessel, nor do the waves try to tear them to pieces. The tempest has released its hold upon them.
Starbuck feels as though he has escaped a nightmare, still lurking on the edges of his conscience. He can vaguely feel the sharp draw of the blade, the mad stare of his captain searching his soul, the blood-stained waters. But surely it could not be real. That blasphemous, unnatural ritual was only a troubled dream. The fly has escaped its trap. The martyr has not been needed. The penitent has been saved.
He begins to rise from his bed. An acute shot of pain suddenly lacerates his palm. He looks down.
He sees the bandage wrapped about his hand. All at once, the images rush back to him. Their terror cuts deeper than any weapon. They possess him and make him quake. The storm returns, yet inside his own mind, tearing at his already fractured soul.
There are no nightmares here, but that in which they walk with their eyes open.
A/N: Sooooo I haven't written a Moby-Dick fanfiction in ages and ages and ages. I think the last one I uploaded on here was like four or more years ago? But I've been talking to the lovely WhaleratSea recently and all my fangirling love for that book came back. This was an old idea I had that I didn't do a complete fic of, so I picked it up and merged it with some newer influences of mine ~ I really love how this came out so thank you, WhaleratSea, this one is for you, complete with a little bit of Starhab! C: