"Ishmael. Wake up. Your watch."
Ishmael wriggled further into his bunk and tried to pull the blanket over his head, but Queequeg's warm, callused palm cupped his forehead. Strong fingers traced furrows across his face.
"How do you always know when to wake me?" Ishmael mumbled. "Is that what they do on Rokovoko, feed you a clockwork timepiece on the day you're born so you're reliable as a ship's bell forever after?"
Ishmael sat up slowly, reluctant to emerge from a pleasant dream involving his harpooneer friend, white sand beaches, and—oddly—coconut shells with paper umbrellas and find himself back in the Pequod's muggy forecastle. The dank air reeked of sweat and mold, curdling his fleeting fantasies into sour reality. He rubbed his bleary eyes, half-expecting to find them gritty from rolling on that sandy beach.
By the time he thrust aside the sailcloth curtain enclosing his bunk, the harpooneer had moved on. Ishmael rummaged in his sea-chest for a woolen sweater and watch cap. The only other crewman awake in the room was the old Manxman etching a sperm whale tooth with his scrimshaw tools. A single lamp swung on a rope, and the shadows lengthened and contracted to the rhythm of the swells.
"I'm open to commissions," rasped the old Manxman without looking up from his work. "Ye haven't asked yet for a portrait of yer love to keep in yer bunk. All the other lads are clamoring for 'em. Though I do charge extra for the more stimulatin' pictures, if you catch my meaning."
"Oh?" Ishmael's tousled head emerged from the neck of his sweater. He leaned curiously over the old sailor's shoulder.
"This here's for young Mr. Flask." The Manxman tilted the large tooth to catch the light. It bore the fresh engraving of the little third mate on tiptoes, kissing a handsome woman on a sea cliff. In the ocean background, a whale spouted and waved its fluke. "Last kisses are a favorite subject 'round here. Just describe yers, and I'll do ye one fer a song."
"Last kiss?" Ishmael wracked his brain, but romantically speaking had no first kiss to speak of, let alone a last one. He was glad the old sailor couldn't see him blush in the dim light. "I like the way you did the cloth of her dress, all aflutter in the breeze," he said carefully. "Lovely work."
"Don't be like that, lad. I knows ye've got a love."
Ishmael pulled his wool cap down over his eyes. "I…I think I do…"
He started for the deck, but the Manxman caught his sweater in his gnarled fist. "Well?"
"Well…" Ishmael mused. "I suppose if I've never actually kissed my love, then it's not a romantic love—we're just friends. Isn't that how it goes?"
The lamplight sparked a gleam in the old Manxman's eye. "If that's yer way of thinking, it must be so. But if yer mind shifts latitudes, ye let me know. Hie aloft to watch ye go, boy."
He sent Ishmael off with a paternal swat on the rear, but Ishmael was too lost in thought to notice.
Ishmael climbed the shrouds to the foremast-head as the orca-black sky faded to the gray of a gull's back. On the horizon, a crimson swath of pre-dawn sunlight foreshadowed an afternoon storm. He shivered in the frigid morning gusts that filled the Pequod 's sails and whipped the water into foamy cream tops.
In theory, he should be straining his eyes for a glimpse of a whale's tell-tale geyser. Instead, he searched the deck for the broad shoulders and tattooed arms of Queequeg, but the harpooneer had likely returned to his own berth in steerage with the other skilled hands.
Ishmael turned suddenly at the shake-shake-shake of a tambourine, directly behind him in the foretop.
"Ding-dong-ding, I spy an Ishmael, struck on the head with an oar called love, married to a Counterpane, spinner of words to a world beyond time…" A boy's face peeked out from behind the mast. As he edged closer on the watch platform, he offered an empty tin coffee cup. The tambourine jingled in his other hand.
"Hullo, Pip." Ishmael said, adopting a cheery tone. "What are you doing up here?"
"Pip isn't here. Pip is adrift, and I am a cup of coffee sweetened with molasses. The Counterpane sent me up to bring cheer to the Narrator, but I have drunk myself away…"
"That's all right. A hot drink might do you some good." Ishmael could never fully parse Pip's pronouncements these days. Ever since the boy had spent a night floating alone in the ocean, he seemed to exist with one foot in a different plane of existence. He could probably see the future, too.
Ishmael seated himself against the mast. "What wisdom have you for this turbulent heart?"
Pip slid down beside him. He grasped Ishmael's hand and squeezed it hard. "If a man wants ye, nothing can keep him away. If he doesn't want ye, nothing can make him stay. Ye can have it all, just not all at once. The biggest adventure ye can ever take is to live the life of yer dreams."
The back of Ishmael's neck tingled as he stared into two eyes, dark and fathomless as flukeprints left by fleeing whales. "Are you referring to…Queequeg and me?"
Pip only gripped his hand tighter, never blinking. It felt like an invitation to continue.
"Because…I don't know how much you've overheard, but Queequeg and I, we were indeed married in New Bedford, or so I assume. It was the happiest of honeymoons ashore, cuddling in bed, sharing the best chowder you ever sunk a spoon into…but it's odd to think we never once kissed in all that time. And ever since we shipped on the Pequod—"
"—the romance has fizzled, and ye wonder if it were ever there at all," finished Pip, giving his shoulder a sympathetic pat.
"You have gazed into the starry void that is my very soul." Ishmael wiped the scratchy wool sleeve of his sweater across his brimming eyes, then sneezed. "But what can I do?"
"Breathe. Let go. And remind yerself that this very moment is the only one ye know ye have for sure. Ye get in life what ye have the courage to ask for." While he spoke, he stared off into some dimension Ishmael couldn't begin to sense.
Ishmael inhaled the salty air deep into his lungs and pretended it was courage. "You are an oracle, Pip. Truly."
The boy seemed to sense his work there was done and began to shimmy down the shrouds toward the deck. "Pip isn't here, Pip jumped from the whale boat. Have the courage Pip didn't have. And remember, everyone wants to ride with ye in the limo, but what ye want is someone who will take the bus with ye when the limo breaks down…"
"I was following you until that last bit, but thank you!" Ishmael called after him. To his surprise, he meant it.
The morning wore on, and Ishmael embraced his newfound purpose by drowsing on a spar near the foretop. The only cetacean sighting thus far was a single Huzza Porpoise that performed a few aerials, then vanished without an encore.
While Ishmael was raring to track down the harpooneer to put all his newly summoned courage on display, he still hadn't decided how, exactly, to go about that. In the Romantic novels he'd read, desperate lovers were always sobbing in the rain and throwing themselves emotively at one another's feet. He vowed to take that particular route over his own half-drowned body.
As a modern man-of-the-world, he could think of no better tactic than the sweet simplicity of a direct heading. Pip had emphasized asking for what he wanted, which meant marching straight up to the harpooneer and demanding a kiss—his own lack of assertiveness be damned. But Ishmael could only act on that plan by abandoning the masthead, and to do that he had to first spy a whale.
The Pequod rocked on a swell and the foremast tilted to port. Ishmael scrambled for a firmer grip on the shrouds while his bare soles slipped on pearls of condensation. He considered leaving the post to corner Queequeg in his berth, but that would earn a drubbing from the second mate, Mr. Stubb, who was manning the tiller. Even worse, he'd get the Eyebrow of Disapproval from the soft-spoken chief mate, Mr. Starbuck, who currently stood on the quarterdeck, scouring the horizon through a spyglass.
Providence must have heard his silent plea. The gray ocean into which he stared erupted in a plume of whale-spray. "There she blows! There! She blows! She blows!" he cried.
Starbuck's spyglass lens pivoted to Ishmael. "Where-away?"
Ishmael could barely form a coherent response. He spluttered, "There! There!" while flapping his arms. "On the lee beam! Two miles off! I think?"
The mates had much work to do in directing the ensuing commotion, and no one noticed Ishmael sliding down a shroud to the deck, yowling as the rope burned raw red stripes into his palms.
"Ready the boats for lowering!" bellowed Starbuck from the quarterdeck. "But we'll let the Pequod catch her up first."
Ishmael sprinted across the boards. At least he knew where to find Queequeg now: he'd be port-side preparing the whaleboats for launch. As he ran, he silently practiced the monologue that would be a cupid's arrow, launched from the bow of his own lips to strike Queequeg's heart anew.
He spotted Queequeg loading a huge basket of coiled rope into one of the boats. His giddy heart fluttered like a luffed sail—until he tripped on a stray line and had the wind knocked out of his lungs. Ishmael went sliding across the slick deck, gasping like a very lost haddock.
Queequeg's figure towered over him. Ishmael felt himself being hauled unceremoniously to his feet by his armpits.
"Steady, Ishmael." Queequeg seemed even more serious and focused than his typical serious, focused self.
Ishmael took a breath, closed his eyes, and prodded his monologue to the tip of his tongue. If he was going to have the courage to ask for what he wanted, it was now or never.
"As the prow of the Pequod kisses the oncoming swell, as the waves kiss the white sand of your Rokovoko island, then sigh as they slide back to the sea, so shall I kiss you…"
…was what he wanted to say. Instead, Ishmael did what he always did: gazed up at the mesmerizing geometric patterns of Queequeg's handsomely inked face and grinned like an idiot until he lost most of the feeling in his legs.
If Queequeg noticed, he didn't let on. "Do you fear them whales?" asked the harpooneer earnestly, giving Ishmael's hat an affectionate scrunch. "Fear not, when Queequeg has his harpoon—" His face fell in a sudden realization, and his eyes darted away, searching.
Ishmael understood immediately. "Your harpoon. You left it in your berth?"
Queequeg nodded and moved as if to fetch it, but Ishmael stopped him. "I'll fetch it for you, friend. Ishmael has your back, too."
Ishmael dashed away, feeling an odd mix of relief for not having spoken the words he'd intended, and shame for letting his courage fail him yet again.
Ishmael found the harpoon nestled in Queequeg's bunk, under woolen blankets crocheted by some Nantucketer's daughter, and he felt a twinge of jealousy as he slid his fingers around the wooden harpoon stock. Slayer, bedmate, courage stick, eating utensil, stitch-ripper, awl, razor, ear-piercer —the fearsome, versatile instrument had all manner of uses to Queequeg. But what of Ishmael? He couldn't even tell if he was friend or lover.
"Ahoy, Queequeg's shadow. Ahoy there, Fishmeal."
Ishmael hopped guiltily away from his mate's bunk and turned to see Daggoo descending from the upper deck, with Tashtego close behind him. While the two large harpooneers rummaged in their sea chests for last-minute whaling gear, Ishmael tried to sneak out on tiptoe—but Tashtego sidestepped to block the egress.
"So did ye kiss him yet?"
Had Pip told the whole crew, or was it just that obvious to everyone? Ishmael didn't answer.
Tashtego adjusted Ishmael's clumsy grip on Queequeg's harpoon. "I'd blame the sweater and the hat," he said. "What think ye, Daggoo?"
"Aye," said Daggoo, tugging his gold hoop. "Flaunt what ye got, boy. Tashtego's right. Take 'em off. We could teach ye a thing or three about presentation of the self." He yanked Ishmael's watch cap off his head, leaving his hair sticking up like a candle flame.
"You heard Daggoo." Tashtego tugged Ishmael's sleeve. "Lose the sweater and show yer Queequeg what diameter of muscle cordage ye've got hiding under there. Mooring line, or fishing twine? Easy lad, don't ye think we know what we're about?" He shucked off Ishmael's sweater in a few deft movements. "Queequeg saved my life. He's a true warrior. And just how do you plan to go about catching his eye bundled up like a lamb?"
"Aye, to feel like a warrior yerself, ye should try lookin' like one."
The two harpooneers made short work of Ishmael. Daggoo knotted the back hem of his undershirt so that the fabric stretched across Ishmael's no-longer-scrawny chest, tight enough to highlight muscle definition. Meanwhile Tashtego tied a red neckerchief around Ishmael's head, then added a shark tooth choker that rode above his collar bone.
"Look at them muscles popping. Why'd ye hide this all away, boy?" said Daggoo as he directed Ishmael in a few harpoon-bicep curl exercises. "Ye should give him one of yer signature tattoos, Tashtego."
Ishmael blanched at the thought. "I'm…not sure if Queequeg likes tattoos," he said, rather too quickly. The others burst out laughing.
"I'll merely do ye a practice one traced in lampblack," said Tashtego once he'd recovered. "If ye grow attached to it, come find me an' I'll make it permanent." He ran his finger around the inside of the sooty lamp glass, and sketched the curvy, stylized outline of a sperm whale that curled its flukes around Ishmael's bicep.
Daggoo added some lines on Ishmael's forehead, and finished off the look with two swipes of lampblack to the top of his cheekbones.
"Warpaint?" asked Ishmael hopefully.
"To keep the sun's glare from blinding ye, when ye throw that harpoon of yours."
Ishmael struck a martial pose, as if he stood in the bow of a whaleboat, and couldn't help feeling impressed by the mental image of himself. Surely it was only a matter of time before Queequeg was clamoring to feel up his arms.
"Best of luck to ye, Fishmeal." Tashtego and Daggoo each clapped Ishmael on the shoulder, vigorously enough to nearly knock the wind out of him. They each snatched up their own harpoons and thundered up to the deck.
Left alone in the compartment, Ishmael wondered at his metamorphosis. He knew he looked different, but he also felt different. Some little spark within him had caught. A newfound sense of courage now smoldered in his breast.
Under his breath he said, "Resist this, Queequeg."
"By Neptune!" hollered Mr. Stubb from the top deck. "'Tis a grand thing we aren't aboard a whaler, nor set to launch the boats in five minutes time after a bloody sperm whale. Meanwhile our prize harpooneers go about prettyin' up in their boudoir, as if perfectly styled hair alone could make a whale roll fins-out without a fight. She won't—and trust me, I've tried it."
Ishmael climbed to the deck and emerged, blinking into the daylight, before the confounded gaze of the sturdy second mate. "Well now, the sight of you might actually kill the goddamned whale after all," said Stubb, removing his pipe from his clenched jaw and folding his arms as he gave Ishmael a once-over. "Did Queequeg call in sick, then?" He didn't wait for an answer, yet a grin spread across his face. "Say, you go report to Mr. Starbuck and tell 'im the boats are ready to launch at the captain's word."
"Aye, sir." Ishmael loped to the quarterdeck, aware that Stubb was attempting to make a fool of him, but when he glimpsed his silhouette in a tub of water near the tryworks, he rather liked what he saw. Let them laugh, he thought.
To his credit, Mr. Starbuck did not laugh at the sight of Ishmael when he delivered Stubb's report, though a shadow of concern crossed his face.
"I have nothing against the warrior prototype," said the chief mate gravely, collapsing his spyglass down to a compact brass cylinder, "but I know thee for a fellow intellectual, and I wonder if that's a true expression of thine inner self."
"That may be, sir," said Ishmael, nearly withering under Starbuck's reproachful eye, "but supposing one was seeking to express their innate courage on the outside, what then?"
"Courage reveals itself through actions." Starbuck gave his cap a self-conscious tug. "The most fearsome-looking pirate may prove a cringeling. Having a poet's soul gives thee the masthead view of men's hearts. Instead of falling mindlessly in with thy peers, be thine own man. Some people might find that most attractive."
Starbuck pulled a little book out of his pocket, its cover protected by brown paper and the handwritten inscription "Starbuck's book! Keep thine hands off!" and read:
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
"Umm…is that from the Bible, sir?"
"The gospel of Walt Whitman," said Starbuck. There was a far-off look in his eye.
"And what do you mean by it, sir?"
"Harness thine inner strengths, organize thine harried and confused thoughts of love for Queequeg into lines of beauteous verse. Remind him of the searing flames which burned at thy first meeting." He leaned in, his face drawn and serious. "Then sing them to him, my hearty. Eviscerate the emotions from thy bowels and sing thy fucking heart out."
Ishmael wanted to ask how his feelings for Queequeg were so transparent that the entire Pequod crew seemed better appraised of them than himself, but before he could form words, a huge sperm whale breached off the starboard bow, less than a mile off.
Starbuck spun away on his heel. "In stunsails! Down topgallant sails! Luff a point! Steady on!"
"Ahoy, Starbuck." Captain Ahab climbed awkwardly to the quarterdeck with a thunk-thunk-scrape of his ivory leg. "Did ye get a swatch sample on that whale?"
Starbuck saluted. "Aye, sir. She was an Ess Doubleyew Two One Three Nine Shipyard Gray."
"Not Ess Doubleyew Seven Five Six Three Restful White? Are ye certain?"
"Aye, sir."
"Then I'll be in my berth. You boys have fun stormin' the floating fortress. Well, get a move on. Go lower the boats, man!" Ahab dismissed his chief mate with an annoyed flick of his hand. "Whenever ye get back, make me my coffee. Flat white."
Ishmael turned to follow Starbuck, but Ahab blocked Ishmael's path and squinted at his face. His eyes glowed like molten doubloons. "Steady on—what's yer name again, sailor?"
"They call me Ishmael, sir."
"Someone wrote 'I heart Queequeg' on yer forehead with lampblack, Ishmael. I'd knock the bastard who did it into next week, but that's just me." He lay a weathered driftwood hand on Ishmael's shoulder and whispered in his ear, "If ye love someone, lad, ye never let 'im go. Ye chase 'im round the ends of the earth, ye plot his course on one o' them string bulletin boards that tells yer crew just how sane ye are…and when ye find 'im at last, ye stick 'im! From hell's heart, ye stick 'im real good."
The captain spat on the deck, then turned slowly and clunked back down the steps. "Real good, I say!" he hollered before vanishing into his cabin.
Ishmael stood blinking in confusion until the splash of lowered boats roused the incandescent flame of purpose in his chest; he was still holding Queequeg's harpoon.
Galvanized to action, he leapt from the quarterdeck railing with a single-minded intensity. He rolled once when he hit the lower deck, then landed on his feet and started running. His pulse hammered out a driving rhythm, and his brain began to form stanzas to Starbuck's words: Remind him of the searing flames which burned at thy first meeting. Organize thine harried thoughts of love into beauteous verse.
The first whaleboat, with Daggoo in the bow, was already rowing toward the smooth patch of black water where the whale had last sounded. Ishmael arrived at the far railing just in time to see Queequeg leap into the second boat.
"Queequeg!" Ishmael put a foot on the gunwale and, with a herculean two-handed swing, sent the harpoon arcing through the air.
Queequeg caught its wooden stock in one fist. He waved and tipped his tall beaver hat as the second whaleboat pushed off.
"Wait!" Ishmael shouted from the Pequod 's railing.
"Too late, lad!" shouted Starbuck from the whaleboat's tiller. "Archy's taken thy spot. Go beg an oar off Stubb. A whale waits for no man!"
"This 'parm whale," Queequeg called, "I fetchee as gift for you!"
He touched his fingertips to his lips. Then with a proud grin he blew on his hand in Ishmael's direction as they scudded away on the waves.
Ishmael pressed his forehead to the railing and pounded his fists. "Now the whole lot of them think I'm afraid of whales," he moaned to himself. "Blast these sons of anglerfish." When he lifted his head, the phrase "I 3 Queequeg" was printed backwards on the top of the railing. It was like a message from Providence, and it lit his heart anew.
A familiar jingling sound made Ishmael turn. Pip stood beside him with his tambourine, shake-shake-shaking, and mouthing soundless words.
"Pip, oh lovely Pip, there's a good lad. Would you kindly lay down a beat of epic proportions for me?"
Pip responded with a beat that could summon a kraken, or turn the most steadfast of hearts. Ishmael closed his eyes, and the perfect melody flooded his consciousness, as if it had floated down like a feather from heaven and landed in his soul. It was like nothing he'd ever heard before, neither shanty nor opera, nor even classical chamber music.
A rough hand grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him out of his musical reverie. Mr. Stubb blew a cloud of pipe smoke into Ishmael's face and clapped his cheek with good humor. "Well it seems Archy's abandoned me, but you'll do for a spare oar," he said. Then he heaved Ishmael bodily overboard.
Ishmael landed in the bottom of the third whaleboat, and the boat rocked treacherously when Stubb jumped in after. While Tashtego propped a bruised Ishmael on the bench, the rest of the six-man crew complimented his appearance, some even mustering a few sympathetic sighs regarding the phrase on his forehead.
"Say, Pip," yelled Stubb up at the ship. "Do ye want to bring yer tambourine along an' be my coxswain? No? Let me borrow it then." The second mate caught it with a jingle and took up Pip's epic beat. "All right, my lovely boys, let's see ye pull them oars to Ishmael's tune and deliver the lovestruck langoustine within earshot of his darling matey. Pull, my doves! Pull, my lovely lambkins! Break yer spines and pull with all the passion of yer first night ashore! Come now, Ishmael, let's hear yer heavenly pipes. Pull, my linnets, get us to that whale and I'll make sweet love to every one of ye before the moon comes up tonight."
The oars dipped, then flashed quicksilver in the sunlight. The streamlined little whaleboat seemed to skip from wave to wave with every pull. The temporary whale on Ishmael's arm flexed its powerful flukes each time his bare bicep contracted. He rowed facing Stubb in the stern and tried to pair words with the divine melody from before. The tune returned to him in snatches, and he pieced them together until they resembled the music in his heart. His song rang out like a siren's until the rest of the crew were caught up in it as well.
"Ahoy, Mr. Starbuck!" shouted Stubb above the humming crewmembers to their portside bow. He gave the tambourine a shake-roll. "Out for a Sunday row on the village pond, are ye? We've got a musical telegram delivery for yer harpooneer, courtesy of Ishmael. Stand up, Ishmael. Now's yer big romantic moment, man!"
Ishmael stood up and nearly toppled over. He almost lost an oar as well before Tashtego offered up his bow seat, along with his harpoon.
"Do that pose we showed ye earlier," Tashtego said encouragingly, setting Ishmael's foot in the notch in the bow for balance as they rowed up alongside Queequeg's whaleboat.
Ishmael caught Queequeg's shocked, rather concerned gaze—but instead of it unnerving him and sending his senses into meltdown, a warm, fearless feeling settled over him like an insulating blanket. All around him, he felt the bolstering presence of his crewmates. How could he fail to believe in his own courage surrounded by their ready enthusiasm?
And then feeling invincible, Ishmael breathed. He let go. It was time to flaunt what he got. He was going to heed the voice telling him to sing thy fucking heart out and then, if all went well, he was going to stick 'im real good.
"Hey Queequeg," he said. "Remember how we first met?" And then he sang:
I just checked into this inn
Barkeep told me with a grin
To share a bed—it's not twin
Now I'm under the quilt
You barge in after midnight
And sense that something's not right
Oh shit, you're starting a fight?
But now I'm screaming loud…
The huge square head of a sperm whale surfaced alongside them, barely twenty feet off. Ishmael tore his gaze from Queequeg long enough to glimpse a curious obsidian eye as it slid past like a rolling, Shipyard Gray hillock. The other crewmen, too enraptured—or perhaps confounded—by his performance failed to notice. But he couldn't stop now. He was almost to the best part…
Hatchet you are holding
Shirt gone, tats are showing
Pipe lit, tobacco blowing…
I'm no threat oh please don't kill me!
Hey, I just met you, I'm here to hunt whale
That's quite a harpoon! So, call me—
"Ishmael!" Queequeg shouted, while pointing his harpoon at something over Ishmael's shoulder. But Ishmael had finally found his courage and he wasn't about to stop now.
Hey we should sleep now, it's awkward as hell
Your arm's around me—it's nice, I won't tell
It's hard to look right at you and not quail—
"Lad, get yer ass down off the bloody gunwale!" The abnormal tinge of fear in Stubb's voice made Ishmael turn, just in time to see a huge tail-fluke arcing up out of the water. It swept him into the sky with the ease of a badminton racket bopping a shuttlecock, and hurtled him high over the heads of Queequeg and the crew in the other boat.
I'm so in love, he thought, feeling as light as a Montgolfier balloon. I'm so in love that I've taken flight.
When he reached apogee, his eyes met Queequeg's far below. The harpooneer had never looked so dashing, so brave…so distressed. But he mouthed something—Ishmael saw it, unmistakable, just before he belly-flopped into the water and lost consciousness.
It was: I love you.
Ishmael returned to consciousness feeling woozy and sick under a stormy evening sky. The Pequod pitched and rolled as she ran before an oncoming gale. His skull felt like it encased an entire compressed whale that was fighting to burst free. His feet were braced against solid deck—thank Salacia for that—but he found he couldn't move his arms. Slowly it dawned on him that he was tied to the mainmast.
As he strained at the half-dozen loops of rope encircling his chest, Ishmael tried to remember how he came to be there. At least he'd somehow gotten back into his sweater and hat. Someone had tucked a square of biscuit in his collar, close enough grab with his teeth. He was fairly certain he knew who.
"So yer awake," said a voice. It was the old Manxman who was standing nearby in a wind-whipped anorak, hood pulled tight around his face. "I brought ye that scrimshaw I offered before, and I won't charge ye nothing for it, neither. Would ye like to see it?"
"Steady on," said Ishmael, not comprehending. "What scrimshaw?"
"The one of yer last kiss."
Ishmael squinted at him. "But…but I haven't even had a first kiss. And I never did tell you of one, so you must be mistaken."
"I'm not mistaken," insisted the old Manxman with a dry chuckle. "I was there and saw it with my own two eyes." He held up the etched whale's tooth, and Ishmael made out two figures: The first figure, clearly himself and without a shirt, lay back across stylized stripes that seemed to represent the deck of the Pequod. The second figure had the patterned torso of Queequeg and was bent over with his mouth locked onto the face of the first figure.
"But I don't remember that happening," Ishmael insisted. His pulse thrummed in his ears, regardless. "And what happened to our shirts?"
"Poetic license," said the old Manxman with a sly grin. "Here, take it. Perhaps ye might be glad of it later." He tucked the whale's tooth into Ishmael's pocket and turned to go.
"Wait!" Ishmael cried, struggling against his bonds. "Why am I tied up? Who put me here? Can't you free me?"
The old Manxman pulled his hood tighter when the wind threatened to blow it off his head. "Queequeg put ye there. Bandaged yer bleedin' head wound, too. Wise man, Queequeg. He has his own ideas about medicine. Says the blood will flow out of ye, lying senseless on the horizontal. Did ye know his kiss brought ye back among the living? Not all people 'round the earth kiss for love, ye know."
With that, the Manxman disappeared below deck. Ishmael writhed and fought his bonds with all the strength he could summon, but they held fast.
Then the rain began to fall—first as pinpricks on his face, then with juicy squelches like dropped overripe fruit. Droplets rolled off his wool hat and sweater, soaked the biscuit, and tracked rivulets down Ishmael's face.
"Queequeg!" Ishmael screamed into the wind. "Queequeg!"
And then, like a summoned angel, the harpooneer appeared. He held a steaming mug in his hand. "Ishmael. My friend. I'm glad." Concern lined his face.
"Quee—queg," Ishmael half-choked, half-sobbed. "Thank Providence you're here!"
With a flick of his knife, Queequeg sliced through Ishmael's ropes. Ishmael sank to his knees as the blood returned to his legs. "You've only ever looked out for me," he said, blinking up at Queequeg through the rain, "and here I've been thinking that just because we've never kissed, it must mean we're not, you know, married. But of course we are, and I've been a fool. Please forgive me, Queequeg."
Queequeg crouched next to Ishmael, put an arm around him, and held the mug to his lips.
"What's this?"
"Coffee. Starbuck's. Flat white."
The rain was falling harder now, blowing across the deck in sheets, but Ishmael didn't care. He sipped the coffee, somewhat watered down from rainwater, and leaned into his mate's warm shoulder.
"Your song…was loud. Scared whale."
Ishmael felt his face grow warm despite the rain battering it. "Don't you think we should go somewhere drier, Queequeg?" he asked, not wanting to relive the scene of his failed confession.
But Queequeg, never one for subtlety, continued, "Was loud. Scared whale…but not Queequeg."
Ishmael smiled wryly. "Well, that's a relief. I should be lingering all poetically with the mermaids in the chambers of the sea right now, if not for you." When Queequeg pulled him closer he dropped his eyes, suddenly shy.
"In your culture, I hear," said Queequeg, gently adjusting the bandage on Ishmael's forehead, "to love means to kiss, long and slow, in the rain."
"On-only if you consider the New Bedford burlesque district the heart of Massachusetts c-culture," replied an indignant Ishmael between chattering teeth. He regretted the words as they left his mouth. "N-no, actually, that's f-fair…"
Queequeg placed two fingers under Ishmael's chin and tilted his stunned face toward him. Ishmael's breath hitched; his vision blurred with tears. Their noses touched, then their rain-slick lips met. Ishmael's mind whirled, helpless as a scrap of sailcloth in a gale, when Queequeg boldly parted his lips with his tongue. The first touch of it against his own dashed his wits into sea-spray. He sank backwards onto the deck, surrendering to the riptide currents of his first real kiss, and the harpooneer followed him down, cradling his wounded head with gentle hands.
Ishmael clung like a half-drowned man to Queequeg's arms as if his life depended on it. They kissed for what seemed like hours to the rhythm of the waves. Each time the Pequod crested a roller, they hung weightless for one heady second, then plunged again as water sluiced the bow. Closer and closer their bodies edged to the hatch, as if straining to reach the opening.
They should go inside, where it was warm, a rational voice reminded Ishmael. Or maybe to one of those white-sand beaches, where it was even warmer.
They could sit in the sun and dry themselves like lazy seals on a rock. They could listen to the seabirds and the swish of palm fronds. They could sip through straws out of coconuts topped with paper umbrellas. They could—
"Ishmael. Wake up."
Ishmael sat up slowly, reluctant to emerge from the pleasant dream involving his harpooneer friend. He rubbed his bleary eyes, half-expecting to find them gritty from rolling on that sandy beach. The air in the forecastle seemed cooler, salty and fresh. Queequeg's warm, callused hand cupped his forehead, strong fingers traced furrows down his face. Surf crashed in his ears, and the solid shape of the scrimshaw whaletooth dug into his breast.
He opened his eyes.
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