Chapter 5:
Ding-ding, ding-ding . . . . The bell tolled with insistent clamor, calling the curious or the obliged to the source of the trouble. Tintin and the Captain found themselves caught in a press of bodies, able seamen fighting to get through the crowd of confused passengers. All eyes strained toward the prow, where the Marie-Claire's captain bellowed orders in rapid and agitated French.
"Just like old times, eh Captain?" Tintin smirked, elbowing his friend in the ribs. The Captain glared, but said nothing, too focused on shouldering a path through the crowd. Tintin followed in his wake like a small tugboat after a steamer.
They reached the prow before anyone else, and gaped at the sight that met their eyes. A long, green overcoat whipped stiffly in the wind while its owner clung to the railing, his arms shaking and toes nearly dragging in the sea. Weak cries of "Help, help," drifted back to the listeners over the spray of the sea and the chug of the engines.
"Blue blistering barnacles," the Captain gasped, his eyes wide. He took only one moment to express his astonishment, though, for in the next second he was moving. Bracing his knees against the railing, he reached over and grasped the stranger by the arms, lifting him up and over in a smooth motion. Then, overbalanced, he slipped backwards on the wet decks and both rescuer and rescued tumbled over and landed in a heap. Tintin rushed forward to help them up, the stranger smoothing his coat in embarrassment and the Captain swearing loudly with his own peculiar brand of profanity.
"Ten thousand thundering typhoons," he spluttered, "what were ya' thinking, ya' nincompoop?"
The other reddened, freckled skin darkening. "I do beg your pardon," he said, "but I slipped."
Tintin watched the exchange with a grin creeping over his features. The situation wasn't funny, he knew, but the Captain's reactions always were. Especially when the man was irritated.
"We're at sea, you addle-brained nitwit! It's no time to be dozing off and not watching your step, you'll hurt somebody!"
At that moment, the Captain made to stride purposefully back to his quarters, having delivered the last word. Unfortunately, he didn't notice Snowy prancing excitedly at his feet. The Captain tripped and went down with a pronounced thump.
The stranger looked down at him with one eyebrow sardonically raised. "I'll be heading back to my cabin then, shall I?" he said and made to walk away, but Tintin stopped him.
"Captain," he said, helping his friend up, "this is Dr. Angus Hoffmann, of the University of Amsterdam. Dr. Hoffmann, may I present my good friend, Captain Archibald Haddock?"
Dr. Hoffmann started at the name, but covered his astonishment smoothly. He reached a hand out and grasped the Captain's firmly, conveying easy gentility in his voice. "Pleased to meet you, Captain," he said, smiling. "You wouldn't by any chance be related to the Hastings Haddocks, would you?"
The Captain shook his head. "No, I'm a northerner, just like my daddy, and his daddy, and his daddy."
"I think that's enough family history to be going on," Tintin interrupted, leading the way back to the Marie-Claire's block of cabins. Dr. Hoffmann followed them quietly.
They sat down at the small fold-out table in their cabin and drew up a chair for their guest. Dr. Hoffmann sat down gingerly, keeping his overcoat wrapped around him tightly. He was, Tintin decided, completely unassuming, embarrassed even, as if he disliked being the center of attention. Strange for a man who had been lauded as a brilliant scholar and promising university lecturer.
"So, Dr. Hoffmann," Tintin began, but their guest leaned forward uncomfortably.
"Please," he said, "I am no longer a professor. Call me Angus."
"Angus, eh?" the Captain rumbled. "Let me guess: you're from the Channel Islands."
"As it happens, no. I'm a native of Norway, as you're from the north of England and Tintin here is from Brussels, originally. But a man's origin isn't nearly as important as his destination, don't you think?"
The Captain harrumphed and muttered something about incomprehensibility, but Tintin was intrigued. "So the fact that the three of us are on the way to Greenland right now is more important than where each of us came from?"
"For the present, yes."
"But you're a historian," Tintin argued. "Surely you agree that someone's origins directly contribute to his destination."
"Certainly. But two men from the same roots can find themselves in completely different circumstances. Perhaps you know this, Captain?"
The Captain frowned. "Aahh, blistering barnacles, I'm not followin' ya'," he said, crossing his arms grumpily.
"No matter," Angus conceded. "What I mean to say, is that where we're going is more important than where we're coming from."
Tintin leaned forward; the conversation had taken a strange turn. "When we spoke of our destination this morning," he ventured, "you said you were looking for the truth."
Angus blinked and something flickered in his eyes. "And you said you're no longer a reporter," he said, addressing Tintin. "But if you found the right story, would you consider returning to your former profession?"
"Maybe."
Angus drummed his fingers on the table, fidgeting. "There's an old tale in my family, more of a legend really, about Vikings and dragons and conquests. Bit unbelievable, actually."
"And there was something about Greenland, you said," Tintin prompted. The Captain raised an eyebrow at him, but he forestalled speech with a hand. "You can tell us your story."
"You'll laugh," Angus objected.
"Only if it's really funny," the Captain warned.
"Okay, then you won't believe me."
"Whether we do or not," Tintin ventured, "you lose nothing by telling us. I'm no longer a journalist" —the Captain snorted, but Tintin continued— "and the Captain isn't interested in academics. So we can't hurt your reputation any more by listening to what you have to say. And if I don't believe your story, I don't publish it. Deal?" He held out a hand, silently encouraging the other to trust him.
Angus bit his lip, thinking about it. After some moments of silence he seemed to take courage, and shook the proffered hand firmly. "All right, all right, I'll tell you." He set his hands on the table, fingers laced together, and began.
"Many hundreds of years ago, the islands in the Norwegian Sea were populated by Vikings, small tribes spread out across the hunks of rock that stuck up out of the water. You realize that a part of the world is just below the Arctic Circle, difficult to survive in, especially if you're on your own and not friends with neighboring tribes. As far as Vikings go, these were fairly typical, hardy folk, sailors and sea-farers with stubbornness issues. They could very easily have sailed south to the British Isles, but they didn't. They stayed put for some reason."
"Fancy that, a bunch of home-bodies," the Captain mused, but Tintin hushed him quickly.
"There were legends," Angus continued, "passed down in their folklore, that some of them had learned to fly dragons, or something like dragons."
"You've gotta' be kidding me," the Captain scoffed.
Angus studiously ignored him. "Whether it's true is anybody's guess. They could've been birds, maybe. I don't know, but Viking art from the period features winged creatures that appear to breathe fire. I mean, we are talking paintings, carvings, architecture, metal-work. You name it, they made it." He was speaking passionately and gesturing eloquently with his hands.
Tintin looked up, suddenly realizing. "This is why you chose to specialize in Viking history, isn't it?" he asked.
Angus nodded slowly. "My family came from one of those tribes up north. No idea which one, but I do know that there were Haddocks in my family a long time ago. That's why I asked about the name, you see."
"But you didn't learn all of this from a family myth," the Captain pointed out.
"No," Angus reflected, "much of this information comes from my research. I wrote my dissertation on Viking migration patterns, by the way. I took an interest in the dragon legends about four years ago, after I began studying Viking art in depth. There was a map, apparently, that someone in my family put together to chart every island and landmass they discovered and explored. It's long since lost, but there are plenty of examples of dragon iconography elsewhere." He reached into his coat and pulled a battered notebook from a hidden pocket. Opening it to a page somewhere near the middle, he folded out several sheets that had been pasted together. All were covered with sketches and graphs written in graphite, as if on the go with a pencil. Several were badly smudged, but Angus pointed significantly to a sheet near the middle. "Here," he said, indicating a sketch of a beautifully-carved ship's prow. "A tracing from an archeological find in northwestern Denmark. The symbol is a dragon's head. And here," he moved his hand across the page to a drawing that resembled little more than a misshapen lump, "a reproduction of a piece found on the southernmost tip of Greenland."
Tintin studied it for a moment, frowning. "But this proves nothing," he finally said, mystified.
Angus smiled slightly and rotated the drawing to the right. "Look again," he said.
Both Tintin and the Captain leaned down over the smudged notebook and examined it more closely. "Crumbs!" Tintin exclaimed after a few moments. "That's remarkable."
It was a map, but such a map as neither of them had ever seen. It depicted a large landmass surrounded by impossible seas, but the land itself was in the shape of a giant winged beast, with a broad head and almost triangular body. It was Greenland, its telltale shape and the proximity to northern Canada easily apparent, though the map was old and fancifully illustrated.
"Humph," the Captain grumped, "bunch of mumbo-jumbo."
"See here," Angus pointed out, ignoring him, "the dragon faces to the west, which contradicts the usual pattern of migration at the time. It was much easier to sail south: there was good land to the south, oceanic currents drifted to the south, so why not go south? Because when you're flying, it doesn't matter which way the currents drift. You can go anywhere, south, north, east, west, up, down. And you can get there faster."
"I read your theory about western migrations, Angus," Tintin said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "You wrote that Greenland served as a bridge between northwestern Europe and the arctic regions of northern Canada, a stopping-point as it were. But your theory was derided in the academic community."
"Because Greenland is so inhospitable and it would be nearly impossible to haul Viking ships across the ice. And nobody wants to believe that dragons existed, let alone that humans rode them. The academic community is partly right, but I'm not wholly wrong."
Tintin exchanged a meaningful glance with the Captain. "So, this archeological dig in Greenland; just what do you hope to find there?"
Angus carefully folded up the pages, closed the notebook, and tucked it back into his pocket. "Proof that there's credence to my theory. I don't expect to find evidence of dragons there; that would be unprecedented. But evidence of Vikings in central or western Greenland would be a step in the right direction."
Silence fell, as the small cabin's occupants thought through what they had heard. Beneath them, the Marie-Claire rocked gently in the swell. Snowy scratched his ears and sniffed the air, hoping for chicken or ball. The bell for lunch dinged softly in the distance.
"Well," Tintin said, breaking the silence, "it's an interesting theory, to be sure. If you do find anything, I'd like to be the first to know."
Angus smiled as if in relief. "Rest assured of that," he replied, shaking Tintin's hand enthusiastically as he rose. "I must thank you, gentlemen, for your time and" — bowing slightly to the Captain — "for the rescue. I'm sure we shall be seeing more of each other on the voyage."
"I have no doubt," Tintin replied, ushering their guest out the door and closing it firmly behind. He stood for a moment, listening as Angus's footsteps dwindled down the corridor; he almost thought he could hear the man humming to himself. When he turned back to the table, the Captain had remained seated with his arms crossed, a look of incredulity on his face.
"You do realize he's stark, raving mad," he said without preamble.
Tintin raised his eyebrows expressively. "I don't think so," he replied, "but this trip is already turning more interesting than I thought it would be. Archeological digs, icebergs, and now dragons."
"Don't go getting any big ideas," the Captain warned, raising a finger.
That was just asking for trouble. Tintin smiled sweetly; he had lots of smiles, but this one was the most persuasive. It had never failed on the Captain. "But my ideas are always big."
"Yes, and they're not always good."
"Well, here's an idea: lunch?"
"Thought you'd never ask, lad."
A/N: It has to be said, the Captain has all the best reactions and body gags in the books. Thanks for reading!