Tales from the Grey Void

The recurrence of the dream—I had thought it lost to the holes in my memory long ago and yet, in close proximity with its leading actors and immersed once more in its setting, it had resurfaced, breaching the membrane of my conscious mind with the greatest of ease. My conversation—argument would be more appropriate—with Cruikshank had undoubtedly played its role—his unwillingness to compromise, or back down from his fool’s errand catalysing the means by which my dreaded insomnia made an unwelcome return. The details of the dream eluded me as ever—only its nightmarish ambience and the cold sweat of my awaking followed me into consciousness each morning.

It was with this burden in mind that we made our first excursions aboard the Catuvellauni, heading for the rich hunting grounds above the North Sea, between Norwich and The Hague. Though I did my best to hide the souring of my mood, Claude was in too close a proximity for it to go unnoticed—for I had spent every waking hour of the voyage thus far tutoring him in the ways of a seasoned tub-hunter.

“What is the matter, mon frère?” he said, as we stowed the harpoons in their locker.

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

“I am improving, no?”

“Very much so,” I said, and it was true—Claude had taken to his new role as though he were born to it, mastering in a few short days what often took months of rigorous training to achieve.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll be able to hit a barn door at ten paces any day now,” said Hailey Reinhardt, hopping down from the balustrade where she had been watching our training session on the quarterdeck.

Claude gave her a pained look—part of an ongoing charade between the pair that was fooling no one.

“You wound me, Reinhardt,” he said, clutching his heart.

In her emerald velvet biker-jacket and matching beret, Reinhardt exuded a raffish air, like a pirate queen. Word of my protégé—of his sink-fishing record and his inexperience in particular—had spread quickly amongst the crew—sped on its way by the loose tongue of Pitt Talbot—and it had not been long before she sought him out, looking to take the measure of the man who was to be her immediate subordinate. Since that first encounter, she had taken to sitting in on our daily sessions and though she offered no advice of her own, I tolerated her presence for it seemed to have a positive effect on my pupil.

“Perhaps you should stick to sink-fishing?” she said. “It seems to be more your pace.”

“Perhaps,” said Claude. “Perhaps you should try sink-fishing yourself? I could teach you?”

Reinhardt snorted.

“Maybe,” she said, looking sidelong at Claude across her crooked nose—the result of an accident early in her career as an independent tub-hunter, which had seen her fall some thirty feet from the basket of her balloon onto her face. Miraculously, her nose had been the only casualty of the incident and she had worn the subtle twist in its geometry in the manner of a duelling scar ever since.

The look lingered and I was beginning to feel a little awkward—stood as I was, close beside Claude—when the bell rang eight for midday and lunch.

“I’ll see you in the officer’s mess,” I said to Claude, moving to intercept Captain Cruikshank as he hobbled from his place on the starboard side of the quarterdeck.

Claude nodded and together, he and Hailey made their way below deck.

“What do you think?” I said, falling in beside the captain.

“The boy?” he replied. “He’s talented, sure enough—a good eye and a strong arm.”

I made to assist him as we reached the quarterdeck ladder but he waved away my hand impatiently.

“No need, Bartleby, no need,” he said, grasping the balustrade. “Do you think he’s ready?”

I shrugged.

“We’ll find out, won’t we,” I replied. “We’re nearing prime hunting grounds—we’ll see what he’s made of soon enough.”

Cruikshank laughed.

“It’ll be a hard first test,” he said. “I intend to take as much as I can as quickly as I can—to cover the cost of the voyage.”

“Amsterdam is to be our only port of call?”

Cruikshank nodded grimly.

“You know it,” he said. “You and only you, I might add—no wagging tongues with Pitt about it, or it’ll be all over the Cat before sunset.”

“You’ll have to tell them eventually,” I said.

“I will,” Cruikshank replied. “When the time is right.”

As we passed below decks, Cruikshank made to turn down the passage which would lead him to his personal quarters, but I caught him by the arm.

“You should dine with your mates, one of these days,” I said. “It would be good for morale.”

Cruikshank considered my words and nodded.

“I’ll think about it.”

***

The first flood was spotted later that same day—some time after three bells in the dog watch.

“To the boats! To the boats!” Cruikshank roared. “First plug wins a bottle from my stores!”

The deck of the Catuvellauni’s gondola crawled with activity as the boats were brought up from below and their balloons set to inflate from their brass burners. Harpoons were distributed between the boats and the mates were handed their long-handled lances—badges of office as well as practical implements by which we would deliver the coup-de-grâce to our prey.

“Remember what I taught you and you’ll do fine,” I said to Claude as we stood by, waiting for the balloons of our respective boats to fill with hot air.

“Good luck to you, mon frère,” he said.

“And to you,” I replied.

“The first one’s mine!” called Reinhardt, stood eager on the prow of her boat, lance resting in the crook of her shoulder. “And if you’re really lucky, I might leave you one, fisher.”

“There’s more than enough to go round,” said Stirling—the second mate and an old compatriot of mine from several of Cruikshank’s past voyages.

He lowered his binoculars and smiled wryly at me across the deck.

“Youngsters, eh?” he said. “Everything’s a competition to them.”

Little over twenty minutes later, we were underway, the sails of our boats filled with a stiff westerly breeze, the ropes that tethered us to the Catuvellauni trailing out behind us as if we were a pack of huskies leashed to a sled.

Over to my right, Claude’s boat—the Togodumnus—stretched out under full sail, its bright red balloon scudding along at pace. We exchanged a look and I gestured for him to furl one of his sheets—it would not do for us to lose formation this early in the hunt. He nodded and instructed his men to take in the sail flying from the boat’s jib, which they did swiftly and without complaint.

To my left, Stirling kept pace in the Cunobeline, matching the speed of my own Tasciovanus—each of his orders committed through the subtle hand-gestures that were the preferred form of communication during a hunt, his crew moving like a well-oiled machine.

Out on our left wing, however, Reinhardt in the Caratacus was drawing ahead. She stood at the prow, one foot resting precariously on the bowsprit, lance at the ready, as though she were preparing to dive from her boat and into the midst of the flood.

“Rein in!” I yelled across the interstice of open sky. “Rein in, damn you!”

Reinhardt turned at my words and grinned. Snatching off her beret, she waved it at me nonchalantly before turning her attention back to the fast approaching flood, ignoring my command as though she had not heard it.

I shook my head—another bloody maverick to deal with. Cruikshank certainly seemed to attract them, and while it was true that an independent streak was no bad thing in a tub-hunter, it made coordination extremely difficult.

Soon we reached the outskirts of the flood where the air was thick with porcelain and metal bodies, darting and diving, or sculling lazily on the air-currents. A flood is an impressive thing to witness close up, for it defies all logic—a bath-tub might be expected to be a lumbering, graceless thing, lacking finesse, yet it is quite the opposite. In the same way that a beached whale might be graceless, but beneath the sea becomes an object of serene beauty, so too does a tub seem to transform once airborne—as though the sky were truly its natural element. Though I have witnessed the sight more times than most, it never failed to astound me.

I signalled for the harpoons—the fore and middle fingers of my right hand parallel, thumb tucked into my palm—and was instantly joined at the prow by Randolph and Lukowitz.

There is a reason why I have served as first mate on most of Cruikshank’s voyages and it is not for the speed of my delivery, but my deliberation—chief amongst my abilities was not the sureness of my throwing arm, nor my accuracy with a lance, but my uncanny gauge for the value of my prey. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Reinhardt was stuck-in already, leashed to a plain white tub of modest design—and mediocre value—reeling it in hand-over-hand. No doubt she would win Cruikshank’s prize, but she would not win his respect with such a catch. Glancing right, I was pleased to see Claude, like myself, scanning the flood for the choicest tub—a good tub, well-made from high quality materials could be sold for upwards of ten times the price of a basic model and so prudence, rather than expediency was often the proof of a great hunter.

I watched the movement of the flood intently, patiently waiting for the perfect catch to sidle into view. I did not need to wait long. Within a minute of my bringing up the harpoons, a graceful, clawfooted tub of silver-veined marble swept past, gliding through the sky like a majestic sunfish, side on, it’s plughole like a beady eye beneath the gleaming chrome of its taps. I pointed it out to Randolph and Lukowitz and stepped back to give them space to work.

Of all the harpooners onboard the Catuvellauni, Randolph and Lukowitz were the most diligent—not as farsighted as Matheson, or as strong as Kilbride, but lethally accurate within their range and capable of threading a harpoon through the most complex of pipework without leaving so much as a scratch.

As we drew close, they hefted their harpoons, sighting down their shafts. First one then the other loosed their weapons—for to throw in tandem risked a mid-air collision and catastrophe. Both found their mark, slipping through the polished pipework of the tub and jamming fast.

Tubs, not unlike their smaller sink counterparts, are docile creatures until disturbed—they abhor contact with anything that is not another tub and seem to instinctively know when they are being interfered with by human beings. This tub was no different and no sooner had the shafts of our harpoons lodged in its pipes than it reared up and made to flee, dragging the Tasciovanus along in its wake. This is the most perilous part of any hunt, for tubs are wily beasts and will do everything within their power to shake a hunting vessel short of turning upon them and dashing them into matchsticks—though such things are not unheard of.

Grasping the grab rail, I exchanged places with Randolph and Lukowitz at the prow. Behind me, the crew started taking in the tow-lines, drawing us ever closer to our prey, which was leading us right into the heart of the flood. This presents its own dangers, for while a tub may be docile when undisturbed, it is also almost wholly ignorant of its surroundings and will quite happily plough into an inflated balloon without a second thought, requiring expert manoeuvring and a cool head on the part of the pilot.

As mentioned, I am not a master lancer by any stretch of the imagination, but over the years I have developed several techniques to make up for my shortcomings. As we drew close, I couched my lance beneath my armpit, bracing it with the length of my forearm, trusting my crew to keep the Tasciovanus steady. This technique requires close proximity to the target—and as such should not be attempted by a green crew—but when executed properly, it ensures no damage befalls the tub when applying a plug. With a few minute adjustments, I succeeded in seating the plug in its hole. With a twist of my wrist, I detached the plug from my lance, leaving it behind. The tub shuddered, slowing in its flight until it was stationary, hovering in the air like a bird of prey scouring the brush for a mouse. Then its buoyancy faded too, descending through the sky until it was held aloft by the tow-lines alone, dangling from the bottom of the boat like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

The crew cheered and embarked upon the tricky process of lashing the tub to the underside of the Tasciovanus.

I readied another plug on the end of my lance, scanning the flood for our next catch—the hunt had only just begun.