Veracity (28 page)

The mainmast had given way at its lower third, and some of its rigging still drooped sadly from its remains. Of that rigging, we could see that most of the stays and cables had stretched, frayed, or completely snapped, while the bolts and clamps that had once strengthened them, had been stripped, bent, and sheared. The damage was stunning. Eventually, as if with a serious weight, our heads sunk back down to the deck, and we continued walking through the rest of the spoils. Yet, after we'd toured the whole ship and seen the long list of destruction first hand, I was amazed to see that there wasn't an all-out panic spreading throughout the crew, and I was incredibly thankful for this, as I wouldn't really have known what to do with it if there was.

I remember Toivo picking up a piece of cable that wasn't attached to anything and throwing it overboard. We all looked at him, awakening from our stricken trance. I was happy he started it; it was time to begin cleaning up whatever we could. Dana and I had talked a lot about what to do in complex situations that involved several problems. He'd repetitively taught me that the best thing to do was to take one problem at a time, systematically, from the most urgent to the least; so as was natural enough, we started with the water in the hull.

It was an enormous job, and we took shifts manning the only pump that we had while everyone else gathered every bucket we could find and formed a human chain up the stairs to bail the water out manually. Some of the crew, like Toivo, and Aimil, whose blood-caked face had been cleaned and bandaged, worked much harder than the others, so I called on Onni, who had done very little, to clean the galley and reorganize it, and also to prepare us some food in it once he'd finished.

The grain must have been one of the last things that he checked and reorganized, because we'd almost finished with the water, chasing it into corners and scraping the buckets along the floor, when Onni stepped into the gangway with the news. "The grain is ruined," he stated flatly. We stopped to look at him as he held out some of the starchy seeds as evidence. It was wet, and seeing as it was obviously out of the question to spread it out and dry it under the grey and drizzly skies, and knowing that it was extremely susceptible to going off in the first place, it seemed that he was right: we'd have to throw it away. "But that's not all," he continued, once we'd absorbed the first blow, "There's lots of other stuff that the water's gotten into as well." Then he turned away from us and walked up the stairs, stepping to the rail and dropping the handful of grain into the sea, brushing his palms clean afterward.

The panic, that had until that moment been absent, or was at least being kept at bay, began to surface in the form of people swearing to themselves under their breath. Mikkel smoothly interjected before it could escalate much further though, and as he spoke, I couldn't believe how buoyant his tone was, almost as if he were having fun with the news. "It shouldn't be too much of a problem. We can live for ages on fish alone. Besides," he nudged Aimil to get his attention and nodded jokingly toward Onni, who was coming back down the stairs, "it saves us from having to eat that grainy slop he makes." He smiled and winked at Onni, who gave an embarrassed simper, while the rest of us broke into forced snickering. The grain, which made up about two-thirds of our diet, was gone, which, all things considered, wasn't really much to laugh about. I searched through the expressions of the crew for signs of genuine worry, and noticed that they were there. I also noticed a strange look on Toivo's face, and hoped it wasn't because he'd thrown away some of the fish we'd caught.

"Aimil, we still have the two fish that you and Niels caught yesterday, right?" I asked.

"Mm-hmm" he affirmed, looking even sillier than usual with the massive white bandage slashed across his face.

"And that's what I cooked," said Onni, "But besides those fish and a few spices, there isn't much we can use."

"I see. Well... let's check everything again just to make sure. Knut and Niels, go with Onni and help him out with that, and Toivo, Aimil, and Solmund, you go and rig some fishing lines. I imagine we'll have to keep them rigged from now on to feed eight people without the grain. Meanwhile, Mikkel and I will finish up with the water here. We'll meet in the galley once we're all finished, okay?"

I noticed that they all dispersed a little reluctantly, which I didn't like. I wondered if I was going to have to remind them that I was still the captain, even though Mikkel had taken over for a bit during the storm. I thought about mentioning this to Mikkel while we were alone, but he'd quickly leaned in and started whispering about things that were much more pressing than the wavering line between captain and first mate, which only made me feel stupid, again.

"How far will the engine take us?" he asked. I could barely hear him his voice was so low.

"What do you...? Mikkel, we can't use the engine. It's only for getting us into port, and who knows what other kind of manoeuvring we'll have to do once we reach land. Remember: the bay we're heading to is supposed to be incredibly sheltered - meaning no wind well out to sea. And it's not like we can expect to use it now, and then again later; it isn't exactly the most reliable machine. Mitra warned me that we'd probably only be able to start it once. I mean - the fuel inside the tanks is ancient, stale, and we've had to add a lot of distilled alcohol just to improve the chances of it working. And besides all of that,
and
the fact that we'll be running on what is most likely the only refined fuel we'll ever come across in our lives, the tank is only an eighth full."

"And...?" he persisted, becoming impatient, "How far exactly will that amount take us?" I gave him a look that illustrated how ridiculous I thought he was being. He continued, "Look, you're the only person on this ship that has a working knowledge of the engine. So... answer me, please. Do you know how far we can get with it, or not?"

"I have no idea." I too, was becoming impatient. "Maybe half a day... a day. I don't really know. Why?"

"
Because
...' he shook his head at me, amazed, "because, as you saw with your own eyes, the only thing left to propel the ship is a foremast with no rigging. If we can't figure out a way to raise a sail, we'll have to dash to land in whatever way we can. That seems clear, no?"

I sighed. "Well... yeah. Look, let's just talk about this later, okay?" I turned and walked away from him. What I wanted was hours of time to think things through. Everything was happening so fast, and it's always been the same for me: absorbing events is one thing, but knowing how to react to them is quite another. I decided to go check on the grain with everyone else - as if that were needed.

The galley door had burst open during the night, which wasn't really much of a surprise, as the entire structure of the ship had been heaving like the rib cage of a monstrous animal, only with the added dynamic of having water inside the ship as well, pounding against the already flexing doors. I could see that once the water had broken into the room, it quickly found the worst things to get into, and almost anything of any kind of importance was sodden, spilled, diluted, or displaced. It was a mess, but I was happy to see that Onni was actually doing a fairly good job with cleaning it up and reordering it. After I'd looked around a bit, Knut and Niels called me over to show me that the grain was, in fact, genuinely ruined, both of them reaching into the bin and squishing fistfuls of the creamy mass until it oozed through their fingers. So Onni was right; we would have to depend exclusively on fish for the rest of our time at sea, which, all things considered, wasn't all that bad, it only meant that we'd have to spend more time fishing. And lucky for us, time was something we had.

Onni had finally finished cooking and called everyone in to eat. He'd used the grain for the last time, and had managed to concoct some kind of rank, slimy, fish smelling mush with it. After looking into the pot, I wished he'd just been wasteful and spared us the resourceful notion. Toivo, Aimil, and Solmund were the last to come into the galley to eat, and I noticed as soon as they entered that the strange expression Toivo had flashed before seemed to have spread to the other two as well, and I was watching them closely, suspiciously. They all stood in front of the table, waiting for someone to ask them what was wrong, which no one seemed very eager to do, so they were forced to begin on their own.

"Mikkel," Toivo spoke slowly, looking for elegant words for cumbersome news. I felt a pang of irritation that he chose to speak to Mikkel instead of myself, "uh..."

"What is it, guys?" Mikkel asked, "Come on. Let's have it."

"Uh..." he looked at me for a moment, and then at someone else, and then at the floor, "the fishing box is gone."

The room inhaled, waiting for more information. None came.

"Hmmm," Mikkel droned. He acted as if this statement were a poisonous dart that had struck him, and he leaned back slowly, his posture rigid, until he was resting against the wall, thinking toward the ceiling.

I, however, was not quite as calm. "What do you mean exactly by 'gone'? I... I don't really understand that sentence. Do you mean 'not on the ship', or 'not where it
should
be on the ship'? You must mean 'not where it should be on the ship', because I can't imagine the fishing box unlatching the door to the storage room, hiking up the stairs during the night, and pitching itself over the rail in a fit of desperation. Can you? Can any of you imagine that?" My eyes examined each of their faces for answers. Toivo cowered, busy with the task of surveying his feet. At least I knew who hadn't put the fishing box away when he'd been asked.

Aimil spoke softy, his words unarticulated, probably because of the pain smarting across his face, which he still hadn't complained about in the least. "I don't think it was put in the storage room before the storm. I'm pretty sure I remember seeing it on deck."

The room exhaled. My arms were crossed on the table, which made a perfect place for my forehead to land in total frustration. There was silence for quite some time, interrupted by people sighing loudly, the boat creaking. Finally, Mikkel broke the spell. "Well... let's eat," he said, bouncily, "And while we do that, why don't we throw around a few ideas of what to do." His tone was light, as if asking us to join him in thinking about what might be a suitable garnish for our next meal. I looked up at him from my arms, completely appalled; how dare he be so calm.

Mikkel dished some slop onto his plate and began to curiously pick through it with his spoon, his gestures delicate. The crew followed his lead, albeit nervously, as if they were sitting in the company of a madman who might lash out at any given moment. But we weren't sitting with a madman, and for my part, I wasn't nearly as intimidated by Mikkel's actions as I was fascinated by them. I actually couldn't wait to see how he planned on pulling this off. Did he really think he could retain this collected air of his, all while fumbling to compensate for the ever-increasing weight on the other side of our scale? I didn't think so.

Of course the food was vile, but no one could say a word to that effect. Instead, we fought to swallow it down, sometimes leaning forward over the table as we did so, gulping mouthfuls of water to wash it down. Onni was the only one who had a quiet smile on his face, as if, with the worst possible sense of timing and humour, he'd purposefully made the food disgusting, and was relishing in our having to eat it without complaint. But I doubt that was the case.

When we'd finished eating, Mikkel leaned back and put his utensil down carefully beside his plate to speak. We all stopped what we were doing and listened like leaves. "Solmund, I bet you have something figured out for us - or at least a couple ideas?" Knut, who was sitting opposite me, snickered and shook his head. Solmund tried to ignore him.

"Well," he began hesitantly, leaning in and casting one more look in Knut's direction before speaking, "I don't think that Toivo ever actually
said
that everything was gone, but it is. It's all gone. We have no rods, reels, hooks, lures or line." He leaned back, put his hands on the table, and looked into them as he spoke. "But as far as I can see, our biggest problem is the line. We can bend the safety pins in the first aid kit into hooks, though they won't be barbed so won't be nearly as reliable. And we can us this," he fingered some fish that he'd managed to pick out of the slop, and which he'd gathered into a neat little pile on his plate, "as bait, and we shouldn't need rods if we only jig off the side of the boat. But the line... the line, I don't really know."

This was good; in fact this was very good. With all of the nodding and murmurs of praise, I thought that Solmund might have redeemed himself in some way. Niels even patted him on the knee, smiling. These were great ideas; but as it was, we needed more than that, and we all sat looking around the room, trying to think of what we could use in place of a fishing line.

Toivo, who had spent the brainstorm narrowing his eyes and wearing his customary expression of total confusion, began slowly, "Couldn't we use strands from the torn sail."

Our eyebrows lifted, and we all turned to look at Solmund, who seemed a bit doubtful. He shrugged. "Maybe. But I already thought of that. Because one thread wouldn't be strong enough, we'd have to braid a few of the threads together, and as they're thick and white, it would make for a pretty visible line, which would probably stop the fish from biting in the first place. But who knows, it
might
work. And it might also be the only option."

Knut sighed a deep sigh, apparently not very satisfied with Solmund's first stint of usefulness. I shook my head at him, glared. Yet, there was nothing surprising about this; after all, the scope of pettiness, its astonishing reach, is unbounded inside the social setting of our kind. It can pry its niggling tentacles into every facet of our lives, even the most important, most crucial moments aren't sacred; nothing that we do can ever be completely exempt from its careful attention, its dissecting instruments, poking, prodding, hunting for some insignificant tissue to attach significance to. I honestly believe that pettiness is the greatest social crime, which we all, unfortunately, have the tendency to commit; and how maddening it is that this complete attention that we give to trivialities, which should be below everyone, is really above no one.