stubb(orn!)

second mate on the pequod. pipe lover. wannabe broadway star and making it everyone else's problem 🎶

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

[OOC]

alr intro post lets GO!!

— RP blog

— moby dick has a load of them for some reason but no stubb so i thought it would be only fair to throw him in

— especially to get on all the other rp blogs's's's nerves

— stubb does some pretty NOT cool things at certain points in the book that i dont defend or condone in the slightest. i dont want to do that. im here to be annoying, NOT an awful person <3

— here for silliness and only silliness

— mod is a minor! please keep that in mind

— uk timezone

— ooc she/they, ic any prns (primarily he/him)

— PLEASE interact!! i dont bite

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

The stranger turned to look at Stubb a little too fast. "It was a whaler, yes."

There was a pause. "With thirty-two men. Was."

He looked like he was about to start crying again. For some odd reason he didn't. He hadn't noticed the others arriving. Someone offered him food, he ate a little.

Starbuck got the details from someone that had been in the inn for the whole night. Suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea. Ishmael looked at him with disbelief when he downed two in one go and fidgeted with his cross trying to understand what had happened. Fate chose someone else. That's their Ishmael, he thought. They said there was a sail in the horizon just before we met... It.

"And it's got a lot to do with a whale," the stranger continued. He felt too distanced from the whole thing. He thought that he could've stayed here, somehow. Never, ever step on a boat of any kind ever again.

Starbuck had gone so pale that Queequeg stood closer to him just in case he'd actually pass out.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“Is it your first time out?” There was a sense of morbid fascination in Stubb’s tone. That, an attempt at comforting the poor young man, and deja vu.

(Moby Dick was just a great big whale, it couldn't have been it, surely! Any thought of him, of it, was just the lasting paranoia of Captain Ahab refusing to just die.)

The first mate glanced 'round the inn as he spoke, finally noticing the returning faces of his crewmates. He raised his eyebrows at Flask, who shrugged in return. “Can’t imagine a worse thing t’happen.” He patted the young man's shoulder. (Was it too forward to make a business offer? They were short of men on the Pequod, and the kid might want passage home. Perhaps his brother-in-law would applaud him for the forward thinking.)

“Wasn’t a specific whale, was it?”

[mister-starbuck]

"Not a first time out, no.. first and last on whaler, yes," the man continued. He hadn't noticed how the curious others kept quiet and waited for him to continue. "Or not if I want home from here."

"Spesific whale? Why would you ask, sir.. well," he started. "You're gonna think I'm a little mad but I swear on my soul this won't be a lie."

Starbuck had a bad feeling from the man's tale already. Now it got worse. I know what happened, he thought. I know. I just don't want to think of it. He saw how Ishmael stared at the man with a little too wide eyes, a little too aghast look. He knows, too, Starbuck thought. Has Fedallah told him that it's him that was going to survive?

"Well, it happened fast. I wasn't on the ship when it happened, I was rowing.. we.. It's.. well," The man took a drink, calmed himself down for a while. "They said it could happen and then I was there, holding onto the oar and watching as it happened. The ship was here, then it wasn't. The boats were there, then they weren't. It seemed to know what it was doing."

Starbuck thought of the coin that had turned around on its own. Fate had wanted thirty-two dead and a sunken ship. The coin had been thrown for someone else. He felt guilty, knew that there was no sensible reason for it.

The man looked around himself. "The whale was white."

Queequeg had thought that Starbuck was the one that looked like he was about to pass out and had looked at him to be able to catch him. He didn't notice Ishmael swaying during the tale, only realized him beginning to collapse on his side.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael could feel his throat clamping up within him, tightening almost painfully as if there was something caught there. A sob, perhaps. He could feel the tell-tale squeeze of incoming tears in his quickly flushing nose, and the corners of his eyes began to prick with tears.

He was trying something awful to fight the blur of fear in his sinking chest, having begun to wobble on his feet.

Fedallah had been right. Moby Dick had taken a ship, and there was only one survivor. But it hadn't been him. Had he avoided it? Had some other poor ship been in the wrong place at the wrong time and taken the Pequod’s prophecy?

Was he looking at himself, maybe? Was it truly a mirror that sat there at the bar, rather than a different person, and every member of his crew that stood around him were hallucinations of the brain after swallowing too much salt water?

It couldn't be— when those men had died, the ones that they'd dumped and hidden, it had been very real. Their blood, their cries of pain, the anguish in their eyes— it had been very, very real. Ishmael was a creative man, yes, but he certainly couldn't make all that up himself. Not the gore that had left them when they'd been cut down.

He also found comfort in the solid, warm, breathing form he'd fallen into— oh, goodness! When did he fall? Ishmael wasn't sure. But he knew he'd been standing upright a moment ago, and was particularly aware that he wasn't standing upright now.

Either way, he now seemed to be looking into the very much alive face of his dear husband. Surely his mind was not cruel enough to conjure up the image or feel of Queequeg by itself!

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck saw Ishmael collapsing and knew that he'd truly got the meaning. He himself felt too creeped out to really do anything. He knew that he could've offered the man a job and trying getting him closer to home.

That wasn't what he really got stuck on with his thoughts. He'd known on intuition what that whale was capable of. He'd had a bad feeling of the whole thing. And now someone else hadn't listened to theirs and got the entire ship sunk because of that.

Queequeg placed Ishmael sitting down and held him against him.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael found himself taking in very deep breaths, as if he'd been choking on water and was now desperate for fresh air to fill his lungs and carry him back to reality.

He twisted his fingers into Queequeg’s, squeezing the other’s hand tight enough to know he wasn't making it up. Eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, he fought off the urge to curl into a ball and hyperventilate. He could do that when he'd found somewhere warm, darm and safe to bury himself within. Not here. He'd look mad.

“It was the White Whale.” He whispered, just loud enough to hear. “It was our White Whale.” Ishmael daren’t utter the name, lest it jinxed them again.

[mister-starbuck]

"It was," Starbuck confirmed. He whispered something along the lines of 'God keep us all', which he usually said in distress.

"Your white whale?" the sailor repeated, he'd looked at Ishmael when he'd blacked out for a bit. "It's.. I don't think that's doable. It's death."

"I know," Starbuck said, he saw how the man understood what he meant. I know that all too well. What in God's name is going on here? I thought we were safe, and.. It attacked some other ship, no doubt after being attacked first. He thought of the thing that Fedallah had said a good while ago.

'It's the right of every living being to defend itself.'

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb crossed his arms. It seemed to him that the damned white whale would haunt them forever. And ever. And ever!

Ishmael’s head spun a little. This way and that, re-registering where he was again. Of course he knew— he was sitting beside Queequeg in an inn on an island, having survived a prophecy that had seemingly struck another poor man.

But for a moment— for a moment, he'd thought himself to be back in his schoolhouse, rambling on and on to small children about history and literature and whatever else It had been he taught, because it felt like a lifetime ago now. For that moment it seemed that all the drunken sailors surrounding him were naught more than boys! Boys who'd gone away to sea far too young, and risked far too much for it. Boys who hadn't a childhood on land to speak of, because the waves had watched them grow more than their families ever had.

Of course, that was all crap. These men were whalers. Professionals. Who killed creatures of great beauty for a bit of coin.

“It came for us.” Ishmael muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.

[mister-starbuck]

"It didn't," Starbuck lied. "If it would have, we would be dead."

He thought of the utter sense of doom he'd got from the encounter. Sometimes that hint of knowledge was wise to be listened.

The sailor listened and realized that those others had met this thing, too. He wondered why they weren't gone. He wondered for a lift home, it seemed like they had no fancy of hunting anything any time soon. Or at least not that one. It was the Devil, he thought. A child of a God older than the kinds of men.

"I doubt it will attack anyone if it's not attacked first," Starbuck reasoned. Every sense he had said tried confirming him of the opposite. I doubt it wants nothing with our kind. It just wants to live its whale's life in peace.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb sighed.

He didn't want to take away from the situation, not at all. The poor, drenched fellow had gone through a lot— but it was really bringing the atmosphere down. He considered Starbuck's words; was the whole reason that damned white whale after them Ahab? Did it come for their ship because it saw his ghost, which apparently wouldn't leave them be?

Would Moby Dick follow them so long as Captain Ahab did, intent on revenge on a dead man? —Course not! That was the kind of thinking that led Ahab to madness in the first place.

“Say, where abouts did your ship sail out from?” He asked, the cogs apparently turning in the first mate's head. Massachusetts was the whaling capital of all the world— New Bedford and Nantucket especially. What were the chances this man was also from their way?

What were the chances he wanted passage home?

[mister-starbuck]

"Ireland, but I wouldn't like to return, sir," the man answered vaguely. The drinks had got to his head. He looked at the food that someone had given him like someone could've taken it away at any moment. He would defend his meal with any sharp object he'd had. The fear wasn't so irrational, after all. They sound American, he thought. There was some talk of an American ship arriving today. I could just take the flight. Take the risk and if they ever get home, try for a merchant ship. Anything else. There's hardly livelihood for me here.

Starbuck had thought quite much of the paper with that invocation of 'the behemoth of the seas' that had catched fire on it's own during Ahab's funeral preparations. He thought of resigning again. A haunted ship, a whale perhaps not of secular origin, murders, mutinies.. it was a mess. The whole situation had been a mess to begin with, a grande mess, but somehow this was still mess, amplified.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

As soon as one door closed, another one opened. Poor fellow wasn't from anywhere near them, but he didn't want to go back. Stubb decided he could still make an offer, if he played his cards.. right enough, at least.

“Long way from here.” He hummed.

He should've guessed Ireland based on the accent, but the night wasn't quite so young anymore, and Stubb was a few pints in by now to not register particulars of people's voices quite so much.

They needed to catch more whales if they were going to get any money out of this voyage. If they were going to get anything at all, minus a confirmation in a world much greater than humanity and a couple of near-death experiences out of the voyage. Hell, coin was the only reason half the crew were even doing what they did! It was an ever-present force in Mister Flask’s head, he knew that much.

“You need work, lad? Passage? Doubt you'd want to spend the rest of your days here, nice as it is. It's just a rest-stop for us.”

(To be fair, the sailor couldn't be blamed if he did want to peacefully live out the rest of his days here. Nice. Safe enough. Somewhere he wouldn't be hunted by a great big whale.)

[mister-starbuck]

"Thank you, sir," the man said. Then he looked towards the ocean and crossed himself, drank what he had left. He wanted out of here and he didn't want to leave. "I'll consider it. Might be for the best to sleep on it. When are you leaving?"

Starbuck had got the things connected in his mind. They were shortstaffed. There was a sailor that was out of work. It had taken his business sense longer than usual to awaken but he blamed it on the story he'd just been told.

"In a week," Starbuck replied. He knew he had started to do the same thing that Ahab had done, observing first and intervening later. He didn't feel too good about that notice. "When we've got the food, water and some repairs sorted."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb’s eyes lit up gleefully when Starbuck joined the conversation. It meant he could get away with it. It meant Nathaniel Starbuck, the good, devout Quaker that he was, was allowing him to try and capitalise on the other sailor’s disaster.

Granted, the Pequod had its own disaster, so it was mutually beneficial, but contracting a traumatized man to work on your whaling boat being followed by a great beast right after his own had been destroyed by the very same creature was a bit.. extreme? Intense? Cruel?

Inconsiderate, at least.

Still. They had no time for consideration, if they were going to be practical. They needed men, they needed money, and they needed to get going.

“What he said.” Stubb agreed, gesturing to Starbuck. “This is our Fir—” No, that wasn't right, was it? But then again, the actual title felt wrong coming out of his mouth.

“This is our.. Acting Captain.” He settled on instead. It was true, surely? True enough? He didn't know, he'd never been on a boat quite like the Pequod before.

[mister-starbuck]

The sailor jumped to the thing it implied. He was truly sloshed but there was something odd going on here. First mate, now Acting Captain. "Where's the actual Captain?"

"He died," Starbuck replied without blinking. Years of lying to going to Bible Reading Club when he was actually sneaking out to see Mary had made him an incredible liar. It came in handy from time to time. Sometimes lies saved lives.

Ishmael took a quiet look at him. I've been told by a mouse that you killed him out of mercy. Strangled him like the Hangman would. And now you're saing he just died? To a good little Christian he lies a little too easily. That was all too subtle. Way too subtle.

"And to be the actual Captain the shipowners would need to promote me, which they cannot do, because I sent them the letter of my predecessor's passing half an hour ago," Starbuck said. He kept his tone of voice in check. Nothing implied anything else than perhaps an accident. It was common enough, right? Old men die on sea all the time. Don't worry of it.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“We’ve been out for a long time. Incidents an’ the like.” Stubb added, probably unhelpfully. “We’re needin’ some more hands on deck, if you're looking.”

There were unsaid words, naturally, that hung in the air. It wasn't just the captain that had died. It was more than just him, because why else would they need more men? Something had killed them.

“Sailed out from Nantucket in..” He must've drunk an awful lot already, because the man seemed to have lost track of time. That, or all the sunrises he saw, thinking about that girl back home, had melded together. Wouldn't be surprised if it was either.

“How long’s it been exactly? Three years? Four? Three, right?” He glanced at Starbuck, eyebrows furrowed. Stubb was certain it was three. Then again, time seemed to pass different at sea. “I’m a Cape Cod man myself.”

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

The stranger turned to look at Stubb a little too fast. "It was a whaler, yes."

There was a pause. "With thirty-two men. Was."

He looked like he was about to start crying again. For some odd reason he didn't. He hadn't noticed the others arriving. Someone offered him food, he ate a little.

Starbuck got the details from someone that had been in the inn for the whole night. Suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea. Ishmael looked at him with disbelief when he downed two in one go and fidgeted with his cross trying to understand what had happened. Fate chose someone else. That's their Ishmael, he thought. They said there was a sail in the horizon just before we met... It.

"And it's got a lot to do with a whale," the stranger continued. He felt too distanced from the whole thing. He thought that he could've stayed here, somehow. Never, ever step on a boat of any kind ever again.

Starbuck had gone so pale that Queequeg stood closer to him just in case he'd actually pass out.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“Is it your first time out?” There was a sense of morbid fascination in Stubb’s tone. That, an attempt at comforting the poor young man, and deja vu.

(Moby Dick was just a great big whale, it couldn't have been it, surely! Any thought of him, of it, was just the lasting paranoia of Captain Ahab refusing to just die.)

The first mate glanced 'round the inn as he spoke, finally noticing the returning faces of his crewmates. He raised his eyebrows at Flask, who shrugged in return. “Can’t imagine a worse thing t’happen.” He patted the young man's shoulder. (Was it too forward to make a business offer? They were short of men on the Pequod, and the kid might want passage home. Perhaps his brother-in-law would applaud him for the forward thinking.)

“Wasn’t a specific whale, was it?”

[mister-starbuck]

"Not a first time out, no.. first and last on whaler, yes," the man continued. He hadn't noticed how the curious others kept quiet and waited for him to continue. "Or not if I want home from here."

"Spesific whale? Why would you ask, sir.. well," he started. "You're gonna think I'm a little mad but I swear on my soul this won't be a lie."

Starbuck had a bad feeling from the man's tale already. Now it got worse. I know what happened, he thought. I know. I just don't want to think of it. He saw how Ishmael stared at the man with a little too wide eyes, a little too aghast look. He knows, too, Starbuck thought. Has Fedallah told him that it's him that was going to survive?

"Well, it happened fast. I wasn't on the ship when it happened, I was rowing.. we.. It's.. well," The man took a drink, calmed himself down for a while. "They said it could happen and then I was there, holding onto the oar and watching as it happened. The ship was here, then it wasn't. The boats were there, then they weren't. It seemed to know what it was doing."

Starbuck thought of the coin that had turned around on its own. Fate had wanted thirty-two dead and a sunken ship. The coin had been thrown for someone else. He felt guilty, knew that there was no sensible reason for it.

The man looked around himself. "The whale was white."

Queequeg had thought that Starbuck was the one that looked like he was about to pass out and had looked at him to be able to catch him. He didn't notice Ishmael swaying during the tale, only realized him beginning to collapse on his side.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael could feel his throat clamping up within him, tightening almost painfully as if there was something caught there. A sob, perhaps. He could feel the tell-tale squeeze of incoming tears in his quickly flushing nose, and the corners of his eyes began to prick with tears.

He was trying something awful to fight the blur of fear in his sinking chest, having begun to wobble on his feet.

Fedallah had been right. Moby Dick had taken a ship, and there was only one survivor. But it hadn't been him. Had he avoided it? Had some other poor ship been in the wrong place at the wrong time and taken the Pequod’s prophecy?

Was he looking at himself, maybe? Was it truly a mirror that sat there at the bar, rather than a different person, and every member of his crew that stood around him were hallucinations of the brain after swallowing too much salt water?

It couldn't be— when those men had died, the ones that they'd dumped and hidden, it had been very real. Their blood, their cries of pain, the anguish in their eyes— it had been very, very real. Ishmael was a creative man, yes, but he certainly couldn't make all that up himself. Not the gore that had left them when they'd been cut down.

He also found comfort in the solid, warm, breathing form he'd fallen into— oh, goodness! When did he fall? Ishmael wasn't sure. But he knew he'd been standing upright a moment ago, and was particularly aware that he wasn't standing upright now.

Either way, he now seemed to be looking into the very much alive face of his dear husband. Surely his mind was not cruel enough to conjure up the image or feel of Queequeg by itself!

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck saw Ishmael collapsing and knew that he'd truly got the meaning. He himself felt too creeped out to really do anything. He knew that he could've offered the man a job and trying getting him closer to home.

That wasn't what he really got stuck on with his thoughts. He'd known on intuition what that whale was capable of. He'd had a bad feeling of the whole thing. And now someone else hadn't listened to theirs and got the entire ship sunk because of that.

Queequeg placed Ishmael sitting down and held him against him.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael found himself taking in very deep breaths, as if he'd been choking on water and was now desperate for fresh air to fill his lungs and carry him back to reality.

He twisted his fingers into Queequeg’s, squeezing the other’s hand tight enough to know he wasn't making it up. Eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, he fought off the urge to curl into a ball and hyperventilate. He could do that when he'd found somewhere warm, darm and safe to bury himself within. Not here. He'd look mad.

“It was the White Whale.” He whispered, just loud enough to hear. “It was our White Whale.” Ishmael daren’t utter the name, lest it jinxed them again.

[mister-starbuck]

"It was," Starbuck confirmed. He whispered something along the lines of 'God keep us all', which he usually said in distress.

"Your white whale?" the sailor repeated, he'd looked at Ishmael when he'd blacked out for a bit. "It's.. I don't think that's doable. It's death."

"I know," Starbuck said, he saw how the man understood what he meant. I know that all too well. What in God's name is going on here? I thought we were safe, and.. It attacked some other ship, no doubt after being attacked first. He thought of the thing that Fedallah had said a good while ago.

'It's the right of every living being to defend itself.'

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb crossed his arms. It seemed to him that the damned white whale would haunt them forever. And ever. And ever!

Ishmael’s head spun a little. This way and that, re-registering where he was again. Of course he knew— he was sitting beside Queequeg in an inn on an island, having survived a prophecy that had seemingly struck another poor man.

But for a moment— for a moment, he'd thought himself to be back in his schoolhouse, rambling on and on to small children about history and literature and whatever else It had been he taught, because it felt like a lifetime ago now. For that moment it seemed that all the drunken sailors surrounding him were naught more than boys! Boys who'd gone away to sea far too young, and risked far too much for it. Boys who hadn't a childhood on land to speak of, because the waves had watched them grow more than their families ever had.

Of course, that was all crap. These men were whalers. Professionals. Who killed creatures of great beauty for a bit of coin.

“It came for us.” Ishmael muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.

[mister-starbuck]

"It didn't," Starbuck lied. "If it would have, we would be dead."

He thought of the utter sense of doom he'd got from the encounter. Sometimes that hint of knowledge was wise to be listened.

The sailor listened and realized that those others had met this thing, too. He wondered why they weren't gone. He wondered for a lift home, it seemed like they had no fancy of hunting anything any time soon. Or at least not that one. It was the Devil, he thought. A child of a God older than the kinds of men.

"I doubt it will attack anyone if it's not attacked first," Starbuck reasoned. Every sense he had said tried confirming him of the opposite. I doubt it wants nothing with our kind. It just wants to live its whale's life in peace.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb sighed.

He didn't want to take away from the situation, not at all. The poor, drenched fellow had gone through a lot— but it was really bringing the atmosphere down. He considered Starbuck's words; was the whole reason that damned white whale after them Ahab? Did it come for their ship because it saw his ghost, which apparently wouldn't leave them be?

Would Moby Dick follow them so long as Captain Ahab did, intent on revenge on a dead man? —Course not! That was the kind of thinking that led Ahab to madness in the first place.

“Say, where abouts did your ship sail out from?” He asked, the cogs apparently turning in the first mate's head. Massachusetts was the whaling capital of all the world— New Bedford and Nantucket especially. What were the chances this man was also from their way?

What were the chances he wanted passage home?

[mister-starbuck]

"Ireland, but I wouldn't like to return, sir," the man answered vaguely. The drinks had got to his head. He looked at the food that someone had given him like someone could've taken it away at any moment. He would defend his meal with any sharp object he'd had. The fear wasn't so irrational, after all. They sound American, he thought. There was some talk of an American ship arriving today. I could just take the flight. Take the risk and if they ever get home, try for a merchant ship. Anything else. There's hardly livelihood for me here.

Starbuck had thought quite much of the paper with that invocation of 'the behemoth of the seas' that had catched fire on it's own during Ahab's funeral preparations. He thought of resigning again. A haunted ship, a whale perhaps not of secular origin, murders, mutinies.. it was a mess. The whole situation had been a mess to begin with, a grande mess, but somehow this was still mess, amplified.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

As soon as one door closed, another one opened. Poor fellow wasn't from anywhere near them, but he didn't want to go back. Stubb decided he could still make an offer, if he played his cards.. right enough, at least.

“Long way from here.” He hummed.

He should've guessed Ireland based on the accent, but the night wasn't quite so young anymore, and Stubb was a few pints in by now to not register particulars of people's voices quite so much.

They needed to catch more whales if they were going to get any money out of this voyage. If they were going to get anything at all, minus a confirmation in a world much greater than humanity and a couple of near-death experiences out of the voyage. Hell, coin was the only reason half the crew were even doing what they did! It was an ever-present force in Mister Flask’s head, he knew that much.

“You need work, lad? Passage? Doubt you'd want to spend the rest of your days here, nice as it is. It's just a rest-stop for us.”

(To be fair, the sailor couldn't be blamed if he did want to peacefully live out the rest of his days here. Nice. Safe enough. Somewhere he wouldn't be hunted by a great big whale.)

[mister-starbuck]

"Thank you, sir," the man said. Then he looked towards the ocean and crossed himself, drank what he had left. He wanted out of here and he didn't want to leave. "I'll consider it. Might be for the best to sleep on it. When are you leaving?"

Starbuck had got the things connected in his mind. They were shortstaffed. There was a sailor that was out of work. It had taken his business sense longer than usual to awaken but he blamed it on the story he'd just been told.

"In a week," Starbuck replied. He knew he had started to do the same thing that Ahab had done, observing first and intervening later. He didn't feel too good about that notice. "When we've got the food, water and some repairs sorted."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb’s eyes lit up gleefully when Starbuck joined the conversation. It meant he could get away with it. It meant Nathaniel Starbuck, the good, devout Quaker that he was, was allowing him to try and capitalise on the other sailor’s disaster.

Granted, the Pequod had its own disaster, so it was mutually beneficial, but contracting a traumatized man to work on your whaling boat being followed by a great beast right after his own had been destroyed by the very same creature was a bit.. extreme? Intense? Cruel?

Inconsiderate, at least.

Still. They had no time for consideration, if they were going to be practical. They needed men, they needed money, and they needed to get going.

“What he said.” Stubb agreed, gesturing to Starbuck. “This is our Fir—” No, that wasn't right, was it? But then again, the actual title felt wrong coming out of his mouth.

“This is our.. Acting Captain.” He settled on instead. It was true, surely? True enough? He didn't know, he'd never been on a boat quite like the Pequod before.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

The stranger turned to look at Stubb a little too fast. "It was a whaler, yes."

There was a pause. "With thirty-two men. Was."

He looked like he was about to start crying again. For some odd reason he didn't. He hadn't noticed the others arriving. Someone offered him food, he ate a little.

Starbuck got the details from someone that had been in the inn for the whole night. Suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea. Ishmael looked at him with disbelief when he downed two in one go and fidgeted with his cross trying to understand what had happened. Fate chose someone else. That's their Ishmael, he thought. They said there was a sail in the horizon just before we met... It.

"And it's got a lot to do with a whale," the stranger continued. He felt too distanced from the whole thing. He thought that he could've stayed here, somehow. Never, ever step on a boat of any kind ever again.

Starbuck had gone so pale that Queequeg stood closer to him just in case he'd actually pass out.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“Is it your first time out?” There was a sense of morbid fascination in Stubb’s tone. That, an attempt at comforting the poor young man, and deja vu.

(Moby Dick was just a great big whale, it couldn't have been it, surely! Any thought of him, of it, was just the lasting paranoia of Captain Ahab refusing to just die.)

The first mate glanced 'round the inn as he spoke, finally noticing the returning faces of his crewmates. He raised his eyebrows at Flask, who shrugged in return. “Can’t imagine a worse thing t’happen.” He patted the young man's shoulder. (Was it too forward to make a business offer? They were short of men on the Pequod, and the kid might want passage home. Perhaps his brother-in-law would applaud him for the forward thinking.)

“Wasn’t a specific whale, was it?”

[mister-starbuck]

"Not a first time out, no.. first and last on whaler, yes," the man continued. He hadn't noticed how the curious others kept quiet and waited for him to continue. "Or not if I want home from here."

"Spesific whale? Why would you ask, sir.. well," he started. "You're gonna think I'm a little mad but I swear on my soul this won't be a lie."

Starbuck had a bad feeling from the man's tale already. Now it got worse. I know what happened, he thought. I know. I just don't want to think of it. He saw how Ishmael stared at the man with a little too wide eyes, a little too aghast look. He knows, too, Starbuck thought. Has Fedallah told him that it's him that was going to survive?

"Well, it happened fast. I wasn't on the ship when it happened, I was rowing.. we.. It's.. well," The man took a drink, calmed himself down for a while. "They said it could happen and then I was there, holding onto the oar and watching as it happened. The ship was here, then it wasn't. The boats were there, then they weren't. It seemed to know what it was doing."

Starbuck thought of the coin that had turned around on its own. Fate had wanted thirty-two dead and a sunken ship. The coin had been thrown for someone else. He felt guilty, knew that there was no sensible reason for it.

The man looked around himself. "The whale was white."

Queequeg had thought that Starbuck was the one that looked like he was about to pass out and had looked at him to be able to catch him. He didn't notice Ishmael swaying during the tale, only realized him beginning to collapse on his side.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael could feel his throat clamping up within him, tightening almost painfully as if there was something caught there. A sob, perhaps. He could feel the tell-tale squeeze of incoming tears in his quickly flushing nose, and the corners of his eyes began to prick with tears.

He was trying something awful to fight the blur of fear in his sinking chest, having begun to wobble on his feet.

Fedallah had been right. Moby Dick had taken a ship, and there was only one survivor. But it hadn't been him. Had he avoided it? Had some other poor ship been in the wrong place at the wrong time and taken the Pequod’s prophecy?

Was he looking at himself, maybe? Was it truly a mirror that sat there at the bar, rather than a different person, and every member of his crew that stood around him were hallucinations of the brain after swallowing too much salt water?

It couldn't be— when those men had died, the ones that they'd dumped and hidden, it had been very real. Their blood, their cries of pain, the anguish in their eyes— it had been very, very real. Ishmael was a creative man, yes, but he certainly couldn't make all that up himself. Not the gore that had left them when they'd been cut down.

He also found comfort in the solid, warm, breathing form he'd fallen into— oh, goodness! When did he fall? Ishmael wasn't sure. But he knew he'd been standing upright a moment ago, and was particularly aware that he wasn't standing upright now.

Either way, he now seemed to be looking into the very much alive face of his dear husband. Surely his mind was not cruel enough to conjure up the image or feel of Queequeg by itself!

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck saw Ishmael collapsing and knew that he'd truly got the meaning. He himself felt too creeped out to really do anything. He knew that he could've offered the man a job and trying getting him closer to home.

That wasn't what he really got stuck on with his thoughts. He'd known on intuition what that whale was capable of. He'd had a bad feeling of the whole thing. And now someone else hadn't listened to theirs and got the entire ship sunk because of that.

Queequeg placed Ishmael sitting down and held him against him.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael found himself taking in very deep breaths, as if he'd been choking on water and was now desperate for fresh air to fill his lungs and carry him back to reality.

He twisted his fingers into Queequeg’s, squeezing the other’s hand tight enough to know he wasn't making it up. Eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, he fought off the urge to curl into a ball and hyperventilate. He could do that when he'd found somewhere warm, darm and safe to bury himself within. Not here. He'd look mad.

“It was the White Whale.” He whispered, just loud enough to hear. “It was our White Whale.” Ishmael daren’t utter the name, lest it jinxed them again.

[mister-starbuck]

"It was," Starbuck confirmed. He whispered something along the lines of 'God keep us all', which he usually said in distress.

"Your white whale?" the sailor repeated, he'd looked at Ishmael when he'd blacked out for a bit. "It's.. I don't think that's doable. It's death."

"I know," Starbuck said, he saw how the man understood what he meant. I know that all too well. What in God's name is going on here? I thought we were safe, and.. It attacked some other ship, no doubt after being attacked first. He thought of the thing that Fedallah had said a good while ago.

'It's the right of every living being to defend itself.'

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb crossed his arms. It seemed to him that the damned white whale would haunt them forever. And ever. And ever!

Ishmael’s head spun a little. This way and that, re-registering where he was again. Of course he knew— he was sitting beside Queequeg in an inn on an island, having survived a prophecy that had seemingly struck another poor man.

But for a moment— for a moment, he'd thought himself to be back in his schoolhouse, rambling on and on to small children about history and literature and whatever else It had been he taught, because it felt like a lifetime ago now. For that moment it seemed that all the drunken sailors surrounding him were naught more than boys! Boys who'd gone away to sea far too young, and risked far too much for it. Boys who hadn't a childhood on land to speak of, because the waves had watched them grow more than their families ever had.

Of course, that was all crap. These men were whalers. Professionals. Who killed creatures of great beauty for a bit of coin.

“It came for us.” Ishmael muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.

[mister-starbuck]

"It didn't," Starbuck lied. "If it would have, we would be dead."

He thought of the utter sense of doom he'd got from the encounter. Sometimes that hint of knowledge was wise to be listened.

The sailor listened and realized that those others had met this thing, too. He wondered why they weren't gone. He wondered for a lift home, it seemed like they had no fancy of hunting anything any time soon. Or at least not that one. It was the Devil, he thought. A child of a God older than the kinds of men.

"I doubt it will attack anyone if it's not attacked first," Starbuck reasoned. Every sense he had said tried confirming him of the opposite. I doubt it wants nothing with our kind. It just wants to live its whale's life in peace.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb sighed.

He didn't want to take away from the situation, not at all. The poor, drenched fellow had gone through a lot— but it was really bringing the atmosphere down. He considered Starbuck's words; was the whole reason that damned white whale after them Ahab? Did it come for their ship because it saw his ghost, which apparently wouldn't leave them be?

Would Moby Dick follow them so long as Captain Ahab did, intent on revenge on a dead man? —Course not! That was the kind of thinking that led Ahab to madness in the first place.

“Say, where abouts did your ship sail out from?” He asked, the cogs apparently turning in the first mate's head. Massachusetts was the whaling capital of all the world— New Bedford and Nantucket especially. What were the chances this man was also from their way?

What were the chances he wanted passage home?

[mister-starbuck]

"Ireland, but I wouldn't like to return, sir," the man answered vaguely. The drinks had got to his head. He looked at the food that someone had given him like someone could've taken it away at any moment. He would defend his meal with any sharp object he'd had. The fear wasn't so irrational, after all. They sound American, he thought. There was some talk of an American ship arriving today. I could just take the flight. Take the risk and if they ever get home, try for a merchant ship. Anything else. There's hardly livelihood for me here.

Starbuck had thought quite much of the paper with that invocation of 'the behemoth of the seas' that had catched fire on it's own during Ahab's funeral preparations. He thought of resigning again. A haunted ship, a whale perhaps not of secular origin, murders, mutinies.. it was a mess. The whole situation had been a mess to begin with, a grande mess, but somehow this was still mess, amplified.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

As soon as one door closed, another one opened. Poor fellow wasn't from anywhere near them, but he didn't want to go back. Stubb decided he could still make an offer, if he played his cards.. right enough, at least.

“Long way from here.” He hummed.

He should've guessed Ireland based on the accent, but the night wasn't quite so young anymore, and Stubb was a few pints in by now to not register particulars of people's voices quite so much.

They needed to catch more whales if they were going to get any money out of this voyage. If they were going to get anything at all, minus a confirmation in a world much greater than humanity and a couple of near-death experiences out of the voyage. Hell, coin was the only reason half the crew were even doing what they did! It was an ever-present force in Mister Flask’s head, he knew that much.

“You need work, lad? Passage? Doubt you'd want to spend the rest of your days here, nice as it is. It's just a rest-stop for us.”

(To be fair, the sailor couldn't be blamed if he did want to peacefully live out the rest of his days here. Nice. Safe enough. Somewhere he wouldn't be hunted by a great big whale.)

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

The stranger turned to look at Stubb a little too fast. "It was a whaler, yes."

There was a pause. "With thirty-two men. Was."

He looked like he was about to start crying again. For some odd reason he didn't. He hadn't noticed the others arriving. Someone offered him food, he ate a little.

Starbuck got the details from someone that had been in the inn for the whole night. Suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea. Ishmael looked at him with disbelief when he downed two in one go and fidgeted with his cross trying to understand what had happened. Fate chose someone else. That's their Ishmael, he thought. They said there was a sail in the horizon just before we met... It.

"And it's got a lot to do with a whale," the stranger continued. He felt too distanced from the whole thing. He thought that he could've stayed here, somehow. Never, ever step on a boat of any kind ever again.

Starbuck had gone so pale that Queequeg stood closer to him just in case he'd actually pass out.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“Is it your first time out?” There was a sense of morbid fascination in Stubb’s tone. That, an attempt at comforting the poor young man, and deja vu.

(Moby Dick was just a great big whale, it couldn't have been it, surely! Any thought of him, of it, was just the lasting paranoia of Captain Ahab refusing to just die.)

The first mate glanced 'round the inn as he spoke, finally noticing the returning faces of his crewmates. He raised his eyebrows at Flask, who shrugged in return. “Can’t imagine a worse thing t’happen.” He patted the young man's shoulder. (Was it too forward to make a business offer? They were short of men on the Pequod, and the kid might want passage home. Perhaps his brother-in-law would applaud him for the forward thinking.)

“Wasn’t a specific whale, was it?”

[mister-starbuck]

"Not a first time out, no.. first and last on whaler, yes," the man continued. He hadn't noticed how the curious others kept quiet and waited for him to continue. "Or not if I want home from here."

"Spesific whale? Why would you ask, sir.. well," he started. "You're gonna think I'm a little mad but I swear on my soul this won't be a lie."

Starbuck had a bad feeling from the man's tale already. Now it got worse. I know what happened, he thought. I know. I just don't want to think of it. He saw how Ishmael stared at the man with a little too wide eyes, a little too aghast look. He knows, too, Starbuck thought. Has Fedallah told him that it's him that was going to survive?

"Well, it happened fast. I wasn't on the ship when it happened, I was rowing.. we.. It's.. well," The man took a drink, calmed himself down for a while. "They said it could happen and then I was there, holding onto the oar and watching as it happened. The ship was here, then it wasn't. The boats were there, then they weren't. It seemed to know what it was doing."

Starbuck thought of the coin that had turned around on its own. Fate had wanted thirty-two dead and a sunken ship. The coin had been thrown for someone else. He felt guilty, knew that there was no sensible reason for it.

The man looked around himself. "The whale was white."

Queequeg had thought that Starbuck was the one that looked like he was about to pass out and had looked at him to be able to catch him. He didn't notice Ishmael swaying during the tale, only realized him beginning to collapse on his side.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael could feel his throat clamping up within him, tightening almost painfully as if there was something caught there. A sob, perhaps. He could feel the tell-tale squeeze of incoming tears in his quickly flushing nose, and the corners of his eyes began to prick with tears.

He was trying something awful to fight the blur of fear in his sinking chest, having begun to wobble on his feet.

Fedallah had been right. Moby Dick had taken a ship, and there was only one survivor. But it hadn't been him. Had he avoided it? Had some other poor ship been in the wrong place at the wrong time and taken the Pequod’s prophecy?

Was he looking at himself, maybe? Was it truly a mirror that sat there at the bar, rather than a different person, and every member of his crew that stood around him were hallucinations of the brain after swallowing too much salt water?

It couldn't be— when those men had died, the ones that they'd dumped and hidden, it had been very real. Their blood, their cries of pain, the anguish in their eyes— it had been very, very real. Ishmael was a creative man, yes, but he certainly couldn't make all that up himself. Not the gore that had left them when they'd been cut down.

He also found comfort in the solid, warm, breathing form he'd fallen into— oh, goodness! When did he fall? Ishmael wasn't sure. But he knew he'd been standing upright a moment ago, and was particularly aware that he wasn't standing upright now.

Either way, he now seemed to be looking into the very much alive face of his dear husband. Surely his mind was not cruel enough to conjure up the image or feel of Queequeg by itself!

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck saw Ishmael collapsing and knew that he'd truly got the meaning. He himself felt too creeped out to really do anything. He knew that he could've offered the man a job and trying getting him closer to home.

That wasn't what he really got stuck on with his thoughts. He'd known on intuition what that whale was capable of. He'd had a bad feeling of the whole thing. And now someone else hadn't listened to theirs and got the entire ship sunk because of that.

Queequeg placed Ishmael sitting down and held him against him.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael found himself taking in very deep breaths, as if he'd been choking on water and was now desperate for fresh air to fill his lungs and carry him back to reality.

He twisted his fingers into Queequeg’s, squeezing the other’s hand tight enough to know he wasn't making it up. Eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, he fought off the urge to curl into a ball and hyperventilate. He could do that when he'd found somewhere warm, darm and safe to bury himself within. Not here. He'd look mad.

“It was the White Whale.” He whispered, just loud enough to hear. “It was our White Whale.” Ishmael daren’t utter the name, lest it jinxed them again.

[mister-starbuck]

"It was," Starbuck confirmed. He whispered something along the lines of 'God keep us all', which he usually said in distress.

"Your white whale?" the sailor repeated, he'd looked at Ishmael when he'd blacked out for a bit. "It's.. I don't think that's doable. It's death."

"I know," Starbuck said, he saw how the man understood what he meant. I know that all too well. What in God's name is going on here? I thought we were safe, and.. It attacked some other ship, no doubt after being attacked first. He thought of the thing that Fedallah had said a good while ago.

'It's the right of every living being to defend itself.'

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb crossed his arms. It seemed to him that the damned white whale would haunt them forever. And ever. And ever!

Ishmael’s head spun a little. This way and that, re-registering where he was again. Of course he knew— he was sitting beside Queequeg in an inn on an island, having survived a prophecy that had seemingly struck another poor man.

But for a moment— for a moment, he'd thought himself to be back in his schoolhouse, rambling on and on to small children about history and literature and whatever else It had been he taught, because it felt like a lifetime ago now. For that moment it seemed that all the drunken sailors surrounding him were naught more than boys! Boys who'd gone away to sea far too young, and risked far too much for it. Boys who hadn't a childhood on land to speak of, because the waves had watched them grow more than their families ever had.

Of course, that was all crap. These men were whalers. Professionals. Who killed creatures of great beauty for a bit of coin.

“It came for us.” Ishmael muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.

[mister-starbuck]

"It didn't," Starbuck lied. "If it would have, we would be dead."

He thought of the utter sense of doom he'd got from the encounter. Sometimes that hint of knowledge was wise to be listened.

The sailor listened and realized that those others had met this thing, too. He wondered why they weren't gone. He wondered for a lift home, it seemed like they had no fancy of hunting anything any time soon. Or at least not that one. It was the Devil, he thought. A child of a God older than the kinds of men.

"I doubt it will attack anyone if it's not attacked first," Starbuck reasoned. Every sense he had said tried confirming him of the opposite. I doubt it wants nothing with our kind. It just wants to live its whale's life in peace.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb sighed.

He didn't want to take away from the situation, not at all. The poor, drenched fellow had gone through a lot— but it was really bringing the atmosphere down. He considered Starbuck's words; was the whole reason that damned white whale after them Ahab? Did it come for their ship because it saw his ghost, which apparently wouldn't leave them be?

Would Moby Dick follow them so long as Captain Ahab did, intent on revenge on a dead man? —Course not! That was the kind of thinking that led Ahab to madness in the first place.

“Say, where abouts did your ship sail out from?” He asked, the cogs apparently turning in the first mate's head. Massachusetts was the whaling capital of all the world— New Bedford and Nantucket especially. What were the chances this man was also from their way?

What were the chances he wanted passage home?

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

The stranger turned to look at Stubb a little too fast. "It was a whaler, yes."

There was a pause. "With thirty-two men. Was."

He looked like he was about to start crying again. For some odd reason he didn't. He hadn't noticed the others arriving. Someone offered him food, he ate a little.

Starbuck got the details from someone that had been in the inn for the whole night. Suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea. Ishmael looked at him with disbelief when he downed two in one go and fidgeted with his cross trying to understand what had happened. Fate chose someone else. That's their Ishmael, he thought. They said there was a sail in the horizon just before we met... It.

"And it's got a lot to do with a whale," the stranger continued. He felt too distanced from the whole thing. He thought that he could've stayed here, somehow. Never, ever step on a boat of any kind ever again.

Starbuck had gone so pale that Queequeg stood closer to him just in case he'd actually pass out.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“Is it your first time out?” There was a sense of morbid fascination in Stubb’s tone. That, an attempt at comforting the poor young man, and deja vu.

(Moby Dick was just a great big whale, it couldn't have been it, surely! Any thought of him, of it, was just the lasting paranoia of Captain Ahab refusing to just die.)

The first mate glanced 'round the inn as he spoke, finally noticing the returning faces of his crewmates. He raised his eyebrows at Flask, who shrugged in return. “Can’t imagine a worse thing t’happen.” He patted the young man's shoulder. (Was it too forward to make a business offer? They were short of men on the Pequod, and the kid might want passage home. Perhaps his brother-in-law would applaud him for the forward thinking.)

“Wasn’t a specific whale, was it?”

[mister-starbuck]

"Not a first time out, no.. first and last on whaler, yes," the man continued. He hadn't noticed how the curious others kept quiet and waited for him to continue. "Or not if I want home from here."

"Spesific whale? Why would you ask, sir.. well," he started. "You're gonna think I'm a little mad but I swear on my soul this won't be a lie."

Starbuck had a bad feeling from the man's tale already. Now it got worse. I know what happened, he thought. I know. I just don't want to think of it. He saw how Ishmael stared at the man with a little too wide eyes, a little too aghast look. He knows, too, Starbuck thought. Has Fedallah told him that it's him that was going to survive?

"Well, it happened fast. I wasn't on the ship when it happened, I was rowing.. we.. It's.. well," The man took a drink, calmed himself down for a while. "They said it could happen and then I was there, holding onto the oar and watching as it happened. The ship was here, then it wasn't. The boats were there, then they weren't. It seemed to know what it was doing."

Starbuck thought of the coin that had turned around on its own. Fate had wanted thirty-two dead and a sunken ship. The coin had been thrown for someone else. He felt guilty, knew that there was no sensible reason for it.

The man looked around himself. "The whale was white."

Queequeg had thought that Starbuck was the one that looked like he was about to pass out and had looked at him to be able to catch him. He didn't notice Ishmael swaying during the tale, only realized him beginning to collapse on his side.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael could feel his throat clamping up within him, tightening almost painfully as if there was something caught there. A sob, perhaps. He could feel the tell-tale squeeze of incoming tears in his quickly flushing nose, and the corners of his eyes began to prick with tears.

He was trying something awful to fight the blur of fear in his sinking chest, having begun to wobble on his feet.

Fedallah had been right. Moby Dick had taken a ship, and there was only one survivor. But it hadn't been him. Had he avoided it? Had some other poor ship been in the wrong place at the wrong time and taken the Pequod’s prophecy?

Was he looking at himself, maybe? Was it truly a mirror that sat there at the bar, rather than a different person, and every member of his crew that stood around him were hallucinations of the brain after swallowing too much salt water?

It couldn't be— when those men had died, the ones that they'd dumped and hidden, it had been very real. Their blood, their cries of pain, the anguish in their eyes— it had been very, very real. Ishmael was a creative man, yes, but he certainly couldn't make all that up himself. Not the gore that had left them when they'd been cut down.

He also found comfort in the solid, warm, breathing form he'd fallen into— oh, goodness! When did he fall? Ishmael wasn't sure. But he knew he'd been standing upright a moment ago, and was particularly aware that he wasn't standing upright now.

Either way, he now seemed to be looking into the very much alive face of his dear husband. Surely his mind was not cruel enough to conjure up the image or feel of Queequeg by itself!

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck saw Ishmael collapsing and knew that he'd truly got the meaning. He himself felt too creeped out to really do anything. He knew that he could've offered the man a job and trying getting him closer to home.

That wasn't what he really got stuck on with his thoughts. He'd known on intuition what that whale was capable of. He'd had a bad feeling of the whole thing. And now someone else hadn't listened to theirs and got the entire ship sunk because of that.

Queequeg placed Ishmael sitting down and held him against him.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael found himself taking in very deep breaths, as if he'd been choking on water and was now desperate for fresh air to fill his lungs and carry him back to reality.

He twisted his fingers into Queequeg’s, squeezing the other’s hand tight enough to know he wasn't making it up. Eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, he fought off the urge to curl into a ball and hyperventilate. He could do that when he'd found somewhere warm, darm and safe to bury himself within. Not here. He'd look mad.

“It was the White Whale.” He whispered, just loud enough to hear. “It was our White Whale.” Ishmael daren’t utter the name, lest it jinxed them again.

[mister-starbuck]

"It was," Starbuck confirmed. He whispered something along the lines of 'God keep us all', which he usually said in distress.

"Your white whale?" the sailor repeated, he'd looked at Ishmael when he'd blacked out for a bit. "It's.. I don't think that's doable. It's death."

"I know," Starbuck said, he saw how the man understood what he meant. I know that all too well. What in God's name is going on here? I thought we were safe, and.. It attacked some other ship, no doubt after being attacked first. He thought of the thing that Fedallah had said a good while ago.

'It's the right of every living being to defend itself.'

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb crossed his arms. It seemed to him that the damned white whale would haunt them forever. And ever. And ever!

Ishmael’s head spun a little. This way and that, re-registering where he was again. Of course he knew— he was sitting beside Queequeg in an inn on an island, having survived a prophecy that had seemingly struck another poor man.

But for a moment— for a moment, he'd thought himself to be back in his schoolhouse, rambling on and on to small children about history and literature and whatever else It had been he taught, because it felt like a lifetime ago now. For that moment it seemed that all the drunken sailors surrounding him were naught more than boys! Boys who'd gone away to sea far too young, and risked far too much for it. Boys who hadn't a childhood on land to speak of, because the waves had watched them grow more than their families ever had.

Of course, that was all crap. These men were whalers. Professionals. Who killed creatures of great beauty for a bit of coin.

“It came for us.” Ishmael muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

The stranger turned to look at Stubb a little too fast. "It was a whaler, yes."

There was a pause. "With thirty-two men. Was."

He looked like he was about to start crying again. For some odd reason he didn't. He hadn't noticed the others arriving. Someone offered him food, he ate a little.

Starbuck got the details from someone that had been in the inn for the whole night. Suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea. Ishmael looked at him with disbelief when he downed two in one go and fidgeted with his cross trying to understand what had happened. Fate chose someone else. That's their Ishmael, he thought. They said there was a sail in the horizon just before we met... It.

"And it's got a lot to do with a whale," the stranger continued. He felt too distanced from the whole thing. He thought that he could've stayed here, somehow. Never, ever step on a boat of any kind ever again.

Starbuck had gone so pale that Queequeg stood closer to him just in case he'd actually pass out.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“Is it your first time out?” There was a sense of morbid fascination in Stubb’s tone. That, an attempt at comforting the poor young man, and deja vu.

(Moby Dick was just a great big whale, it couldn't have been it, surely! Any thought of him, of it, was just the lasting paranoia of Captain Ahab refusing to just die.)

The first mate glanced 'round the inn as he spoke, finally noticing the returning faces of his crewmates. He raised his eyebrows at Flask, who shrugged in return. “Can’t imagine a worse thing t’happen.” He patted the young man's shoulder. (Was it too forward to make a business offer? They were short of men on the Pequod, and the kid might want passage home. Perhaps his brother-in-law would applaud him for the forward thinking.)

“Wasn’t a specific whale, was it?”

[mister-starbuck]

"Not a first time out, no.. first and last on whaler, yes," the man continued. He hadn't noticed how the curious others kept quiet and waited for him to continue. "Or not if I want home from here."

"Spesific whale? Why would you ask, sir.. well," he started. "You're gonna think I'm a little mad but I swear on my soul this won't be a lie."

Starbuck had a bad feeling from the man's tale already. Now it got worse. I know what happened, he thought. I know. I just don't want to think of it. He saw how Ishmael stared at the man with a little too wide eyes, a little too aghast look. He knows, too, Starbuck thought. Has Fedallah told him that it's him that was going to survive?

"Well, it happened fast. I wasn't on the ship when it happened, I was rowing.. we.. It's.. well," The man took a drink, calmed himself down for a while. "They said it could happen and then I was there, holding onto the oar and watching as it happened. The ship was here, then it wasn't. The boats were there, then they weren't. It seemed to know what it was doing."

Starbuck thought of the coin that had turned around on its own. Fate had wanted thirty-two dead and a sunken ship. The coin had been thrown for someone else. He felt guilty, knew that there was no sensible reason for it.

The man looked around himself. "The whale was white."

Queequeg had thought that Starbuck was the one that looked like he was about to pass out and had looked at him to be able to catch him. He didn't notice Ishmael swaying during the tale, only realized him beginning to collapse on his side.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael could feel his throat clamping up within him, tightening almost painfully as if there was something caught there. A sob, perhaps. He could feel the tell-tale squeeze of incoming tears in his quickly flushing nose, and the corners of his eyes began to prick with tears.

He was trying something awful to fight the blur of fear in his sinking chest, having begun to wobble on his feet.

Fedallah had been right. Moby Dick had taken a ship, and there was only one survivor. But it hadn't been him. Had he avoided it? Had some other poor ship been in the wrong place at the wrong time and taken the Pequod’s prophecy?

Was he looking at himself, maybe? Was it truly a mirror that sat there at the bar, rather than a different person, and every member of his crew that stood around him were hallucinations of the brain after swallowing too much salt water?

It couldn't be— when those men had died, the ones that they'd dumped and hidden, it had been very real. Their blood, their cries of pain, the anguish in their eyes— it had been very, very real. Ishmael was a creative man, yes, but he certainly couldn't make all that up himself. Not the gore that had left them when they'd been cut down.

He also found comfort in the solid, warm, breathing form he'd fallen into— oh, goodness! When did he fall? Ishmael wasn't sure. But he knew he'd been standing upright a moment ago, and was particularly aware that he wasn't standing upright now.

Either way, he now seemed to be looking into the very much alive face of his dear husband. Surely his mind was not cruel enough to conjure up the image or feel of Queequeg by itself!

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck saw Ishmael collapsing and knew that he'd truly got the meaning. He himself felt too creeped out to really do anything. He knew that he could've offered the man a job and trying getting him closer to home.

That wasn't what he really got stuck on with his thoughts. He'd known on intuition what that whale was capable of. He'd had a bad feeling of the whole thing. And now someone else hadn't listened to theirs and got the entire ship sunk because of that.

Queequeg placed Ishmael sitting down and held him against him.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael found himself taking in very deep breaths, as if he'd been choking on water and was now desperate for fresh air to fill his lungs and carry him back to reality.

He twisted his fingers into Queequeg’s, squeezing the other’s hand tight enough to know he wasn't making it up. Eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, he fought off the urge to curl into a ball and hyperventilate. He could do that when he'd found somewhere warm, darm and safe to bury himself within. Not here. He'd look mad.

“It was the White Whale.” He whispered, just loud enough to hear. “It was our White Whale.” Ishmael daren’t utter the name, lest it jinxed them again.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

The stranger turned to look at Stubb a little too fast. "It was a whaler, yes."

There was a pause. "With thirty-two men. Was."

He looked like he was about to start crying again. For some odd reason he didn't. He hadn't noticed the others arriving. Someone offered him food, he ate a little.

Starbuck got the details from someone that had been in the inn for the whole night. Suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea. Ishmael looked at him with disbelief when he downed two in one go and fidgeted with his cross trying to understand what had happened. Fate chose someone else. That's their Ishmael, he thought. They said there was a sail in the horizon just before we met... It.

"And it's got a lot to do with a whale," the stranger continued. He felt too distanced from the whole thing. He thought that he could've stayed here, somehow. Never, ever step on a boat of any kind ever again.

Starbuck had gone so pale that Queequeg stood closer to him just in case he'd actually pass out.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“Is it your first time out?” There was a sense of morbid fascination in Stubb’s tone. That, an attempt at comforting the poor young man, and deja vu.

(Moby Dick was just a great big whale, it couldn't have been it, surely! Any thought of him, of it, was just the lasting paranoia of Captain Ahab refusing to just die.)

The first mate glanced 'round the inn as he spoke, finally noticing the returning faces of his crewmates. He raised his eyebrows at Flask, who shrugged in return. “Can’t imagine a worse thing t’happen.” He patted the young man's shoulder. (Was it too forward to make a business offer? They were short of men on the Pequod, and the kid might want passage home. Perhaps his brother-in-law would applaud him for the forward thinking.)

“Wasn’t a specific whale, was it?”

[mister-starbuck]

"Not a first time out, no.. first and last on whaler, yes," the man continued. He hadn't noticed how the curious others kept quiet and waited for him to continue. "Or not if I want home from here."

"Spesific whale? Why would you ask, sir.. well," he started. "You're gonna think I'm a little mad but I swear on my soul this won't be a lie."

Starbuck had a bad feeling from the man's tale already. Now it got worse. I know what happened, he thought. I know. I just don't want to think of it. He saw how Ishmael stared at the man with a little too wide eyes, a little too aghast look. He knows, too, Starbuck thought. Has Fedallah told him that it's him that was going to survive?

"Well, it happened fast. I wasn't on the ship when it happened, I was rowing.. we.. It's.. well," The man took a drink, calmed himself down for a while. "They said it could happen and then I was there, holding onto the oar and watching as it happened. The ship was here, then it wasn't. The boats were there, then they weren't. It seemed to know what it was doing."

Starbuck thought of the coin that had turned around on its own. Fate had wanted thirty-two dead and a sunken ship. The coin had been thrown for someone else. He felt guilty, knew that there was no sensible reason for it.

The man looked around himself. "The whale was white."

Queequeg had thought that Starbuck was the one that looked like he was about to pass out and had looked at him to be able to catch him. He didn't notice Ishmael swaying during the tale, only realized him beginning to collapse on his side.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Ishmael could feel his throat clamping up within him, tightening almost painfully as if there was something caught there. A sob, perhaps. He could feel the tell-tale squeeze of incoming tears in his quickly flushing nose, and the corners of his eyes began to prick with tears.

He was trying something awful to fight the blur of fear in his sinking chest, having begun to wobble on his feet.

Fedallah had been right. Moby Dick had taken a ship, and there was only one survivor. But it hadn't been him. Had he avoided it? Had some other poor ship been in the wrong place at the wrong time and taken the Pequod’s prophecy?

Was he looking at himself, maybe? Was it truly a mirror that sat there at the bar, rather than a different person, and every member of his crew that stood around him were hallucinations of the brain after swallowing too much salt water?

It couldn't be— when those men had died, the ones that they'd dumped and hidden, it had been very real. Their blood, their cries of pain, the anguish in their eyes— it had been very, very real. Ishmael was a creative man, yes, but he certainly couldn't make all that up himself. Not the gore that had left them when they'd been cut down.

He also found comfort in the solid, warm, breathing form he'd fallen into— oh, goodness! When did he fall? Ishmael wasn't sure. But he knew he'd been standing upright a moment ago, and was particularly aware that he wasn't standing upright now.

Either way, he now seemed to be looking into the very much alive face of his dear husband. Surely his mind was not cruel enough to conjure up the image or feel of Queequeg by itself!

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

The stranger turned to look at Stubb a little too fast. "It was a whaler, yes."

There was a pause. "With thirty-two men. Was."

He looked like he was about to start crying again. For some odd reason he didn't. He hadn't noticed the others arriving. Someone offered him food, he ate a little.

Starbuck got the details from someone that had been in the inn for the whole night. Suddenly a drink seemed like a good idea. Ishmael looked at him with disbelief when he downed two in one go and fidgeted with his cross trying to understand what had happened. Fate chose someone else. That's their Ishmael, he thought. They said there was a sail in the horizon just before we met... It.

"And it's got a lot to do with a whale," the stranger continued. He felt too distanced from the whole thing. He thought that he could've stayed here, somehow. Never, ever step on a boat of any kind ever again.

Starbuck had gone so pale that Queequeg stood closer to him just in case he'd actually pass out.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“Is it your first time out?” There was a sense of morbid fascination in Stubb’s tone. That, an attempt at comforting the poor young man, and deja vu.

(Moby Dick was just a great big whale, it couldn't have been it, surely! Any thought of him, of it, was just the lasting paranoia of Captain Ahab refusing to just die.)

The first mate glanced 'round the inn as he spoke, finally noticing the returning faces of his crewmates. He raised his eyebrows at Flask, who shrugged in return. “Can’t imagine a worse thing t’happen.” He patted the young man's shoulder. (Was it too forward to make a business offer? They were short of men on the Pequod, and the kid might want passage home. Perhaps his brother-in-law would applaud him for the forward thinking.)

“Wasn’t a specific whale, was it?”

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck didn't feel like he wanted to be around people at all. He knew it was for the best. He felt dead tired when the adrenaline had gone down. The scratches felt itchy and hurting. Queequeg didn't look too affected even if he'd done most of it. Starbuck wondered how he could ever pay this debt back. If everything went well, it was because of him that Mary hadn't turned to a widow tonight.

He noticed Ishmael looking at himself like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Curious eyes and far too much going on behind them.

"We probably should, and we have to return this boat, too," Starbuck said.

// In the inn no-one had indeed noticed anyone leaving or going. They had started to get some elusive details out of the stranger. When they had inquired which ship he'd arrived with, he'd given the name. Then the next question had been where the ship was now when the Pequod was the only ship that had arrived in a few days. The man had replied 'gone' with the expression that he surely didn't want to talk about it. People started offering him drinks, someone offered a spare shirt and trousers for a tale. Someone else offered to pay for his stay in the inn. Curious, curious people.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb raised his eyebrows, having slotted himself right next to that poor sailor, fiddling with his pipe in one hand and holding a pint in the other.

“Didn’t happen to be to do with a whale of any kind, did it?”

The man purposefully left out any specific details. A white whale. By the name of Moby Dick. He wouldn't sound like Ahab, Stubb promised himself. Spouting off about some practically mythical beast and working himself up into a frenzy once the ship was too far from shore for the crew to decide that their captain was crazy and call it quits.

No, he wasn't like that at all.

Going crazy was gonna be Starbuck’scurse, if anything. Maybe Flask’s. But not his, he was sure of it. Sure man, mad men, what's the difference?

“It was a whaling ship, wasn't it?”

He was so absorbed in his conversation (or interrogation) that he didn't notice the returning men from his own ship.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

Aren't you going to do anything, Starbuck wondered a little annoyed. Then again Flask hadn't killed anyone. Not that there wasn't some rumours going on. Then again most of the rumours concerning anyone was very likely heresay that'd got amplified by years of boredom. Then again he hadn't dared to inquire of anyone's past from Fedallah who surely could get to the heart of things.

"I know how to lie," Starbuck admitted. Although his lies had been mostly lying to his parents of where here'd been. Several young couples had joined the effort. When asked they had all been 'in the field reading the Bible' when in reality each had sneaked to a private setting of their own with a special someone. To make it perfect they had actually read the segments in advance just in case someone would ask. It was the only thing he could think of to keep himself distanced enough from what he was actually doing. Covering the tracks, finding rocks for weights. He told Flask to keep lookout just in case some unfortunate would get too close.

Eventually they got the bodies in their impromptu-hammocks. It had got completely dark. The burial was fast as usual. they 'rented' the boat again, rowed to the shelter of the ship, said the words, done.

Starbuck got to the ship to change out of the bloody clothes. He looked a little pale, a little too wary of his own shadow. Fedallah made him take a drink and stitched up the worst of the scratches. Luckily Starbuck could just wear the cravat to hide both the stitches and the bandages. The other on the side of his wrist was a common enough sight. He could just lie that he'd 'had enough', which wasn't technically a lie. He had considered something extremely stupid before he'd got attacked. Starbuck returned to the others, looking a little ill for the whole thing.

"Shoud we go back to the inn?" Ishmael wondered. He was getting a little hungry. A lot of activities had taken place. Rowing and sewing and dragging dead weight and.. something else earlier.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask’s hands felt strange. Like a liquid had dried on them.

He knew full well what it was, and that he was imagining it. Phantom blood coating his palms, digging under his fingernails, that he was unable to scrub out for weeks. Taunting him, almost. It had haunted him for an awful long while the first time 'round, he sincerely hoped it didn't this time. He didn't actually hurt anyone himself.

The cool night air felt stifling on his body, the sour smell of sweat seemed to follow him wherever he went— though that might've just been the fact that everyone he'd been around for the past few years at this point had been a sailor. There was a tang on his tongue, and the man couldn't quite tell if he'd finally managed to chew through his cheek or if it was in his head.

Ishmael did them all a favour by breaking the silence.

“Yeah, we should go back. Can't imagine they've missed us much.”

Best case scenario, nobody noticed they'd even left.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

I want home, Starbuck thought but didn't say it. "Month or two, depending on the weather. Then about one year to home. But we could do shore leaves a little more frequently. It was him that was against them."

Ishmael and Queequeg had began trying to get the dead into their little coffins of sails. Starbuck went to help and tried not to look at the details too much. Ishmael had to take breaks and stare at something else for a while, too.

"The best I can think of is one week here. Reason being, this," Starbuck said and nodded at the bodies. "If they're found, we're in trouble. So if anyone has ideas on how to make sure that won't happen, tell me."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded along. A week was good enough. A week meant they could recover, but wouldn't get too used to land to leave. A week meant they wouldn't be suspicious in leaving.

“Don’t talk about them, don't make reference to them. Don't even think about them unless someone else brings them up.” He didn't help the others. He had no intention of doing something like that again, and he had no reason to explain why.

“But if someone does, don't avoid the subject. It'll make it worse. Don't go into too much detail, don't say too little. We haven't seen them since they hightailed it off the ship. Don't do anything that could draw any kinda suspicion.”

He couldn't care less if his cautiousness gave away past experiences. If one of them saw fit to bring him down, which Flask heavily doubted they would, he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to all three of them, as much as he respected the men.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

"Sure, sir," the man replied. He was in the somewhat lucky situation that it was absolutely useless to rob him because he had nothing on his name, even if the stranger's plans were to get him blackout drunk and attempt emptying his pockets. His gifted money had gone to a few nights in the inn and the two drinks he'd just had. He'd gone from crying to wondering how it had happened. It had started like any other chase. Any other.

//

"As little while as possible. Most of the provisions should arrive tomorrow or the days after. We're still low on crew, although we can make it to Lima with whom we have. There's no doctor to be found here, we'll need a bigger place for that," Starbuck replied. And pray for no accidents, he thought, but didn't dare to tempt fate with saying it out loud. "And because we're going to Lima in any case, we can leave earlier. A ship like ours needs more things to be fully stocked than this island can really sell, even if they'd be willing to."

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

“And how far would we be to Lima?” It was a silly question, but Flask wasn't thinking about keeping his questions quiet right now. It was keep your mouth shut and risk dying over something stupid, or survive.

“We can't leave here immediately. After experiencing something like that? The crew need hope to hold onto. That hope is this, dry land. If we take it from them too quickly to make some renewed impact, they'll be angry. We'll risk mutiny and losing more men.”

Mister Flask wasn't sure when he'd started to think so much. He wasn't sure he liked it— but he'd have to suck it up and get on with it, didn't he? Stubb was always saying something about adapting to what happens. He'd managed to do that unconsciously, adapt to the circumstances. It was that or die, and Flask wanted to live.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 8

EDITOR’S NOTE, PREVIOUSLY: Ahab has been killed, along with several others. The ship has been haunted by his ghost. The crew has managed to sail to Tahiti for more food, water and crew if that is possible. Starbuck, as the new Captain, has fired several men that attempted knifing Fedallah. This backfired when the said men attacked Starbuck, but are now all dead because he wasn’t alone after all. In the inn Stubb and Bulkington have encountered a strange shipwreck-survivor. Meanwhile Starbuck, Flask, Ishmael, Queequeg and Fedallah are teaming up to bury the dead before anyone notices. Statistics: 1 sunken ship (not the Pequod), 35 drowned men (see previous), 6 killed men (Ahab, the ships doctor, 4 sailors), 1 killed whale, 3 (?) mutinies, god only knows how many murder attempts

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

//// END QUOTE ////

Ishmael and Queequeg returned with the ’borrowed’ boat and the utterly wrecked and nearly-forgotten sail for a fabric.

Starbuck didn’t really do much else than stare at the blood drying in his hands. He tried to think of it with reason. The bay was too shallow for a burial, which meant that they had to wait for night or sneak the bodies onboard the ship, hide them somewhere (God knew it would be the barrels). Then he thought of it. That wasn’t a good plan, either. They had to get rid of the bodies as soon as possible, before they’d start rotting. Which meant tonight but deeper water. Perhaps using the ship herself as cover and just praying nothing got close enough to witness anything. It they kept the lights down it’d be as dark as the surrounding night. It was already gone dark. Besides he had to return to the ship and get himself looking like a civilized person again.

He told of these plans to the others, including Flask who seemed to look a little sobered up. The plan wouldn’t need much time, either. Sails, a few stitches, some weights, a prayer just to keep the ghosts out, done.

¤

”I’d like to stay on dry land for the rest of my life.. if it’s all the same to you, sir,” the man managed to reply. Either because of the shock or because of poor meals and fastly drank spirits he’d began to look a little tipsy. ”Have you got any idea what’s out there?”

Several curious (including Bulkington) had already began gathering around.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb snorted. He didn't allow his face to darken or his posture to slacken when thinking about what exactly he'd seen out there, because this was no time to dwell on the misery. They were safe. They were enjoying themselves. They were boozing it up!

“You’d be surprised! D’you want a drink, kid?”

//

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek. A habit that seemed more and more prevalent recently. It was grounding, he supposed, even if it probably meant the inside of his mouth was slightly worse for wear. He didn't often taste blood, at least. But when he did, he felt lucky to be tasting anything. Chewing his mouth was better than chewing nothing, some part of him thought.

“Sir, if it ain't too much to ask,” He murmured to Starbuck, choosing his words carefully. Now probably wasn't the right time, but nothing would be the right time. Everytime you thought you could have a moment of rest, something else happened! “How long do we suppose we're planning to stay docked here?”

Of course, they'd have to get moving eventually. They had to get home. But there was plenty still to do on the island, and after the last fiasco, Flask didn't quite want to leave just yet. Besides, they needed to bury the task at hand.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 7

EDITOR’S NOTE, previously: Ahab has been murdered, along with a several others. The ship is trying to return home. Tensions between the crew have not gone down. They saw Moby and there was a discussion of wether to lower or not (they didn't, which is the reason everyone is still here). Stubb's bad joke resulted in a little snap from Starbuck. As if someone else had been acting through him.

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Mister Stubb became quite still, stock and stone, when he was spoken to. He didn't say a word. Only, staring directly into the eyes of the other man, refusing to lower his gaze —as if trying to stand his ground. A very hard expression came on his jovial, cruel face.

Stubb did not like to be made a fool of by anyone other than himself. He used that as a method of protecting himself, one supposes, lording his power in hierarchy over others and treating it as though it was all a joke. And now, he was being made a fool, by the one man on the ship he couldn't do so with. That lovely order and merit came back to bite him in the arse after all.

He knew better than to argue with superiors. He'd learned rather early on in the voyage not to do so. He didn't bite (though how desperately he wanted to. Take the bait and argue along, claim he certainly was not a madman and didn't appreciate being taken as such). ‘Down, dog, and kennel!’ Hissed avoice inside his head.

He could feel his fingers twitch ever-so-slightly when his wife was mentioned. How she'd cried when they'd set off— and he would be fool enough to die? Make it worse? Stubb wanted to knock Starbuck’s teeth out in that moment. Just a little bit. He was no fool, he was no madman, and he was not to die on this voyage.

Not that he didn't know what game Starbuck was playing. He just hadn't realised how fucking good he was at it. And it infuriated him. He wouldn't lower that damned boat— it had been a jest, anyway. He wouldn't go after that fucking whale.

Stubb swallowed, and simply said.

“I’ll see to the sail.”

He turned on his heels and walked off to lick his wounded pride. He'd be over it, eventually, but poor Bulkington was looking to be bullied far more aggressively than he usually was this afternoon.

//// END QUOTE ////

Starbuck looked when the man left, careful inspecting of him. You better not take this out on anyone, he thought. For a moment there was something a little too familiar in his eyes. Ahab peeking out, a ghost of a ghost.

That malicious intent left. At first he didn’t notice it, then the thing he did notice was that odd urge for violence had left. It had just left. He crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly confused. What in God’s name is going on in this ship, he thought. That wasn’t me. I don’t act like that. If I have something to say as criticism I'll do it one-one. I can’t understand what got to me.. unless.

Yes. Unless he’d got possessed by the previous Captain.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb wouldn't be half-shocked if Starbuck was possessed by the previous captain. If that disappearing had just been his spirit passing through, into the other man's body. Into the other man's head.

(To be completely fair, Ahab could possess Starbuck's mind, his memory, without having to have done it through any paranormal bullshit. The relationship they'd had wasn't one a man could forget easily. Not the barking orders, the burning gazes, the lingering touches. Not a second of it.)

Mister Stubb didn't care all that much about it, though. He grumbled through gritted teeth, cracking the joints in his neck as he stalked past Bulkington.

-

Flask swallowed. Not a gulp, exactly, not a frightened one, but ever-so-slightly nervous, as he watched Stubb’s retreating figure.

Someone could die at any moment, he'd realised, and I'll be higher on the ladder.

Did he really want that? Really, truly? He'd wanted to be an officer, but that came with hunger. Did more power come at the price of less and less food? Did it come with the ship herself having a taste for his blood? Was that really worth it, at the end of it all?

[mister-starbuck]

"We're going home," Starbuck concluded. He felt a little ashamed of himself lecturing someone under the other's noses. No-one's got the rank to intervene me acting badly, he thought. I have to remember that. Then again he thought; he had it coming. No-one else can intervene him acting badly but me.

He wondered how close he was to that hypothetical madness that seemed to eat Captains for breakfast, lunch and dinner on ships like these. He wondered if one could realize oneself going mad. He wondered if him wondering of this was either proof of him being cautious and therefore not mad, or already too far-gone into self-deception and therefore mad.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

How many times has that been said by now?

Mister Flask folded his arms. He couldn't let them shake, couldn't allow himself to be made a spectacle of by some observation crew member. He was a mate, an officer. After everything, he still had some odd little need for the regard of their crew. Respect from the fellows on the lower rungs. They all did— he supposed that all people had some inherent belief that as an individual, they were above someone else. That's how hierarchies were created, right?

That was how mutinies started.

“Yessir.” He murmured, his voice a touch higher than he intended.

[mister-starbuck]

I just want to get home, Starbuck thought. I'm sick and tired of this whole ship and nearly everyone on it. That made him look around for the ones he actually did like. He did attempt liking everyone and being decent to the few he couldn't stand. He concentrated on the people that he considered friends.. or a son. There was Pip again, who looked completely exhausted. Starbuck knew why, being terrified was actually a lot of work.

He noticed Fedallah looking a little thoughtful. I wonder what he's thinking of.

He thought of the firings and hirings he should've been thinking of. It was perhaps less than a week* from now.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask considered perhaps going off to talk to some deckhand, to find some irrelevant topic to distract himself with— then again, conversations like that tended to circle back to food. And he didn't think he quite wanted to think about food yet.

Besides, the other side of the deck, where most of the men who hadn't yet gone below remained, was currently occupied by an angry, rather humiliated sleeping lion by the name of Mister Stubb. And Flask knew not to poke sleeping lions.

Not that Stubb didn't deserve it. He was a bastard sometimes, worse than normal. But he was off licking his wounds and following behind might risk the now-second mate getting thrown overboard. To which the now-first would follow, because Starbuck wouldn't have that.

To Flask’s relief, he could see salvation from the situation. A retreating Daggoo, moving back below deck— he tried not to jump in excitement, skittering to follow him. If only to avoid any more awkwardness.

“Excuse me.” He muttered quickly to Starbuck and Fedallah.

[mister-starbuck]

EDITOR'S NOTE: SKIPPED TO NEAREST SHORE (still somewhere in the pacific)

Here it was. Land. The sight of trees. Ships and boats, going or coming. People in them. Some woman that was checking her nets with a kid staring at the ship going past, looking utterly bored.

Starbuck stared at the approaching shoreline, feeling more homesick than usual. This was still the Pacific. Home was still one year away. It could be more, even. A lot could happen in one year. They could all be dead in one year. Well, perhaps it was better that he didn't go around telling of these wonderings to anyone. The woman and the kid made it sting the more. He reminded himself that his son wasn't as old as the kid on the boat, but older. Taller. In a moment of utter misery he thought if Noah would even remember him. The girl that Fedallah had told him of surely wouldn't.

Some superstition prevented Starbuck thinking that they had made it, knowing that realistically it was way too soon to think so. People looked at him with smiles, some already planning the usual: drinking, debauchery and gambling. They hadn't made it yet but Starbuck didn't want to ruin the mood.

The few men with bad manners and worse characters seemed a little alarmed. They knew they were not welcome to return. They were allowed to leave, and they would get paid (not in full, though) before that. Starbuck knew that the money would find its way onto the nearest inn and ultimately to some girl's pocket before sunrise. The men would end up penniless soon enough. There was some comfort in knowing that. He wondered if someone else of the crew would start up a rumour that those three had killed someone and had attempted mutiny. In that case no ship would hire them. They would stay here. A shorter life of crime when no-one would hire them for anything legal.

Bulkington himself had been placed to a parole of a kind. He could stay. But if he was caught from something like that ever again, he would lose every single coin that he'd made in four years. He wanted to return home, he swore on his soul that he wouldn't fool around again. When that hadn't been believed, he'd suggested the parole contract. What had saved him hadn't been mercy, not really. It had been that good helmsmen were hard to find from a port this small in the timespan that they had.

Starbuck thought that they had made it this far. There was something to be a little happy of at least. He wondered if he could have Fedallah assisting in the hiring process that would need to follow before they could leave, because he knew things. Better not hire any more rogues.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Other than Starbuck, the attitude was generally one of celebration. You take the small wins in life— and this felt like slightly more than a small win. Dry land for the first time in what felt like centuries. No White Whales to get them here.

Fresh fruit. Water. A steady ground underfoot. One could hardly miss the roar of the crew when they docked. A crashing wave of jubilation it was indeed! Stubb’s pride had recovered after a rather small amount of time, bouncing back energetically as ever, and Flask felt as though he was ready to sob of relief when someone had started to yell about land.

He didn't sob, of course. It would be unbecoming of him, as the second mate of a whaling vessel, who quite badly needed people to respect him and ignore his unlucky stature.

That concern of unbecomingness certainly didn't make any difference as he was skipping along the street after Mister Stubb into an inn with a cheek-splitting grin, of course. It didn't bother him much, even as he tripped on his own feet, and went crashing to his left into Tashtego, who quite purposefully accidentally knocked into Ishmael, elbowing the other man right into the arms of Queequeg.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck knew that he could've stayed on the ship. He didn't. Before that he got fresh water and cleaned a little spot to the reel, washing off the imagined salt. Breaking of the circle. It was perhaps just a coincidence that a sudden wave tilted the ship just afterwards he'd done it. As if something had left. He felt hollow.

He left the ship to Fedallah to manage, who said that he had no interest seeing that many people all of the sudden, that their lively voices made his head hurt, and that he could stay to oversee the ship in the meanwhile. After a careful inspecting of what they needed to get for provisions and repairs it was too late for any realistic hirings or anything else to be done.

Starbuck got off the ship, stood on the dock like he wasn't sure why it didn't tilt under his feet. He felt lost. Out of his element. Many ships, many people. Trees, houses, huts. A dog running with a fish in its mouth. Funny, he hadn't seen a dog in four years.

Unsure of what he'd do he began to wander. He was being followed but he wasn't aware of it. Narrow streets like a maze, somehow he managed to keep track which way he'd came from. He wasn't sure what he was trying to find or run from. Some ladies of the night looked after him, then with a second look, a wink, a shrug, no then, my loss. Eventually he found himself off-town, a forest of sorts. A foreign element, more so that the language the people had spoken in the town.

Starbuck sat down, leaned against the tree, stared at the sky through the canopy. It looked like something out of a dream. So much green against the blue. And then he began to understand that yes, he'd made it this far. Then he thought of the cost. He began to cry. He cried for a good while.

Three pairs of eyes saw him crying, three hands holding knives. Three men waited for the dark.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

There was an odd deja-vu in the act of sitting in an inn and drowning in booze. Sorrows, fears, longings, gone in a haze of warm light. Something they'd not done in such a long time. Not since back in Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, Cape Cod. Not since they'd been back home.

Flask didn't want to think of home, because he feared the ache in his chest would grow too great to ignore. He feared it would consume him and take away any competence he had aboard the Pequod. He feared becoming a madman, like Ahab. He feared focusing on his pain would swallow him away from the moment. They were here, they were happy, they were absolutely sloshed.

Around the time Stubb was breaking out into what felt like his hundredth song of the night, seemingly determined to blow his lungs out this evening, a ruddy-faced Flask realised that he'd not seen Mister (Captain?) Starbuck in several hours.

Of course, the man hadn't joined the rest of them in their adventure off to the boozer, but he'd certainly left the ship. And they'd have certainly seen him at one point, right? Passing by? Checking in on them? There was always the possibility he'd gone off with some woman or man for the evening, but that idea was quickly discarded upon the reminder of just how terribly Starbuck missed his wife.

It was completely silly to say so, because there was definitely, most certainly a rational explanation for his absence. It was a big port. There were several inns. He was a busy man. But something about it just didn't feel right.

[mister-starbuck]

After "something" had taken place in an inn Ishmael wanted to see the village. The first time he was truly out of the States, so it would've been a ridiculous waste if he'd not go and took a look around when he was here. When would he get to see Tahiti again, after all?

Queequeg would've liked to stay in and sleep but he felt a sense of Yojo telling him to follow Ishmael. That it was important. So they both got dressed, got downstairs, sneaked past the new first and second that were utterly hammered and began exploring. Queequeg didn't leave the harpoon in the room, he never did. He took it with him out of habit.

¤

Starbuck was not aware of his surroundings at all. An odd sense of trusting, this was land after all, safety. It was also unfamiliar. He thought of Mary, began running out of tears. He still thought of her when that happened. That left him with a vague headache and a missing that tore and burned and wouldn't cease.

Am I ever going to get to actually be with her? Or just some weeks, months, and then be shipped off again? How many times would he need to do this cursed little sailing trip? How many times more? He could've died on each. Every time he set out he gambled with his life. Each time he set out he was wasting time, wasting years. But if he didn't, Mary and Noah would eventually starve to death.

Starbuck began to think of darker things when he calmed down. The sun began to sink. It's quiet here, he thought. No-one would notice until morning. I left the will to the ship and it's easily to be found. he didn't particularly like thinking of these things, but he did in any case.

For some reason he felt he was being observed. A quieter, nagging little thought. You're not alone. You're not.

He wasn't.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

He wasn't sure what caused him to rise from his relatively comfortable place on the barstool, or what carried his feet away from the warm, welcome glow of the inn and outside again, but Flask was moving.

He wasn't too drunk to know something felt off. And in recent experiences, when something felt off to the man, something always seemed to be happening. Had the ghost followed them ashore? Was Ahab not bound to the ship itself, but bound to someone aboard it? Was the reason they hadn't seen Starbuck in a good while to do with Ahab?

It didn't seem likely, because he'd shouted him right off last time, and it looked like it had the right effect.

So what the devil was it?

He stumbled along, quite regretting having left the inn but not finding it within himself to return. Stubb wouldn't miss him much anyways, he had plenty of drunkards to entertain himself with for one night. He could muck around, and Flask would go off wandering. Wandering was a common theme with them, was it not? Wandering along the waves. Wandering along the world itself.

And now, he’d wandered right off into some grove of vegetation. A forest?

Hah. He'd not seen a forest in a long time.

[mister-starbuck]

You're not alone, the something warned. You're not. Starbuck thought that he had to get a grip. Return to the ship. He couldn't stay here. Couldn't act on something drastic and stupid. He got up, stared back at the way he'd came here. He could've sworn he'd heard something.

"Hello?" he called. I could've sworn I heard something. There was nothing but the forest, a sense of being watched. It was getting a little dark. Suddenly something seemed to take hold of him, senses that had sharpened up years and years in this godawful business. He sensed danger even if he didn't see it.

He knew someone was about to jump at him, likely with a knife. He thought of a common robbery, couldn't think too reasonably after all. He thought that it'd be safer to pretend that he'd heard nothing. Starbuck made himself relax a little, shrugged. Listened. He began to walk slowly back to the town.. and yes, he was being followed. More than one, he thought, listening to the steps. That rustling of foliage.

Starbuck wasn't much for a gamble like this but he knew his options were growing slim. He stopped to wait, pretended to look at his watch. He heard someone taking a sudden running steps, turned around.

A lot of things happened all too quickly. Someone ran at him holding something, would've collided. Would've, but he was thrown off-balance with a sound that everyone present knew too well. A lance flying through the air, that familiar sound of mark not missed. Starbuck had no time of being horrified of it, because he felt that he himself was suddenly yanked backwards and something was placed on his neck. He knew a knife when he felt one.

"Quiet!" the man commanded. Starbuck hadn't listened, had reacted on instinct. He held the knife-hand, tried getting it away from him, trying to figure out who had attacked him and why. He knew he couldn't attempt elbowing him or he'd risk his throat being cut.

He'd been in the business enough to be able to think and act in a situation where his life had been placed as the bet. Starbuck managed to look at the dead man, a lance pointing out from the back, while trying to fight the man off him or the knife off him or both. It was perhaps his luck that he was stronger than he looked like. But of course he couldn't survive against three, not alone, that was. He heard someone running again, someone else yelling something. He thought of the dead man in the midst of this chaos. Has to be Queequeg's handiwork, he thought. Perfect aim between all these trees. Luckily the dead had fallen on his side, had died instantly. Starbuck realized he knew him, one of the men he'd fired earlier. Suddenly it all began making perfect sense. No robbery but a calculated murder attempt.

Ishmael and Queequeg had long ago figured out that they could talk a lot without saying a single word. Either had noticed the men. They had understood in unison what was about to happen. Ishmael had looked around, no witnesses, and nodded. Queequeg had taken aim. Ishmael wasn't that good of a lookout-man, and he'd completely missed Flask.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Well. That little number had certainly been a good-enough wake-up call to the hazed second-mate. Flask began to move, light-footed as he could through the foliage, as to not be seen. Not to cause unnecessary risk, not yet. He didn't want to be killed as a witness now, did he?

Either way, Flask began to fumble for his knife. Never went anywhere without it, not anymore. Not after the voyage they'd had— he doubted he ever would again. That little twinge of paranoia in the back of his head would always be there, no matter how practical of a man he was. No matter how dismissive of the supernatural, of his own fears, he might play.

Just in case.

That ‘just in case’ didn't seem much in case at the moment, with one man dead and Starbuck’s neck being held at the edge of a blade. — He wouldn't allow that. That would not only put Stubb in charge, and nobody particularly liked the idea of that, but move both first and second mates up on the chopping block. Bloodthirsty ships, and all that.

This wasn't the Pequod’s doing, though. Perhaps she'd be angrier if Starbuck got killed, and decide to wreck the lot of them, never to be seen again.

He could feel the hilt of the blade within his fingers now, squeezing it as if it could slip through his fingers. Flask counted to three in his head, and raised his (slightly slurred) voice loud enough to make his presence known.

“The hell's goin’ on here?!”

He held the knife out, towards one of the men, and stepped forward. Too drunk to play peaceful.

[mister-starbuck]

The man holding the knife had a second of panic, he was caught in the act. He knew the unfair fight had started to became a fair one. He swore he wouldn't let Starbuck walk away with it, because he had him there. He would very likely die here but he'd take that godfearing little bastard with him. The fair fight became unfair again, the third man began to back off, shook his head.

Starbuck, grateful of the second of diversion, lunged himself backwards and to the side, hoping to get the man out of balance. The knife scraped but didn't get him while they fell, Nathan still trying to keep the blade away. He'd sworn he wouldn't let go of the man's arm, no matter if he'd get a broken bone or worse.

From there on it was a blur. They fought for the knife again, both down, both got scrapes, bruises and the sort. Nathan had been kicked away, refused to let go of it. Someone was running past him, more yelling. He didn't see Queequeg stepping out from his hiding place, running to the lance, yanking it out and realizing that the third man, in his panic, didn't think at all. He ran in a straight line on a straight, moonlit path. That made it a little too easy for him. This was the man who could hit a whale in the eye from a boat, thirty feet away. He took aim, threw, end of story.

Ishmael stood out in the open staring at the scene, utterly horror-stuck and unable to move.

For all honesty's sakes Starbuck didn't have any worse intent than trying to get the knife away from his face again. For all honesty's sakes he hadn't looked that the blade had pointed down towards the attacker when he pushed the man down along with his knife-hand. For all honesty's sakes he realized what had happened when the blade had already jammed through the throat. Starbuck froze in horror, backtracked on all-fours, suddenly shivering. Oh Good God, he thought. Oh my God, he thought, hoped that he hadn't. The man was already dead.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask was swaying where he stood.

He hadn't even had a chance to fight. Not that it mattered— he was probably too sloshed to do much but blindly swing his blade and hope to strike something.

Well, lucky for him. For all the violence he held within him, Flask wouldn't kill a man if necessary. That was reserved for whales. Killing another human? It left you cold for a bit after, hands clammy and trembling, blood pounding in your ears, wondering how on earth you'd managed to do something like that to another person. A person with a life, a childhood, hopes and dreams, a family who loved and relied on them..

Not that Flask would know how taking a human life felt. Of course not. There weren't any skeletons in the little man's closet that he needed to hide, no more than a child he hadn't known about.

“It’s— Are—” He spluttered.

“Are you all alright?”

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck tried answering something but really couldn't at first. He had a scrape on his neck, second on his wrist (luckily against the bone), third on his palm. He felt dizzy, began thinking if he got hit in the head during that awful affair, his teeth were in blood, a cut on his lip. All of it likely looked worse than it was, bloodstains and the such. The dead man with his own knife pointing up from his neck, his own hands on the hilt.

Starbuck began to feel that he'd surely got scraped a little, a panicked sense he felt his own neck with. Realized that he would live, a few stitches and that would do it. He tried collecting himself, couldn't. Really, really couldn't. He'd killed two men in a matter of weeks. One he loved and one he despised. Both dead by his hands. What .. or whom was he becoming? And where headed? Well, where did killers go?

He sat down, backtracked from the dead even more. Stared at his own bloody hands, he was in a cold sweat, trembling. "I didn't .. I didn't mean.."

"He'll live," Queequeg declared after taking a look at his injuries. Of all people in the crew he'd actually seen war and not just fights like this. Then he thought of it. Again Starbuck killing someone. Come on, man, he thought. After all the whales you've killed now it's the time to get horrified? Well, he can't help it. "Might need a drink?"

Ishmael tried shaking himself out of his sudden fright. That's three men dead in a span of seconds, he thought. He' would've died here if we hadn't gone for a walk. And what's Flask doing in here, anyway?

"What are we gonna do with the .." Ishmael asked. The dead, he thought, pointing at the nearest body. He knew he shouldn't have looked and still did so. He'd seen the damage that harpoons did on whales. And now he'd seen the damage it could do on a person. He began to feel ill, too.

"Hide them?" Queequeg replied.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek, steeled himself, and spoke up again.

“Wrap them up.” His not-quite-sobriety, swirled up with deja-vu, made the man feel rather hazy. He hadn't meant to— it might not've even been him the first time around, it could've been any one of them in that inn. It only mattered that a man had ended up dead and it had fallen to Flask to cover it up. “In hammocks, sail-cloths, linens, whatever. Something that'll cover them fully. Like when they die at sea.”

He could hardly recognise his own voice. It didn't feel like his, it was all firm and cracking, like a bottle about to shatter. “Carry them out of here. Find a ditch, or dig a hole or something, and cover them in dirt. Deep enough not to be found if someone goes looking.”

His fists were clenched something awful, and had gone white. “We don't know what happened to them. They were fired, and that was the last we saw of them. Someone else did this.”

With any luck he'd make it back to the inn before Stubb had noticed he was gone. “People die at sea all the time. Why should they be any different?”

[mister-starbuck]

It has to be done, Starbuck thought. Then he looked away, tried calming down. There was some purple flower that he hadn't seen before. He stared at it when he began to plan. He was still in a bad shape mentally but tried ignoring it until he'd calmed down. He knew he couldn't look at his hands, now. Color of blood in this business meant survival. Funny that it did so now, too.

"I don't think we have time for graves. There's a.. small bay a little that way," Starbuck thought aloud. Sea burial, he thought. Once again. Yet again. "There's not much around it. Nothing on sea, the coast is too shallow. It should.. be ideal."

He didn't need to tell that he had considered drowning himself in the same bay a little earlier, wandering past it. Just walking to the sea and laying down. And here he was alive, after someone else had left this world instead of him. After someone had attempted at his life, and he'd fought back just because suddenly dying didn't sound ideal at all. Acted on instincts like.. some other things did. Things that were still out there, on sea. Holding grudges.

Or was he thinking of it too much?

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded at Starbuck’s suggestion of the bay.

“That works just fine.”

How’d they get to this point? It was just a whaling voyage, how did they manage to build a body count? He swallowed.

That wasn't the issue at hand right now.

“Ishmael, go back to the ship. Find some canvas or old hammock or sail cloth. Find something, and make it quick.” They couldn't afford to get caught, not now. They'd come too far for rotting in jail and were intent on survival.

One way to go about it was to think of it like a whale— you don't second guess killing the whale, you just do it. Flask relished in it, even! Separate the body lying in front of you from the man you once knew. Whaling was a business drenched in blood. What happens on voyages doesn't follow you afterwards (unless you're the vengeful spirit of Captain Ahab, but that's irrelevant.)

The second mate wanted to make a joke. Try and lighten the mood, try and stop any of them from breaking down, but he wasn't Stubb. He didn't do that. A joke would be too inappropriate.

[mister-starbuck]

Ishmael nodded and left. It was easier to 'borrow' a boat that didn't look missed than walk all the way around town to the harbour. Safer, too. Queequeg went with him, wondering if Fedallah had done his thing again and figured out some unsalvageably torn sails in advance. When they arrived to the ship they figured out it was just so.

Before Ishmael had time to explain anything he'd already commented on it. "This is just why I told our Starbuck to hire four new sailors before sunset. Didn't tell him why, of course. Less suspicious this way, don't you think?"

¤

"There's no doctor here that can be hired," Starbuck told Flask to pass the time. He was trying to get the blood off himself, the scratches burned. He was tearing pieces off his shirt and trying for a bandage of a kind, just to do something. "It's for the best to head to Lima, ask there. What we can find from these islands is sailors, the occasional helmsman, food, water, the such. But every doctor that we'll pass is already hired by someone else."

¤

In the inn Bulkington saw how a man arrived, went to get a drink in all quiet. The man wasn't a local, looked equally ragged to the sailors present. He was wearing an odd mix of clothes, a shirt that was too short for him on the sleeves and pants that were too long, a belt that was a piece of rope. He didn't look cheerful at all, looked shaken up, like he still couldn't understand what had happened to him. Some of the islanders returning from visiting some neighbours on an smaller island nearby had rescued him a few hours prior, given him a spare of clothes and told him with sign language to go to the inn to get a drink and a place to sleep, given him a coin or two for good luck.

The man drank what he was given, winched and asked for an another. He drank that too while looking at the people present with their friends and began to cry.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb hadn't noticed much difference in who was gone. He gathered that Flask had slipped off, but that could've been easily explained by any number of things. Perhaps he’s off trying butter for the first time in an eternity. The man mused, his arm thrown around another drunken stranger, caterwauling any old song that came to mind.

What he did notice, though, even in his state, was the bedraggled man looking like he'd just crawled back from the gates of hell. Didn't miss how Bulkington looked at him too. A shipwrecked sailor, alright. Stubb wanted to snort, sticking his pipe in his mouth, but held his tongue just quick enough to remember that there was a good chance the man was a shipwrecked sailor.

He slid down from his perch on some table, away from his new comrades of a roaring, woozy choir, and stumbled right on over to the man, who was now crying.

Couldn't help but be a bit nosy, huh?

“Cheer up now, lad, you're on dry land!” The first-mate offered, grinning through his teeth. Which, in fairness, probably didn't do much to help.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 7

EDITOR’S NOTE, previously: Ahab has been murdered, along with a several others. The ship is trying to return home. Tensions between the crew have not gone down. They saw Moby and there was a discussion of wether to lower or not (they didn't, which is the reason everyone is still here). Stubb's bad joke resulted in a little snap from Starbuck. As if someone else had been acting through him.

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Mister Stubb became quite still, stock and stone, when he was spoken to. He didn't say a word. Only, staring directly into the eyes of the other man, refusing to lower his gaze —as if trying to stand his ground. A very hard expression came on his jovial, cruel face.

Stubb did not like to be made a fool of by anyone other than himself. He used that as a method of protecting himself, one supposes, lording his power in hierarchy over others and treating it as though it was all a joke. And now, he was being made a fool, by the one man on the ship he couldn't do so with. That lovely order and merit came back to bite him in the arse after all.

He knew better than to argue with superiors. He'd learned rather early on in the voyage not to do so. He didn't bite (though how desperately he wanted to. Take the bait and argue along, claim he certainly was not a madman and didn't appreciate being taken as such). ‘Down, dog, and kennel!’ Hissed avoice inside his head.

He could feel his fingers twitch ever-so-slightly when his wife was mentioned. How she'd cried when they'd set off— and he would be fool enough to die? Make it worse? Stubb wanted to knock Starbuck’s teeth out in that moment. Just a little bit. He was no fool, he was no madman, and he was not to die on this voyage.

Not that he didn't know what game Starbuck was playing. He just hadn't realised how fucking good he was at it. And it infuriated him. He wouldn't lower that damned boat— it had been a jest, anyway. He wouldn't go after that fucking whale.

Stubb swallowed, and simply said.

“I’ll see to the sail.”

He turned on his heels and walked off to lick his wounded pride. He'd be over it, eventually, but poor Bulkington was looking to be bullied far more aggressively than he usually was this afternoon.

//// END QUOTE ////

Starbuck looked when the man left, careful inspecting of him. You better not take this out on anyone, he thought. For a moment there was something a little too familiar in his eyes. Ahab peeking out, a ghost of a ghost.

That malicious intent left. At first he didn’t notice it, then the thing he did notice was that odd urge for violence had left. It had just left. He crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly confused. What in God’s name is going on in this ship, he thought. That wasn’t me. I don’t act like that. If I have something to say as criticism I'll do it one-one. I can’t understand what got to me.. unless.

Yes. Unless he’d got possessed by the previous Captain.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb wouldn't be half-shocked if Starbuck was possessed by the previous captain. If that disappearing had just been his spirit passing through, into the other man's body. Into the other man's head.

(To be completely fair, Ahab could possess Starbuck's mind, his memory, without having to have done it through any paranormal bullshit. The relationship they'd had wasn't one a man could forget easily. Not the barking orders, the burning gazes, the lingering touches. Not a second of it.)

Mister Stubb didn't care all that much about it, though. He grumbled through gritted teeth, cracking the joints in his neck as he stalked past Bulkington.

-

Flask swallowed. Not a gulp, exactly, not a frightened one, but ever-so-slightly nervous, as he watched Stubb’s retreating figure.

Someone could die at any moment, he'd realised, and I'll be higher on the ladder.

Did he really want that? Really, truly? He'd wanted to be an officer, but that came with hunger. Did more power come at the price of less and less food? Did it come with the ship herself having a taste for his blood? Was that really worth it, at the end of it all?

[mister-starbuck]

"We're going home," Starbuck concluded. He felt a little ashamed of himself lecturing someone under the other's noses. No-one's got the rank to intervene me acting badly, he thought. I have to remember that. Then again he thought; he had it coming. No-one else can intervene him acting badly but me.

He wondered how close he was to that hypothetical madness that seemed to eat Captains for breakfast, lunch and dinner on ships like these. He wondered if one could realize oneself going mad. He wondered if him wondering of this was either proof of him being cautious and therefore not mad, or already too far-gone into self-deception and therefore mad.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

How many times has that been said by now?

Mister Flask folded his arms. He couldn't let them shake, couldn't allow himself to be made a spectacle of by some observation crew member. He was a mate, an officer. After everything, he still had some odd little need for the regard of their crew. Respect from the fellows on the lower rungs. They all did— he supposed that all people had some inherent belief that as an individual, they were above someone else. That's how hierarchies were created, right?

That was how mutinies started.

“Yessir.” He murmured, his voice a touch higher than he intended.

[mister-starbuck]

I just want to get home, Starbuck thought. I'm sick and tired of this whole ship and nearly everyone on it. That made him look around for the ones he actually did like. He did attempt liking everyone and being decent to the few he couldn't stand. He concentrated on the people that he considered friends.. or a son. There was Pip again, who looked completely exhausted. Starbuck knew why, being terrified was actually a lot of work.

He noticed Fedallah looking a little thoughtful. I wonder what he's thinking of.

He thought of the firings and hirings he should've been thinking of. It was perhaps less than a week* from now.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask considered perhaps going off to talk to some deckhand, to find some irrelevant topic to distract himself with— then again, conversations like that tended to circle back to food. And he didn't think he quite wanted to think about food yet.

Besides, the other side of the deck, where most of the men who hadn't yet gone below remained, was currently occupied by an angry, rather humiliated sleeping lion by the name of Mister Stubb. And Flask knew not to poke sleeping lions.

Not that Stubb didn't deserve it. He was a bastard sometimes, worse than normal. But he was off licking his wounds and following behind might risk the now-second mate getting thrown overboard. To which the now-first would follow, because Starbuck wouldn't have that.

To Flask’s relief, he could see salvation from the situation. A retreating Daggoo, moving back below deck— he tried not to jump in excitement, skittering to follow him. If only to avoid any more awkwardness.

“Excuse me.” He muttered quickly to Starbuck and Fedallah.

[mister-starbuck]

EDITOR'S NOTE: SKIPPED TO NEAREST SHORE (still somewhere in the pacific)

Here it was. Land. The sight of trees. Ships and boats, going or coming. People in them. Some woman that was checking her nets with a kid staring at the ship going past, looking utterly bored.

Starbuck stared at the approaching shoreline, feeling more homesick than usual. This was still the Pacific. Home was still one year away. It could be more, even. A lot could happen in one year. They could all be dead in one year. Well, perhaps it was better that he didn't go around telling of these wonderings to anyone. The woman and the kid made it sting the more. He reminded himself that his son wasn't as old as the kid on the boat, but older. Taller. In a moment of utter misery he thought if Noah would even remember him. The girl that Fedallah had told him of surely wouldn't.

Some superstition prevented Starbuck thinking that they had made it, knowing that realistically it was way too soon to think so. People looked at him with smiles, some already planning the usual: drinking, debauchery and gambling. They hadn't made it yet but Starbuck didn't want to ruin the mood.

The few men with bad manners and worse characters seemed a little alarmed. They knew they were not welcome to return. They were allowed to leave, and they would get paid (not in full, though) before that. Starbuck knew that the money would find its way onto the nearest inn and ultimately to some girl's pocket before sunrise. The men would end up penniless soon enough. There was some comfort in knowing that. He wondered if someone else of the crew would start up a rumour that those three had killed someone and had attempted mutiny. In that case no ship would hire them. They would stay here. A shorter life of crime when no-one would hire them for anything legal.

Bulkington himself had been placed to a parole of a kind. He could stay. But if he was caught from something like that ever again, he would lose every single coin that he'd made in four years. He wanted to return home, he swore on his soul that he wouldn't fool around again. When that hadn't been believed, he'd suggested the parole contract. What had saved him hadn't been mercy, not really. It had been that good helmsmen were hard to find from a port this small in the timespan that they had.

Starbuck thought that they had made it this far. There was something to be a little happy of at least. He wondered if he could have Fedallah assisting in the hiring process that would need to follow before they could leave, because he knew things. Better not hire any more rogues.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Other than Starbuck, the attitude was generally one of celebration. You take the small wins in life— and this felt like slightly more than a small win. Dry land for the first time in what felt like centuries. No White Whales to get them here.

Fresh fruit. Water. A steady ground underfoot. One could hardly miss the roar of the crew when they docked. A crashing wave of jubilation it was indeed! Stubb’s pride had recovered after a rather small amount of time, bouncing back energetically as ever, and Flask felt as though he was ready to sob of relief when someone had started to yell about land.

He didn't sob, of course. It would be unbecoming of him, as the second mate of a whaling vessel, who quite badly needed people to respect him and ignore his unlucky stature.

That concern of unbecomingness certainly didn't make any difference as he was skipping along the street after Mister Stubb into an inn with a cheek-splitting grin, of course. It didn't bother him much, even as he tripped on his own feet, and went crashing to his left into Tashtego, who quite purposefully accidentally knocked into Ishmael, elbowing the other man right into the arms of Queequeg.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck knew that he could've stayed on the ship. He didn't. Before that he got fresh water and cleaned a little spot to the reel, washing off the imagined salt. Breaking of the circle. It was perhaps just a coincidence that a sudden wave tilted the ship just afterwards he'd done it. As if something had left. He felt hollow.

He left the ship to Fedallah to manage, who said that he had no interest seeing that many people all of the sudden, that their lively voices made his head hurt, and that he could stay to oversee the ship in the meanwhile. After a careful inspecting of what they needed to get for provisions and repairs it was too late for any realistic hirings or anything else to be done.

Starbuck got off the ship, stood on the dock like he wasn't sure why it didn't tilt under his feet. He felt lost. Out of his element. Many ships, many people. Trees, houses, huts. A dog running with a fish in its mouth. Funny, he hadn't seen a dog in four years.

Unsure of what he'd do he began to wander. He was being followed but he wasn't aware of it. Narrow streets like a maze, somehow he managed to keep track which way he'd came from. He wasn't sure what he was trying to find or run from. Some ladies of the night looked after him, then with a second look, a wink, a shrug, no then, my loss. Eventually he found himself off-town, a forest of sorts. A foreign element, more so that the language the people had spoken in the town.

Starbuck sat down, leaned against the tree, stared at the sky through the canopy. It looked like something out of a dream. So much green against the blue. And then he began to understand that yes, he'd made it this far. Then he thought of the cost. He began to cry. He cried for a good while.

Three pairs of eyes saw him crying, three hands holding knives. Three men waited for the dark.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

There was an odd deja-vu in the act of sitting in an inn and drowning in booze. Sorrows, fears, longings, gone in a haze of warm light. Something they'd not done in such a long time. Not since back in Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, Cape Cod. Not since they'd been back home.

Flask didn't want to think of home, because he feared the ache in his chest would grow too great to ignore. He feared it would consume him and take away any competence he had aboard the Pequod. He feared becoming a madman, like Ahab. He feared focusing on his pain would swallow him away from the moment. They were here, they were happy, they were absolutely sloshed.

Around the time Stubb was breaking out into what felt like his hundredth song of the night, seemingly determined to blow his lungs out this evening, a ruddy-faced Flask realised that he'd not seen Mister (Captain?) Starbuck in several hours.

Of course, the man hadn't joined the rest of them in their adventure off to the boozer, but he'd certainly left the ship. And they'd have certainly seen him at one point, right? Passing by? Checking in on them? There was always the possibility he'd gone off with some woman or man for the evening, but that idea was quickly discarded upon the reminder of just how terribly Starbuck missed his wife.

It was completely silly to say so, because there was definitely, most certainly a rational explanation for his absence. It was a big port. There were several inns. He was a busy man. But something about it just didn't feel right.

[mister-starbuck]

After "something" had taken place in an inn Ishmael wanted to see the village. The first time he was truly out of the States, so it would've been a ridiculous waste if he'd not go and took a look around when he was here. When would he get to see Tahiti again, after all?

Queequeg would've liked to stay in and sleep but he felt a sense of Yojo telling him to follow Ishmael. That it was important. So they both got dressed, got downstairs, sneaked past the new first and second that were utterly hammered and began exploring. Queequeg didn't leave the harpoon in the room, he never did. He took it with him out of habit.

¤

Starbuck was not aware of his surroundings at all. An odd sense of trusting, this was land after all, safety. It was also unfamiliar. He thought of Mary, began running out of tears. He still thought of her when that happened. That left him with a vague headache and a missing that tore and burned and wouldn't cease.

Am I ever going to get to actually be with her? Or just some weeks, months, and then be shipped off again? How many times would he need to do this cursed little sailing trip? How many times more? He could've died on each. Every time he set out he gambled with his life. Each time he set out he was wasting time, wasting years. But if he didn't, Mary and Noah would eventually starve to death.

Starbuck began to think of darker things when he calmed down. The sun began to sink. It's quiet here, he thought. No-one would notice until morning. I left the will to the ship and it's easily to be found. he didn't particularly like thinking of these things, but he did in any case.

For some reason he felt he was being observed. A quieter, nagging little thought. You're not alone. You're not.

He wasn't.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

He wasn't sure what caused him to rise from his relatively comfortable place on the barstool, or what carried his feet away from the warm, welcome glow of the inn and outside again, but Flask was moving.

He wasn't too drunk to know something felt off. And in recent experiences, when something felt off to the man, something always seemed to be happening. Had the ghost followed them ashore? Was Ahab not bound to the ship itself, but bound to someone aboard it? Was the reason they hadn't seen Starbuck in a good while to do with Ahab?

It didn't seem likely, because he'd shouted him right off last time, and it looked like it had the right effect.

So what the devil was it?

He stumbled along, quite regretting having left the inn but not finding it within himself to return. Stubb wouldn't miss him much anyways, he had plenty of drunkards to entertain himself with for one night. He could muck around, and Flask would go off wandering. Wandering was a common theme with them, was it not? Wandering along the waves. Wandering along the world itself.

And now, he’d wandered right off into some grove of vegetation. A forest?

Hah. He'd not seen a forest in a long time.

[mister-starbuck]

You're not alone, the something warned. You're not. Starbuck thought that he had to get a grip. Return to the ship. He couldn't stay here. Couldn't act on something drastic and stupid. He got up, stared back at the way he'd came here. He could've sworn he'd heard something.

"Hello?" he called. I could've sworn I heard something. There was nothing but the forest, a sense of being watched. It was getting a little dark. Suddenly something seemed to take hold of him, senses that had sharpened up years and years in this godawful business. He sensed danger even if he didn't see it.

He knew someone was about to jump at him, likely with a knife. He thought of a common robbery, couldn't think too reasonably after all. He thought that it'd be safer to pretend that he'd heard nothing. Starbuck made himself relax a little, shrugged. Listened. He began to walk slowly back to the town.. and yes, he was being followed. More than one, he thought, listening to the steps. That rustling of foliage.

Starbuck wasn't much for a gamble like this but he knew his options were growing slim. He stopped to wait, pretended to look at his watch. He heard someone taking a sudden running steps, turned around.

A lot of things happened all too quickly. Someone ran at him holding something, would've collided. Would've, but he was thrown off-balance with a sound that everyone present knew too well. A lance flying through the air, that familiar sound of mark not missed. Starbuck had no time of being horrified of it, because he felt that he himself was suddenly yanked backwards and something was placed on his neck. He knew a knife when he felt one.

"Quiet!" the man commanded. Starbuck hadn't listened, had reacted on instinct. He held the knife-hand, tried getting it away from him, trying to figure out who had attacked him and why. He knew he couldn't attempt elbowing him or he'd risk his throat being cut.

He'd been in the business enough to be able to think and act in a situation where his life had been placed as the bet. Starbuck managed to look at the dead man, a lance pointing out from the back, while trying to fight the man off him or the knife off him or both. It was perhaps his luck that he was stronger than he looked like. But of course he couldn't survive against three, not alone, that was. He heard someone running again, someone else yelling something. He thought of the dead man in the midst of this chaos. Has to be Queequeg's handiwork, he thought. Perfect aim between all these trees. Luckily the dead had fallen on his side, had died instantly. Starbuck realized he knew him, one of the men he'd fired earlier. Suddenly it all began making perfect sense. No robbery but a calculated murder attempt.

Ishmael and Queequeg had long ago figured out that they could talk a lot without saying a single word. Either had noticed the men. They had understood in unison what was about to happen. Ishmael had looked around, no witnesses, and nodded. Queequeg had taken aim. Ishmael wasn't that good of a lookout-man, and he'd completely missed Flask.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Well. That little number had certainly been a good-enough wake-up call to the hazed second-mate. Flask began to move, light-footed as he could through the foliage, as to not be seen. Not to cause unnecessary risk, not yet. He didn't want to be killed as a witness now, did he?

Either way, Flask began to fumble for his knife. Never went anywhere without it, not anymore. Not after the voyage they'd had— he doubted he ever would again. That little twinge of paranoia in the back of his head would always be there, no matter how practical of a man he was. No matter how dismissive of the supernatural, of his own fears, he might play.

Just in case.

That ‘just in case’ didn't seem much in case at the moment, with one man dead and Starbuck’s neck being held at the edge of a blade. — He wouldn't allow that. That would not only put Stubb in charge, and nobody particularly liked the idea of that, but move both first and second mates up on the chopping block. Bloodthirsty ships, and all that.

This wasn't the Pequod’s doing, though. Perhaps she'd be angrier if Starbuck got killed, and decide to wreck the lot of them, never to be seen again.

He could feel the hilt of the blade within his fingers now, squeezing it as if it could slip through his fingers. Flask counted to three in his head, and raised his (slightly slurred) voice loud enough to make his presence known.

“The hell's goin’ on here?!”

He held the knife out, towards one of the men, and stepped forward. Too drunk to play peaceful.

[mister-starbuck]

The man holding the knife had a second of panic, he was caught in the act. He knew the unfair fight had started to became a fair one. He swore he wouldn't let Starbuck walk away with it, because he had him there. He would very likely die here but he'd take that godfearing little bastard with him. The fair fight became unfair again, the third man began to back off, shook his head.

Starbuck, grateful of the second of diversion, lunged himself backwards and to the side, hoping to get the man out of balance. The knife scraped but didn't get him while they fell, Nathan still trying to keep the blade away. He'd sworn he wouldn't let go of the man's arm, no matter if he'd get a broken bone or worse.

From there on it was a blur. They fought for the knife again, both down, both got scrapes, bruises and the sort. Nathan had been kicked away, refused to let go of it. Someone was running past him, more yelling. He didn't see Queequeg stepping out from his hiding place, running to the lance, yanking it out and realizing that the third man, in his panic, didn't think at all. He ran in a straight line on a straight, moonlit path. That made it a little too easy for him. This was the man who could hit a whale in the eye from a boat, thirty feet away. He took aim, threw, end of story.

Ishmael stood out in the open staring at the scene, utterly horror-stuck and unable to move.

For all honesty's sakes Starbuck didn't have any worse intent than trying to get the knife away from his face again. For all honesty's sakes he hadn't looked that the blade had pointed down towards the attacker when he pushed the man down along with his knife-hand. For all honesty's sakes he realized what had happened when the blade had already jammed through the throat. Starbuck froze in horror, backtracked on all-fours, suddenly shivering. Oh Good God, he thought. Oh my God, he thought, hoped that he hadn't. The man was already dead.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask was swaying where he stood.

He hadn't even had a chance to fight. Not that it mattered— he was probably too sloshed to do much but blindly swing his blade and hope to strike something.

Well, lucky for him. For all the violence he held within him, Flask wouldn't kill a man if necessary. That was reserved for whales. Killing another human? It left you cold for a bit after, hands clammy and trembling, blood pounding in your ears, wondering how on earth you'd managed to do something like that to another person. A person with a life, a childhood, hopes and dreams, a family who loved and relied on them..

Not that Flask would know how taking a human life felt. Of course not. There weren't any skeletons in the little man's closet that he needed to hide, no more than a child he hadn't known about.

“It’s— Are—” He spluttered.

“Are you all alright?”

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck tried answering something but really couldn't at first. He had a scrape on his neck, second on his wrist (luckily against the bone), third on his palm. He felt dizzy, began thinking if he got hit in the head during that awful affair, his teeth were in blood, a cut on his lip. All of it likely looked worse than it was, bloodstains and the such. The dead man with his own knife pointing up from his neck, his own hands on the hilt.

Starbuck began to feel that he'd surely got scraped a little, a panicked sense he felt his own neck with. Realized that he would live, a few stitches and that would do it. He tried collecting himself, couldn't. Really, really couldn't. He'd killed two men in a matter of weeks. One he loved and one he despised. Both dead by his hands. What .. or whom was he becoming? And where headed? Well, where did killers go?

He sat down, backtracked from the dead even more. Stared at his own bloody hands, he was in a cold sweat, trembling. "I didn't .. I didn't mean.."

"He'll live," Queequeg declared after taking a look at his injuries. Of all people in the crew he'd actually seen war and not just fights like this. Then he thought of it. Again Starbuck killing someone. Come on, man, he thought. After all the whales you've killed now it's the time to get horrified? Well, he can't help it. "Might need a drink?"

Ishmael tried shaking himself out of his sudden fright. That's three men dead in a span of seconds, he thought. He' would've died here if we hadn't gone for a walk. And what's Flask doing in here, anyway?

"What are we gonna do with the .." Ishmael asked. The dead, he thought, pointing at the nearest body. He knew he shouldn't have looked and still did so. He'd seen the damage that harpoons did on whales. And now he'd seen the damage it could do on a person. He began to feel ill, too.

"Hide them?" Queequeg replied.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek, steeled himself, and spoke up again.

“Wrap them up.” His not-quite-sobriety, swirled up with deja-vu, made the man feel rather hazy. He hadn't meant to— it might not've even been him the first time around, it could've been any one of them in that inn. It only mattered that a man had ended up dead and it had fallen to Flask to cover it up. “In hammocks, sail-cloths, linens, whatever. Something that'll cover them fully. Like when they die at sea.”

He could hardly recognise his own voice. It didn't feel like his, it was all firm and cracking, like a bottle about to shatter. “Carry them out of here. Find a ditch, or dig a hole or something, and cover them in dirt. Deep enough not to be found if someone goes looking.”

His fists were clenched something awful, and had gone white. “We don't know what happened to them. They were fired, and that was the last we saw of them. Someone else did this.”

With any luck he'd make it back to the inn before Stubb had noticed he was gone. “People die at sea all the time. Why should they be any different?”

[mister-starbuck]

It has to be done, Starbuck thought. Then he looked away, tried calming down. There was some purple flower that he hadn't seen before. He stared at it when he began to plan. He was still in a bad shape mentally but tried ignoring it until he'd calmed down. He knew he couldn't look at his hands, now. Color of blood in this business meant survival. Funny that it did so now, too.

"I don't think we have time for graves. There's a.. small bay a little that way," Starbuck thought aloud. Sea burial, he thought. Once again. Yet again. "There's not much around it. Nothing on sea, the coast is too shallow. It should.. be ideal."

He didn't need to tell that he had considered drowning himself in the same bay a little earlier, wandering past it. Just walking to the sea and laying down. And here he was alive, after someone else had left this world instead of him. After someone had attempted at his life, and he'd fought back just because suddenly dying didn't sound ideal at all. Acted on instincts like.. some other things did. Things that were still out there, on sea. Holding grudges.

Or was he thinking of it too much?

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask nodded at Starbuck’s suggestion of the bay.

“That works just fine.”

How’d they get to this point? It was just a whaling voyage, how did they manage to build a body count? He swallowed.

That wasn't the issue at hand right now.

“Ishmael, go back to the ship. Find some canvas or old hammock or sail cloth. Find something, and make it quick.” They couldn't afford to get caught, not now. They'd come too far for rotting in jail and were intent on survival.

One way to go about it was to think of it like a whale— you don't second guess killing the whale, you just do it. Flask relished in it, even! Separate the body lying in front of you from the man you once knew. Whaling was a business drenched in blood. What happens on voyages doesn't follow you afterwards (unless you're the vengeful spirit of Captain Ahab, but that's irrelevant.)

The second mate wanted to make a joke. Try and lighten the mood, try and stop any of them from breaking down, but he wasn't Stubb. He didn't do that. A joke would be too inappropriate.

[mister-starbuck]

THE LONG WAY HOME VOL 7

EDITOR’S NOTE, previously: Ahab has been murdered, along with a several others. The ship is trying to return home. Tensions between the crew have not gone down. They saw Moby and there was a discussion of wether to lower or not (they didn't, which is the reason everyone is still here). Stubb's bad joke resulted in a little snap from Starbuck. As if someone else had been acting through him.

//// @mrstubb-2ndmate WROTE ////

Mister Stubb became quite still, stock and stone, when he was spoken to. He didn't say a word. Only, staring directly into the eyes of the other man, refusing to lower his gaze —as if trying to stand his ground. A very hard expression came on his jovial, cruel face.

Stubb did not like to be made a fool of by anyone other than himself. He used that as a method of protecting himself, one supposes, lording his power in hierarchy over others and treating it as though it was all a joke. And now, he was being made a fool, by the one man on the ship he couldn't do so with. That lovely order and merit came back to bite him in the arse after all.

He knew better than to argue with superiors. He'd learned rather early on in the voyage not to do so. He didn't bite (though how desperately he wanted to. Take the bait and argue along, claim he certainly was not a madman and didn't appreciate being taken as such). ‘Down, dog, and kennel!’ Hissed avoice inside his head.

He could feel his fingers twitch ever-so-slightly when his wife was mentioned. How she'd cried when they'd set off— and he would be fool enough to die? Make it worse? Stubb wanted to knock Starbuck’s teeth out in that moment. Just a little bit. He was no fool, he was no madman, and he was not to die on this voyage.

Not that he didn't know what game Starbuck was playing. He just hadn't realised how fucking good he was at it. And it infuriated him. He wouldn't lower that damned boat— it had been a jest, anyway. He wouldn't go after that fucking whale.

Stubb swallowed, and simply said.

“I’ll see to the sail.”

He turned on his heels and walked off to lick his wounded pride. He'd be over it, eventually, but poor Bulkington was looking to be bullied far more aggressively than he usually was this afternoon.

//// END QUOTE ////

Starbuck looked when the man left, careful inspecting of him. You better not take this out on anyone, he thought. For a moment there was something a little too familiar in his eyes. Ahab peeking out, a ghost of a ghost.

That malicious intent left. At first he didn’t notice it, then the thing he did notice was that odd urge for violence had left. It had just left. He crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly confused. What in God’s name is going on in this ship, he thought. That wasn’t me. I don’t act like that. If I have something to say as criticism I'll do it one-one. I can’t understand what got to me.. unless.

Yes. Unless he’d got possessed by the previous Captain.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Stubb wouldn't be half-shocked if Starbuck was possessed by the previous captain. If that disappearing had just been his spirit passing through, into the other man's body. Into the other man's head.

(To be completely fair, Ahab could possess Starbuck's mind, his memory, without having to have done it through any paranormal bullshit. The relationship they'd had wasn't one a man could forget easily. Not the barking orders, the burning gazes, the lingering touches. Not a second of it.)

Mister Stubb didn't care all that much about it, though. He grumbled through gritted teeth, cracking the joints in his neck as he stalked past Bulkington.

-

Flask swallowed. Not a gulp, exactly, not a frightened one, but ever-so-slightly nervous, as he watched Stubb’s retreating figure.

Someone could die at any moment, he'd realised, and I'll be higher on the ladder.

Did he really want that? Really, truly? He'd wanted to be an officer, but that came with hunger. Did more power come at the price of less and less food? Did it come with the ship herself having a taste for his blood? Was that really worth it, at the end of it all?

[mister-starbuck]

"We're going home," Starbuck concluded. He felt a little ashamed of himself lecturing someone under the other's noses. No-one's got the rank to intervene me acting badly, he thought. I have to remember that. Then again he thought; he had it coming. No-one else can intervene him acting badly but me.

He wondered how close he was to that hypothetical madness that seemed to eat Captains for breakfast, lunch and dinner on ships like these. He wondered if one could realize oneself going mad. He wondered if him wondering of this was either proof of him being cautious and therefore not mad, or already too far-gone into self-deception and therefore mad.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

How many times has that been said by now?

Mister Flask folded his arms. He couldn't let them shake, couldn't allow himself to be made a spectacle of by some observation crew member. He was a mate, an officer. After everything, he still had some odd little need for the regard of their crew. Respect from the fellows on the lower rungs. They all did— he supposed that all people had some inherent belief that as an individual, they were above someone else. That's how hierarchies were created, right?

That was how mutinies started.

“Yessir.” He murmured, his voice a touch higher than he intended.

[mister-starbuck]

I just want to get home, Starbuck thought. I'm sick and tired of this whole ship and nearly everyone on it. That made him look around for the ones he actually did like. He did attempt liking everyone and being decent to the few he couldn't stand. He concentrated on the people that he considered friends.. or a son. There was Pip again, who looked completely exhausted. Starbuck knew why, being terrified was actually a lot of work.

He noticed Fedallah looking a little thoughtful. I wonder what he's thinking of.

He thought of the firings and hirings he should've been thinking of. It was perhaps less than a week* from now.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask considered perhaps going off to talk to some deckhand, to find some irrelevant topic to distract himself with— then again, conversations like that tended to circle back to food. And he didn't think he quite wanted to think about food yet.

Besides, the other side of the deck, where most of the men who hadn't yet gone below remained, was currently occupied by an angry, rather humiliated sleeping lion by the name of Mister Stubb. And Flask knew not to poke sleeping lions.

Not that Stubb didn't deserve it. He was a bastard sometimes, worse than normal. But he was off licking his wounds and following behind might risk the now-second mate getting thrown overboard. To which the now-first would follow, because Starbuck wouldn't have that.

To Flask’s relief, he could see salvation from the situation. A retreating Daggoo, moving back below deck— he tried not to jump in excitement, skittering to follow him. If only to avoid any more awkwardness.

“Excuse me.” He muttered quickly to Starbuck and Fedallah.

[mister-starbuck]

EDITOR'S NOTE: SKIPPED TO NEAREST SHORE (still somewhere in the pacific)

Here it was. Land. The sight of trees. Ships and boats, going or coming. People in them. Some woman that was checking her nets with a kid staring at the ship going past, looking utterly bored.

Starbuck stared at the approaching shoreline, feeling more homesick than usual. This was still the Pacific. Home was still one year away. It could be more, even. A lot could happen in one year. They could all be dead in one year. Well, perhaps it was better that he didn't go around telling of these wonderings to anyone. The woman and the kid made it sting the more. He reminded himself that his son wasn't as old as the kid on the boat, but older. Taller. In a moment of utter misery he thought if Noah would even remember him. The girl that Fedallah had told him of surely wouldn't.

Some superstition prevented Starbuck thinking that they had made it, knowing that realistically it was way too soon to think so. People looked at him with smiles, some already planning the usual: drinking, debauchery and gambling. They hadn't made it yet but Starbuck didn't want to ruin the mood.

The few men with bad manners and worse characters seemed a little alarmed. They knew they were not welcome to return. They were allowed to leave, and they would get paid (not in full, though) before that. Starbuck knew that the money would find its way onto the nearest inn and ultimately to some girl's pocket before sunrise. The men would end up penniless soon enough. There was some comfort in knowing that. He wondered if someone else of the crew would start up a rumour that those three had killed someone and had attempted mutiny. In that case no ship would hire them. They would stay here. A shorter life of crime when no-one would hire them for anything legal.

Bulkington himself had been placed to a parole of a kind. He could stay. But if he was caught from something like that ever again, he would lose every single coin that he'd made in four years. He wanted to return home, he swore on his soul that he wouldn't fool around again. When that hadn't been believed, he'd suggested the parole contract. What had saved him hadn't been mercy, not really. It had been that good helmsmen were hard to find from a port this small in the timespan that they had.

Starbuck thought that they had made it this far. There was something to be a little happy of at least. He wondered if he could have Fedallah assisting in the hiring process that would need to follow before they could leave, because he knew things. Better not hire any more rogues.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Other than Starbuck, the attitude was generally one of celebration. You take the small wins in life— and this felt like slightly more than a small win. Dry land for the first time in what felt like centuries. No White Whales to get them here.

Fresh fruit. Water. A steady ground underfoot. One could hardly miss the roar of the crew when they docked. A crashing wave of jubilation it was indeed! Stubb’s pride had recovered after a rather small amount of time, bouncing back energetically as ever, and Flask felt as though he was ready to sob of relief when someone had started to yell about land.

He didn't sob, of course. It would be unbecoming of him, as the second mate of a whaling vessel, who quite badly needed people to respect him and ignore his unlucky stature.

That concern of unbecomingness certainly didn't make any difference as he was skipping along the street after Mister Stubb into an inn with a cheek-splitting grin, of course. It didn't bother him much, even as he tripped on his own feet, and went crashing to his left into Tashtego, who quite purposefully accidentally knocked into Ishmael, elbowing the other man right into the arms of Queequeg.

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck knew that he could've stayed on the ship. He didn't. Before that he got fresh water and cleaned a little spot to the reel, washing off the imagined salt. Breaking of the circle. It was perhaps just a coincidence that a sudden wave tilted the ship just afterwards he'd done it. As if something had left. He felt hollow.

He left the ship to Fedallah to manage, who said that he had no interest seeing that many people all of the sudden, that their lively voices made his head hurt, and that he could stay to oversee the ship in the meanwhile. After a careful inspecting of what they needed to get for provisions and repairs it was too late for any realistic hirings or anything else to be done.

Starbuck got off the ship, stood on the dock like he wasn't sure why it didn't tilt under his feet. He felt lost. Out of his element. Many ships, many people. Trees, houses, huts. A dog running with a fish in its mouth. Funny, he hadn't seen a dog in four years.

Unsure of what he'd do he began to wander. He was being followed but he wasn't aware of it. Narrow streets like a maze, somehow he managed to keep track which way he'd came from. He wasn't sure what he was trying to find or run from. Some ladies of the night looked after him, then with a second look, a wink, a shrug, no then, my loss. Eventually he found himself off-town, a forest of sorts. A foreign element, more so that the language the people had spoken in the town.

Starbuck sat down, leaned against the tree, stared at the sky through the canopy. It looked like something out of a dream. So much green against the blue. And then he began to understand that yes, he'd made it this far. Then he thought of the cost. He began to cry. He cried for a good while.

Three pairs of eyes saw him crying, three hands holding knives. Three men waited for the dark.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

There was an odd deja-vu in the act of sitting in an inn and drowning in booze. Sorrows, fears, longings, gone in a haze of warm light. Something they'd not done in such a long time. Not since back in Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, Cape Cod. Not since they'd been back home.

Flask didn't want to think of home, because he feared the ache in his chest would grow too great to ignore. He feared it would consume him and take away any competence he had aboard the Pequod. He feared becoming a madman, like Ahab. He feared focusing on his pain would swallow him away from the moment. They were here, they were happy, they were absolutely sloshed.

Around the time Stubb was breaking out into what felt like his hundredth song of the night, seemingly determined to blow his lungs out this evening, a ruddy-faced Flask realised that he'd not seen Mister (Captain?) Starbuck in several hours.

Of course, the man hadn't joined the rest of them in their adventure off to the boozer, but he'd certainly left the ship. And they'd have certainly seen him at one point, right? Passing by? Checking in on them? There was always the possibility he'd gone off with some woman or man for the evening, but that idea was quickly discarded upon the reminder of just how terribly Starbuck missed his wife.

It was completely silly to say so, because there was definitely, most certainly a rational explanation for his absence. It was a big port. There were several inns. He was a busy man. But something about it just didn't feel right.

[mister-starbuck]

After "something" had taken place in an inn Ishmael wanted to see the village. The first time he was truly out of the States, so it would've been a ridiculous waste if he'd not go and took a look around when he was here. When would he get to see Tahiti again, after all?

Queequeg would've liked to stay in and sleep but he felt a sense of Yojo telling him to follow Ishmael. That it was important. So they both got dressed, got downstairs, sneaked past the new first and second that were utterly hammered and began exploring. Queequeg didn't leave the harpoon in the room, he never did. He took it with him out of habit.

¤

Starbuck was not aware of his surroundings at all. An odd sense of trusting, this was land after all, safety. It was also unfamiliar. He thought of Mary, began running out of tears. He still thought of her when that happened. That left him with a vague headache and a missing that tore and burned and wouldn't cease.

Am I ever going to get to actually be with her? Or just some weeks, months, and then be shipped off again? How many times would he need to do this cursed little sailing trip? How many times more? He could've died on each. Every time he set out he gambled with his life. Each time he set out he was wasting time, wasting years. But if he didn't, Mary and Noah would eventually starve to death.

Starbuck began to think of darker things when he calmed down. The sun began to sink. It's quiet here, he thought. No-one would notice until morning. I left the will to the ship and it's easily to be found. he didn't particularly like thinking of these things, but he did in any case.

For some reason he felt he was being observed. A quieter, nagging little thought. You're not alone. You're not.

He wasn't.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

He wasn't sure what caused him to rise from his relatively comfortable place on the barstool, or what carried his feet away from the warm, welcome glow of the inn and outside again, but Flask was moving.

He wasn't too drunk to know something felt off. And in recent experiences, when something felt off to the man, something always seemed to be happening. Had the ghost followed them ashore? Was Ahab not bound to the ship itself, but bound to someone aboard it? Was the reason they hadn't seen Starbuck in a good while to do with Ahab?

It didn't seem likely, because he'd shouted him right off last time, and it looked like it had the right effect.

So what the devil was it?

He stumbled along, quite regretting having left the inn but not finding it within himself to return. Stubb wouldn't miss him much anyways, he had plenty of drunkards to entertain himself with for one night. He could muck around, and Flask would go off wandering. Wandering was a common theme with them, was it not? Wandering along the waves. Wandering along the world itself.

And now, he’d wandered right off into some grove of vegetation. A forest?

Hah. He'd not seen a forest in a long time.

[mister-starbuck]

You're not alone, the something warned. You're not. Starbuck thought that he had to get a grip. Return to the ship. He couldn't stay here. Couldn't act on something drastic and stupid. He got up, stared back at the way he'd came here. He could've sworn he'd heard something.

"Hello?" he called. I could've sworn I heard something. There was nothing but the forest, a sense of being watched. It was getting a little dark. Suddenly something seemed to take hold of him, senses that had sharpened up years and years in this godawful business. He sensed danger even if he didn't see it.

He knew someone was about to jump at him, likely with a knife. He thought of a common robbery, couldn't think too reasonably after all. He thought that it'd be safer to pretend that he'd heard nothing. Starbuck made himself relax a little, shrugged. Listened. He began to walk slowly back to the town.. and yes, he was being followed. More than one, he thought, listening to the steps. That rustling of foliage.

Starbuck wasn't much for a gamble like this but he knew his options were growing slim. He stopped to wait, pretended to look at his watch. He heard someone taking a sudden running steps, turned around.

A lot of things happened all too quickly. Someone ran at him holding something, would've collided. Would've, but he was thrown off-balance with a sound that everyone present knew too well. A lance flying through the air, that familiar sound of mark not missed. Starbuck had no time of being horrified of it, because he felt that he himself was suddenly yanked backwards and something was placed on his neck. He knew a knife when he felt one.

"Quiet!" the man commanded. Starbuck hadn't listened, had reacted on instinct. He held the knife-hand, tried getting it away from him, trying to figure out who had attacked him and why. He knew he couldn't attempt elbowing him or he'd risk his throat being cut.

He'd been in the business enough to be able to think and act in a situation where his life had been placed as the bet. Starbuck managed to look at the dead man, a lance pointing out from the back, while trying to fight the man off him or the knife off him or both. It was perhaps his luck that he was stronger than he looked like. But of course he couldn't survive against three, not alone, that was. He heard someone running again, someone else yelling something. He thought of the dead man in the midst of this chaos. Has to be Queequeg's handiwork, he thought. Perfect aim between all these trees. Luckily the dead had fallen on his side, had died instantly. Starbuck realized he knew him, one of the men he'd fired earlier. Suddenly it all began making perfect sense. No robbery but a calculated murder attempt.

Ishmael and Queequeg had long ago figured out that they could talk a lot without saying a single word. Either had noticed the men. They had understood in unison what was about to happen. Ishmael had looked around, no witnesses, and nodded. Queequeg had taken aim. Ishmael wasn't that good of a lookout-man, and he'd completely missed Flask.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Well. That little number had certainly been a good-enough wake-up call to the hazed second-mate. Flask began to move, light-footed as he could through the foliage, as to not be seen. Not to cause unnecessary risk, not yet. He didn't want to be killed as a witness now, did he?

Either way, Flask began to fumble for his knife. Never went anywhere without it, not anymore. Not after the voyage they'd had— he doubted he ever would again. That little twinge of paranoia in the back of his head would always be there, no matter how practical of a man he was. No matter how dismissive of the supernatural, of his own fears, he might play.

Just in case.

That ‘just in case’ didn't seem much in case at the moment, with one man dead and Starbuck’s neck being held at the edge of a blade. — He wouldn't allow that. That would not only put Stubb in charge, and nobody particularly liked the idea of that, but move both first and second mates up on the chopping block. Bloodthirsty ships, and all that.

This wasn't the Pequod’s doing, though. Perhaps she'd be angrier if Starbuck got killed, and decide to wreck the lot of them, never to be seen again.

He could feel the hilt of the blade within his fingers now, squeezing it as if it could slip through his fingers. Flask counted to three in his head, and raised his (slightly slurred) voice loud enough to make his presence known.

“The hell's goin’ on here?!”

He held the knife out, towards one of the men, and stepped forward. Too drunk to play peaceful.

[mister-starbuck]

The man holding the knife had a second of panic, he was caught in the act. He knew the unfair fight had started to became a fair one. He swore he wouldn't let Starbuck walk away with it, because he had him there. He would very likely die here but he'd take that godfearing little bastard with him. The fair fight became unfair again, the third man began to back off, shook his head.

Starbuck, grateful of the second of diversion, lunged himself backwards and to the side, hoping to get the man out of balance. The knife scraped but didn't get him while they fell, Nathan still trying to keep the blade away. He'd sworn he wouldn't let go of the man's arm, no matter if he'd get a broken bone or worse.

From there on it was a blur. They fought for the knife again, both down, both got scrapes, bruises and the sort. Nathan had been kicked away, refused to let go of it. Someone was running past him, more yelling. He didn't see Queequeg stepping out from his hiding place, running to the lance, yanking it out and realizing that the third man, in his panic, didn't think at all. He ran in a straight line on a straight, moonlit path. That made it a little too easy for him. This was the man who could hit a whale in the eye from a boat, thirty feet away. He took aim, threw, end of story.

Ishmael stood out in the open staring at the scene, utterly horror-stuck and unable to move.

For all honesty's sakes Starbuck didn't have any worse intent than trying to get the knife away from his face again. For all honesty's sakes he hadn't looked that the blade had pointed down towards the attacker when he pushed the man down along with his knife-hand. For all honesty's sakes he realized what had happened when the blade had already jammed through the throat. Starbuck froze in horror, backtracked on all-fours, suddenly shivering. Oh Good God, he thought. Oh my God, he thought, hoped that he hadn't. The man was already dead.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask was swaying where he stood.

He hadn't even had a chance to fight. Not that it mattered— he was probably too sloshed to do much but blindly swing his blade and hope to strike something.

Well, lucky for him. For all the violence he held within him, Flask wouldn't kill a man if necessary. That was reserved for whales. Killing another human? It left you cold for a bit after, hands clammy and trembling, blood pounding in your ears, wondering how on earth you'd managed to do something like that to another person. A person with a life, a childhood, hopes and dreams, a family who loved and relied on them..

Not that Flask would know how taking a human life felt. Of course not. There weren't any skeletons in the little man's closet that he needed to hide, no more than a child he hadn't known about.

“It’s— Are—” He spluttered.

“Are you all alright?”

[mister-starbuck]

Starbuck tried answering something but really couldn't at first. He had a scrape on his neck, second on his wrist (luckily against the bone), third on his palm. He felt dizzy, began thinking if he got hit in the head during that awful affair, his teeth were in blood, a cut on his lip. All of it likely looked worse than it was, bloodstains and the such. The dead man with his own knife pointing up from his neck, his own hands on the hilt.

Starbuck began to feel that he'd surely got scraped a little, a panicked sense he felt his own neck with. Realized that he would live, a few stitches and that would do it. He tried collecting himself, couldn't. Really, really couldn't. He'd killed two men in a matter of weeks. One he loved and one he despised. Both dead by his hands. What .. or whom was he becoming? And where headed? Well, where did killers go?

He sat down, backtracked from the dead even more. Stared at his own bloody hands, he was in a cold sweat, trembling. "I didn't .. I didn't mean.."

"He'll live," Queequeg declared after taking a look at his injuries. Of all people in the crew he'd actually seen war and not just fights like this. Then he thought of it. Again Starbuck killing someone. Come on, man, he thought. After all the whales you've killed now it's the time to get horrified? Well, he can't help it. "Might need a drink?"

Ishmael tried shaking himself out of his sudden fright. That's three men dead in a span of seconds, he thought. He' would've died here if we hadn't gone for a walk. And what's Flask doing in here, anyway?

"What are we gonna do with the .." Ishmael asked. The dead, he thought, pointing at the nearest body. He knew he shouldn't have looked and still did so. He'd seen the damage that harpoons did on whales. And now he'd seen the damage it could do on a person. He began to feel ill, too.

"Hide them?" Queequeg replied.

[mrstubb-2ndmate]

Flask chewed the inside of his cheek, steeled himself, and spoke up again.

“Wrap them up.” His not-quite-sobriety, swirled up with deja-vu, made the man feel rather hazy. He hadn't meant to— it might not've even been him the first time around, it could've been any one of them in that inn. It only mattered that a man had ended up dead and it had fallen to Flask to cover it up. “In hammocks, sail-cloths, linens, whatever. Something that'll cover them fully. Like when they die at sea.”

He could hardly recognise his own voice. It didn't feel like his, it was all firm and cracking, like a bottle about to shatter. “Carry them out of here. Find a ditch, or dig a hole or something, and cover them in dirt. Deep enough not to be found if someone goes looking.”

His fists were clenched something awful, and had gone white. “We don't know what happened to them. They were fired, and that was the last we saw of them. Someone else did this.”

With any luck he'd make it back to the inn before Stubb had noticed he was gone. “People die at sea all the time. Why should they be any different?”