The Mariner's Tale
When Digby Mallory went home to Nantucket, he was not surprised to see how little the island had changed during his absence. He had always believed that the land of his birth was a place where time stood still. It had been five years since that glorious day in 1837 when he reached the age of maturity and left New England to live in New York City, and there were few new homes built during that time and even fewer new businesses.
Llewellyn Mallory, Digby's father, was a wealthy man who owned one of the largest shipbuilding companies in America. Born and raised in Salem when Massachusetts was still a colony of Great Britain, the old man was a Yankee through and through, a devout Christian who believed in the sanctity of the family and in the Puritan work ethic. Carlton Mallory, Llewellyn's firstborn son, was a credit to the family and dutifully attempted to follow in his father's footsteps.
His younger boy was a different matter, however. In short, Digby was a wastrel, an idle young man who wanted no part of the family business except to collect the quarterly dividends he was due. He cared little for family life, preferring to cavort with actresses, tavern keepers, gamblers and others of low birth and questionable morals. He had only come back to Nantucket to attend his brother's wedding, an occasion that promised to be the social event of the season—not that Nantucket had much of a social scene.
After the church service (a long, drawn-out ceremony that caused more than one guest's head to nod in sleep), Digby, accompanied by two of his childhood friends, walked back to his father's house where the wedding reception was to be held. As the three young men neared the Mallory mansion, they spied an old mariner with skin like leather, and long hair and beard grown white with age.
"Have you got a minute to spare?" the ancient creature asked the young gentlemen, in a croaking, rasping voice.
Although the two friends pretended not to hear the aged stranger and quickened their pace to avoid him, Digby stopped a moment in response to the man's entreaty.
"What is it you want?" Mallory asked, more out of curiosity than human kindness.
"Only to talk to you. Surely you can take some time out of your busy schedule to speak to me."
Digby looked the stranger in the eye. It was an eye as blue as the Atlantic, unclouded by time, an eye so bright and piercing that it mesmerized the younger man.
"I'm supposed to be at my brother's wedding reception," he explained, nodding toward the grand house at the end of the driveway, "but I suppose I can spare you a minute or two. After all, it's not my marriage they're celebrating."
With some difficulty, the old man sat down on a large boulder that stood sentinel on the corner of Llewellyn Mallory's property. Digby sat on a neighboring rock of similar size and shape. The first strains of music came from the open window of the house, signifying that the wedding festivities had begun, but Digby gave the old man his undivided attention.
* * *
"In my youth, I sailed the seas," the elderly stranger began his tale. "It was a life I loved, and one I was well suited to. While the sea can be a fickle mistress, she always favored me with good fortune—that is, until one fine spring day when my shipmates and I set out of Boston Harbor aboard the brigantine Lady Martha on the morning tide. Many a teary-eyed lass came to bid her man a safe voyage, and many a mother, too, to take leave of her son. We could hear the people on the docks cheer as we safely cleared the harbor and headed toward the open sea. The beginning of our voyage was uneventful. Fair weather was with us as we made our way south. Blessed with a steady wind in our sail, we neared Cape Horn ahead of schedule."
The sounds of merriment from the mansion momentarily captured Digby's attention. He wanted to take his leave of the stranger and join in the drinking and dancing, but the white-haired seafarer continued with his narrative.
"Then came a storm, the likes of which none of us had ever seen before. The strong wind and driving rain pushed our ship far to the south, where sailing vessels had never ventured. We sailed to a region of mist and snow where we had to navigate through large mountains of ice. Soon we came upon a land so desolate that it supported neither man nor beast. Nay, not even the hardiest plants could withstand its frigid temperatures.
"The officers and crew alike began to fear for their lives. The helmsman was afraid that we would rip open our hull on an iceberg. The navigator knew not where to plot a course, for there was naught but ice all around us, and the frozen mist made visibility nearly nonexistent.
"Then, after a time, there came a great seabird through the mist. We cheered the presence of the albatross, the only one of God's creatures we found in that cursed frozen wasteland. It was an omen, some of my shipmates cried, for no sooner did the bird appear than a break in the ice was discovered, and our helmsman was able to safely steer the Lady Martha through.
"We were safe! Once we were on a course north toward warmer climes, despite a heavy fog that seemed to engulf our ship, the members of the crew celebrated with food and drink. Some men played music, some sang and others danced with joy on the deck of the ship."
Digby looked with surprise at the old man's sad countenance.
"Why are you so despondent, then? You and your shipmates were saved from what was surely a life-threatening situation."
The mariner shook his head, fighting back his tears.
"Because in my drunkenness, I brought disaster to all aboard the vessel. In a moment of madness—for undoubtedly I could not have been in my right mind at the time—I picked up my crossbow and shot that wondrous bird.
"My shipmates cried out against me. What had I done? In one rash moment, I had wantonly killed the creature of good omen. However, within minutes of my foul deed, the fog lifted. And since men who follow the sea are notoriously superstitious, my shipmates changed their minds. Perhaps it had been the albatross that brought the fog. The bird might very well have been cursed, for not a man would go near its remains. Maybe my killing it had been justified, they hoped, and the bird's death would bring us a safe voyage."
"And did it?" Digby asked.
"It seemed to at first. We had a steady breeze that carried our ship north out of the frozen wasteland, but sadly when we were far from any port, the wind died down. We were on a calm, open sea with no wind to carry us along. The mercilessly hot sun beat down on us, and our supply of fresh water was gone in a few days.
"With nothing to drink, the men again turned on me. The fault was mine, they cried. As punishment one of my fellow crewmen picked up the rotting carcass of the dead albatross and hung it about my neck. I was condemned to wear it as a constant reminder of my transgression.
"That night, many of the men were plagued by dreams of a spirit of the frozen south, one of the invisible giants who walk the earth, neither dead nor alive, not man, ghost or angel. This spirit of the frigid elements had followed the Lady Martha from the time I killed the albatross, or so declared the denizens of Morpheus' realm.
"When we were all on the verge of death—our lips blackened and our throats so parched with thirst that we couldn't speak—I spotted another fog rolling in, and in the midst of that fog, I saw a mighty ship. Perhaps its crew would have fresh water to spare, I thought optimistically. As the ship neared, I tried to call out for help, but not a sound escaped my dry throat.
"In desperation, I raised my arm to my mouth and bit down as hard as I could. I drank my own blood in an effort to moisten my vocal cords. The warm, coppery-tasting liquid somewhat eased my throat, and I called out as long and as loud as I could. Unable to speak, my shipmates expressed their joy in gestures rather than words.
"Although no wind or tide aided its course, the strange ship headed directly toward us. The sun was resting on the western horizon when the ship came alongside ours. When I got a good look at the vessel, my blood turned cold. What horrors I beheld! The fiery rays of the setting sun shone right through the skeletal bones of the ship. Like a long-dead corpse, the ribs of the boat were clearly visible, and no flesh clung to its bones.
"Aboard the skeleton ship was the specter of a woman. Beside her was Death, her mate. The woman had a face as pale as snow, lips as red as blood and hair as yellow as gold. She might have been thought beautiful except her eyes were black and lifeless, for she was not human. Like her mate, she was a Fate. Only she was no grim reaper; she was Life-in-Death and, as such, was to be feared more than her forbidding companion.
"As the Death Ship closed the remaining distance between itself and the Lady Martha, I could see the two Fates casting dice, gaming for our lives, one doomed sailor at a time. Death—as was usually the case—was the mighty victor that day, winning the souls of the entire crew, but one. To my everlasting torment and misery, Life-in-Death had rolled the dice and won my soul.
"As the full moon rose in the sky, I turned to see my shipmates fall. Silently, without so much as a groan or sigh, they fell, one by one, each turning his face to me as he expired and cursing me with his lifeless eyes. In all, one hundred and twelve men died that day. Their souls departed from their bodies and passed by me with the speed of an arrow shot from my crossbow, on their way to either heaven or hell, depending upon their deeds."
Digby stared at the grizzled old mariner and wondered if it was a madman or phantom who was telling the incredible tale. Either way, the young Mallory doubted it was safe to be alone with the ancient seafarer.
"Fear not," the mariner assured him, as though he had read the younger man's mind. "I did not fall down dead with my shipmates that day. I was left alive but all alone aboard that ship on the wide open sea, surrounded by the dead men I had known and worked beside for many a year.
"I turned my face toward heaven and tried to pray for salvation, but the words escaped me. I closed my eyes to avoid seeing the dead bodies around me, for on each face was still the look of accusation. For seven days and nights, I remained alone amidst one hundred and twelve corpses that surprisingly neither rotted nor reeked. During that time, I waited for my turn to die, but it did not come.
"For want of anything else to do, I looked down into the watery Atlantic and watched the fish and serpents that swam there. I had never before noticed how beautiful they were. Suddenly, I felt love for all the living beings of the sea, and, although I could not speak aloud of their beauty, in my heart I blessed them.
"It was then, as my bosom swelled with love for God's creatures, that a miracle occurred. The dead bird fell from my neck, and my voice was restored. Peace came upon me, and I slept. My body and mind gained strength in a gentle, restful slumber, one not plagued by disturbing dreams. Afterward, when I awoke it was raining. My face was soon wet and my clothes damp. I drank greedily of the freshwater that fell from above. So desperate was I to slake my thirst that I licked the moisture from the deck of the ship.
"Then the most bizarre storm brewed. I could plainly hear the roar of mighty winds, yet not even a faint breeze blew. Still, the ship moved, for the sound alone seemed to propel it, though its sails remained limp and lifeless. Overhead the moon shone in a clear sky. Strange lightning that did not crack or bellow with thunder rent the darkness of night, and suddenly the dead men around me—all one hundred and twelve of them—rose as one. None spoke or moved an eye, but each lifeless crewman took the post he had once manned in life. The body of the helmsman went to the helm and steered the ship. Even my dead nephew stood beside me as we worked the ropes, but he spoke not a word."
"Were you not terrified to be surrounded by so many phantoms?" Digby asked.
"No," the mariner replied, "for it was not the souls of my dead shipmates that returned to their bodies. Rather, it was a host of angels sent to earth in response to my prayer. When morning dawned, the possessed dead men gathered around the mast. Beatific sounds passed from their mouths, and then the saintly spirits passed from the dead men's bodies. These beings of light danced above me, singing in voices that one moment sounded like an angelic choir and the next like instruments and the next like larks. Eventually, their song came to an end, the angels returned to the bodies of the fallen crewmen and the ship sailed on over the calm, windless sea."
Digby shook his head, doubting the old man's sanity.
"How could a ship sail without any wind?" he asked.
"From nine fathoms beneath the sea, the spirit from the frozen south drove the Lady Martha at the bidding of the angelic band. Yet that spirit still demanded vengeance for my killing of the albatross. At noon one day, the ship came to a sudden stop and momentarily stood still on a tranquil ocean. Suddenly, with a quick, unnatural motion, it lunged forward. It took off with such speed that I was thrown down onto the deck. My head spun from both the blow I'd received in the fall and from the great speed at which the ship traveled. While I lay only half conscious, I heard the voices of two of the invisible giants that had come to help the spirit of the frozen south exact its vengeance.
"One giant told the other how the spirit of the south loved the albatross that I had thoughtlessly slain with my crossbow. His fellow titan, with a softer, gentler voice, declared that I had already done penance for my sin. Still, the spirit of the south decided that my atonement was not complete.
"I remained in a trance, kept there deliberately, for at the reckless speed the ship traveled no human being could survive. When I at last awoke, the ship slowed and sailed at a normal speed. It was a peaceful night, and the moon was high in the heavens. The dead men stood together on the deck, their stony eyes all fixed on me. Apparently, the curse with which they died had not died with them. I could not turn away, and again I could not pray.
"Then I felt a breeze against my face. I turned to see Boston Harbor in the distance. My heart filled with joy, for I was home.
Let this not be a dream, I prayed, and if it is, let me not awaken.
As the ship entered the familiar harbor, the heavenly beings of light departed from the bodies of my dead shipmates and appeared briefly in their true forms. Each angel turned and waved as though signaling someone on land.
"No sooner did the angels return from whence they came than I heard the splash of oars upon the water. I looked over the side of the ship and saw the pilot's boat approaching. In that rescue boat were three men: the pilot, his son and a minister from Boston who liked to pass the time of day with the sailors coming into port.
Good! I thought. The minister will save my soul and wash away the bird's blood from my hands.
"I heard the men speak: 'Where are those who signaled us? There is no one there.' 'The ship looks like a derelict. See how the planks are warped and the sails torn.' 'I am frightened. This ship has the look of the devil about it.' 'Quick, let us leave.'
"All of a sudden, a distant rumbling sound was heard beneath the water and became louder as it reached the ship. An unknown force split the hull, and the Lady Martha immediately sank to a watery grave at the bottom of Boston Harbor. I floated on the water like a piece of flotsam until the pilot and the minister pulled my body over the side of the boat. I spoke, and the pilot, who had presumed I was dead, shrieked with horror. The terrified minister raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed. Anxious to head home, I took hold of the oars. The pilot's boy, who had gone mad at the mere sight of me, cried with amazement that the devil knew how to row a boat.
"At last, I stood on land, happy to be back home. I begged the minister to bless me and free me from my sins. 'What manner of man are you?' he cried. His query forced me to tell my tale, and—God be praised!—with its telling, I was set free at last.
"Since that fateful day, I have traveled the world, recounting my tale to those that an inner voice tells me must hear it."
Behind the two men, the doors of Llewellyn Mallory's house burst open, and the wedding guests began to depart. Digby had missed his only brother's wedding feast, but he did not bemoan his loss, for he had spent the hours listening to a man who had looked upon both Death and God's angels and had somehow passed through purgatory to return to the land of the living.
"My time has been well spent," the young man concluded.
"Farewell," the mariner said as he rose to take his leave. "If you forget the tale I told, let you at least remember this: the happiest man is the one who loves all things well: man, bird and beast. He cares for all things great and small, for God loved and made them all."
Then, the old mariner with eyes so bright and a beard so long and white was gone.
Digby Mallory turned and walked into his father's house, although the wedding celebration had already come to an end. A sadder and wiser man for having passed the day with the ancient mariner, Digby—like the biblical prodigal son—returned to the warmth and love of his family.
This story was inspired by Samuel Taylor Coleridge's classic poem, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." Though it is more than 200 years old, the poem still has a message for us today: we should care for all creatures: man, bird and beast (even a pest like Salem).
What could be worse than a vengeful spirit from the south plaguing your ship? A pesky cat from the north plaguing it!
