It was the middle-watch: a fair moonlight; the seamen were standing in a cordon, extending from one of the fresh-water butts in the waist, to the scuttle-butt near the taffrail. In this manner, they passed the buckets to fill the scuttle-butt. Standing, for the most part, on the hallowed precincts of the quarter-deck, they were careful not to speak or rustle their feet. From hand to hand, the buckets went in the deepest silence, only broken by the occasional flap of a sail, and the steady hum of the unceasingly advancing keel.
It was in the midst of this repose, that Archy, one of the cordon, whose post was near the after-hatches, whispered to his neighbor, a Cholo, the words above.
"Hist! did you hear that noise, Cabaco?"
"Take the bucket, will ye, Archy? what noise d'ye mean?"
"There it is again- under the hatches- don't you hear it- a cough- it sounded like a cough."
"Cough be damned! Pass along that return bucket."
"There again- there it is!- it sounds like two or three sleepers turning over, now!"
"Caramba! have done, shipmate, will ye? It's the three soaked biscuits ye eat for supper turning over inside of ye- nothing else. Look to the bucket!"
"Say what ye will, shipmate; I've sharp ears."
"Aye, you are the chap, ain't ye, that heard the hum of the old Quakeress's knitting-needles fifty miles at sea from Nantucket; you're the chap."
"Grin away; we'll see what turns up. Hark ye, Cabaco, there is somebody down in the after-hold that has not yet been seen on deck; and I suspect our old Mogul knows something of it too. I heard Stubb tell Flask, one morning watch, that there was something of that sort in the wind."
"Tish! the bucket!"
Some noise below decks. That's what this little chapter is all about. Something that stays hidden. Hasn't seen the light of day. Yet. A mystery that remains out of sight. Most of the crew don't even believe Archy as he whispers his suspicions. Perhaps it's Moby Dick. Or a stowaway. Or a ghost.
Tomorrow morning, we finally bring my father's cremains to the cemetery for his commitment ceremony. It has been almost three months since he died. My mother, whose memory is not great, has been asking about him a lot these last few weeks, saying things like, "When do you think your father is going to be back?"
Last night, as she was watching TV with my sister, my mother looked over toward the place where my father always sat in his char. She brightened up and said, "Where have you been?" She continued to hold a five or ten minute conversation with someone who wasn't there. My sister sat there, listening and watching.
Eventually, my mother turned to my sister and said, "Your father's left again."
I'm not sure what to make of this story. Was it my mother's brain conjuring up my father from her memory? Was he young and strong? She's been missing him so much recently. Or, maybe it really was my father's spirit, showing up to calm the fears of the woman to whom he was married for over 60 years. Maybe it was love sitting next to her.
There's too much in this universe that can't be explained. Mysteries that remain hidden, like whatever's below deck on the Pequod.
I prefer to believe that it was my father. That he's hanging around, taking care of my mom.
Saint Marty is thankful this evening for the mysteries of love.
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