Cugel Page 8

  Bunderwal rose to his feet. “As newly-appointed supercargo of the Galante, allow me to make a recommendation. I propose that Cugel be hired to fill the vacant position.”

  Without enthusiasm Soldinck looked toward Cugel: “You have had experience in this line of work?”

  “Not in recent years,” said Cugel. “I will, however, consult with Wagmund in regard to modern trends.”

  “Very well; we cannot be too choosy, since the Galante must depart on schedule. Bunderwal, you will report at once to the ship. Cargo and supplies must be stowed, and properly! Wagmund, perhaps you will show Cugel your worms and explain their little quirks. Are there any questions? If not, all to their duties! The Galante sails in three days!”

  Chapter II

  From Saskervoy to Tustvold

  1

  Aboard the Galante

  Cugel’s first impression of the Galante was, on the whole, favorable. The hull was generously proportioned and floated in a buoyant and upright manner. The careful joinery and the lavish use of ornamental detail implied an equal concern for luxury and comfort below-decks. A single mast supported a yard to which was attached a sail of dark blue silk. From a swan’s-neck stanchion at the bow swung an iron lantern; another even more massive lantern hung from a pedestal on the quarter-deck.

  To these appurtenances Cugel gave his approval; they contributed to the forward motion of the ship and served the convenience of the crew. On the other hand, he could not automatically endorse a pair of ungainly outboard walkways, or sponsons, which ran the length of the hull, both port and starboard, only inches above the waterline. What could be their function? Cugel stepped a few paces along the dock, to secure a better view of the odd constructions. Were they promenade decks for the passengers’ exercise? They seemed too narrow and too precarious, and too rudely exposed to wave and spray. Might they be platforms from which passengers and crew might conveniently bathe and launder their clothes while the ship lay becalmed? Or vantages from which the crew might repair the hull?

  Cugel put the problem aside. So long as the Galante carried him in comfort to Port Perdusz, why cavil at details? Of more immediate concern were his duties as ‘worminger’: an occupation of which he knew nothing.

  Wagmund, the previous worminger, suffered a sore leg and had refused to help Cugel. In a gruff voice Wagmund said: “First things first! Go aboard the ship, make sure of your quarters and stow your gear; Captain Baunt is a martinet and will not tolerate clutter. When you are properly squared away, search out Drofo, the Chief Worminger; let him provide you instruction. Luckily for you, the worms are in prime condition.”

  Cugel owned only the clothes on his back; this was his ‘gear’, although in his pouch he carried an article of great value: the ‘Pectoral Skybreak Spatterlight’ from the turret of the demiurge Sadlark. Now, as Cugel stood on the dock, he conceived a cunning scheme to safeguard ‘Spatterlight’ from pilferage.

  In a secluded area behind a pile of crates, Cugel doffed his fine triple-tiered hat. He removed the rather garish ornament which clipped up the side-brim, then, using great care to avoid ‘Spatterlight’s’ avid bite, he wired the scale to his hat, where now it seemed only a hat-clasp. The erstwhile ornament he tucked into his pouch.

  Cugel returned along the dock to the Galante. He climbed the gangway and stepped down upon the midship deck. To his right was the after-house, with a companion-way leading up to the quarter-deck. Forward, tucked into the bluff bows, was the forepeak, with the galley and crew’s mess-hall; and below, the crew’s quarters.

  Three persons stood within range of Cugel’s vision. The first was the cook, who had stepped out on deck in order to spit over the side. The second, a person tall and gaunt with the long sallow face of a tragic poet, stood by the rail, brooding over the sea. A sparse beard the color of dark mahogany straggled across his chin; his hair, of the same dark roan-russet color, was bound in a black kerchief. With gnarled white hands he gripped the rail and turned not so much as a glance toward Cugel.

  The third man carried a bucket whose contents he tossed over the side. His hair was thick, white and close-cropped; his mouth was a thin slash in a ruddy square-jawed face. This would be the cabin steward, thought Cugel: a post for which the man’s brisk and even truculent demeanor seemed unsuitable.

  Of the three, only the man with the bucket chose to notice Cugel. He called out sharply: “Hoy, you skew-faced vagabond! Be off with you! We need no salves nor talismans nor prayers nor erotic adjuncts!”

  Cugel responded coldly: “You would do well to moderate your tone. I am Cugel, and I am here at the express solicitation of Soldinck! You may now show me to my quarters, and with a civil tongue in your head!”

  The other heaved a heavy sigh, as of infinite patience put to the test. He called down a passageway: “Bork! On deck!”

  A short fat man with a round red face bounded up from below. “Aye, sir; what needs to be done?”

  “Show this fellow to his quarters; he says he is Soldinck’s guest. I forget his name: Fugle or Kungle or something of the sort.”

  Bork scratched his nose in puzzlement. “I have had no notice of him. With Master Soldinck and all his family aboard, where will I find accommodation? Not unless this gentleman uses your own cabin, while you go forward to double up with Drofo.”

  “That idea is not to my liking!”

  Bork spoke plaintively: “Have you a better suggestion?”

  The other threw up his arms and stalked off up the deck. Cugel looked after him. “And who is that surly fellow?”

  “That is Captain Baunt. He is irritated because you will be occupying his cabin.”

  Cugel rubbed his chin. “All taken with all, I would prefer to use a cabin ordinarily assigned to single gentlemen.”

  “Not possible on this voyage, sir. Master Soldinck is accompanied by Madame Soldinck and their three daughters, and space is at a premium.”

  “I hesitate to inconvenience Captain Baunt,” said Cugel. “Perhaps I should —”

  “Say no more, sir! Drofo’s snores will not trouble Captain Baunt, and I daresay we will all manage very well. This way, sir; I will show you to your cabin.”

  The steward led Cugel to the commodious chamber formerly occupied by Captain Baunt. Cugel looked approvingly here and there. “This will do quite nicely. I particularly like the view from these windows.”

  Captain Baunt appeared in the doorway. “I trust that all is to your satisfaction?”

  “Eminently so. I will be very comfortable here.” To Bork Cugel said: “You may serve me a light collation, if you will, as I breakfasted early.”

  “Certainly, sir; by all means.”

  Captain Baunt said gruffly: “I ask only that you do not disarrange the shelves. My collection of water-moth shells is irreplaceable and I do not wish my antique books to be disturbed.”

  “Have no fear! Your belongings are as secure as if they were my own. And now, if you will excuse me, I wish to rest a few hours before inquiring into my duties.”

  “‘Duties’?” Captain Baunt frowned in puzzlement. “What might they be?”

  Cugel spoke with dignity. “Soldinck has asked me to undertake a few simple tasks during the voyage.”

  “Odd. He said nothing about this to me. Bunderwal is the new supercargo and I understand that some weird lank-limbed outlander is to serve as under-worminger.”

  “I have accepted the post of worminger,” said Cugel in austere tones.

  Captain Baunt stared at Cugel slack-jawed. “You are the under-worminger?”

  “That is my understanding,” said Cugel.

  Cugel’s new quarters were located far forward in the bilges, where the stem-piece met the keel. The furnishings were simple: a narrow bunk with a sackful of dried reeds and a case where hung a few rancid garments abandoned by Wagmund.

  By the light of a candle Cugel assessed his contusions. None seemed of a dangerous or disfiguring nature, even though Captain Baunt’s conduct had exceeded all restraint.r />
  A nasal voice reached his ears: “Cugel, where are you? On deck, at the double!”

  Cugel groaned and limped up to the deck. Awaiting him was a tall fleshy young man with a thick cluster of black curls and small close-set black eyes. This person inspected Cugel with frank curiosity. “I am Lankwiler, worminger full and able, and hence your superior, though both of us serve under Chief Worminger Drofo. He now wishes to deliver an inspirational lecture. Listen carefully, if you know what is good for you. Come this way.”

  Beside the mast stood Drofo: the gaunt man with dark mahogany beard whom Cugel had noticed on his arrival aboard ship.

  Drofo pointed toward the hatch. “Sit.”

  Cugel and Lankwiler seated themselves and waited with polite attention.

  With head bent forward and hands clasped behind his back Drofo surveyed his underlings. After a moment he spoke, in a deep and passionless voice. “I can tell you much! Listen, and you will gain wisdom to surpass the scholars at the Institute, with their concords and paradigms! But do not mistake me! The weight of my words is no more than the weight of a single rain-drop! To know, you must do! After a hundred worms and ten thousand leagues, then with justice you may say, ‘I am wise!’ or, to precisely the same effect: ‘I am a worminger!’ At this time, because you are wise and because you are a worminger, you will not wish to utter vainglories. You will choose reticence, since your worth will speak for itself!” Drofo looked from face to face. “Am I clear?”

  Lankwiler spoke in puzzlement: “Not entirely. The scholars at the Institute routinely calculate the weight of single rain-drops. Is this to be considered good or bad?”

  Drofo responded politely: “We are not adjudging the research of scholars at the Institute. We are discussing, rather, the work of the worminger.”

  “Ah! All is now clear!”

  “Precisely so!” said Cugel. “Proceed, Drofo, with your interesting remarks!”

  With arms behind his back, Drofo took a step to port, then a step to starboard. “Our calling is starkly noble! The dilettante, the weakling, the fool: all reveal themselves in their true colors. When the voyage goes well, then any mooncalf is bright and merry; he dances a jig and plays the concertina, and everyone thinks: ‘Oh, for the life of the worminger!’ But then hardship attacks! Black pust rages without remorse; impactions come like the gongs of Fate; the worm takes to rearing and plunging: then the popinjay is revealed, or, more likely, is discovered hiding in the darkest corner of the hold!”

  Cugel and Lankwiler mulled over the remarks, while Drofo paced to port, then to starboard.

  Drofo pointed a long pale fore-finger toward the sea. “Yonder we go, halfway between the sky and the ocean floor, where the secrets of every age are concealed in a darkness which will grow absolute when the sun goes out.”

  As if to emphasize Drofo’s remarks, the face of the sun momentarily glazed over with a dark film, similar to a rheum in an old man’s eye. After a flutter and a wink, the light of day returned, to the obvious relief of Lankwiler, although Drofo ignored the incident. He held his finger in the air.

  “The worm is a familiar of the sea! It is wise, though it uses six concepts only: sun, wave, wind, horizon, dark deep, faithful direction, hunger, and satiation … Yes, Lankwiler? Why are you counting on your fingers?”

  “Sir, it is no great matter.”

  “The worms are not clever,” said Drofo. “They perform no tricks and they know no jokes. The good worminger, like his worms, is a man of simplicity. He cares little for what he eats and is indifferent as to whether he sleeps wet or dry, or even if he sleeps at all. When his worms drive straight, when the wake lies true, when ingestion is sharp and voidure is proper: then the worminger is serene. He craves no more from the world, neither wealth nor ease nor the sensuous caress of languid females nor trinkets like that foppish bedazzlement Cugel wears in his hat. His way is the watery void!”

  “Most inspiring!” cried Lankwiler. “I am proud to be a worminger! Cugel, what of you?”

  “I no less!” declared Cugel. “It is a worthy calling, and the hat ornament, while of no intrinsic value, is an heirloom.”

  Drofo gave an indifferent nod. “Now I will divulge the first axiom of our trade, which indeed can be expanded to a universal application. Thus: ‘A man may show himself to you and say, “I am a Master Worminger!” Or a Master Worminger may stand to the side and speak no word. How is truth to be known? It is told by the worms.’

  “I will particularize. Should you see a yellow bilious creature with bloated fausicles, gills crusted with gangue, an impacted clote, who is thereby at fault? The worm, who knows only water and space? Or he who should tend it? Can we call him a worminger? Form your own opinion. But here is another worm, strong, steadfast in direction, pink as the sunrise! This worm testifies to the faith of its worminger, who tirelessly burnishes its linctures, disimpedes its clote, scrapes and combs the gills until they shine like silver! He is in mystical communion with surge and sea, and knows the serenity only the worminger can know!

  “I will say little more. Cugel, you have small acquaintance with the trade, but I take it as a good sign that you have come to me for training, since my methods are not soft. You will learn or you will drown, or suffer a blow of the flukes, or worse, incur my displeasure. But you have started well and I will teach you well. Never think me harsh, or over-bearing; you will be in self-defeating error! I am stern, yes, even severe, but in the end, when I acknowledge you a worminger, you will thank me.”

  “Good news indeed,” muttered Cugel.

  Drofo paid him no heed. “Lankwiler, you perhaps lack something of Cugel’s intensity, but you have the advantage of a voyage beside Wagmund, who suffers a sore leg. I have pointed out to you certain errors and laxities, and my remarks are surely fresh in your mind; am I correct?”

  “Absolutely!” said Lankwiler with a bland smile.

  “Good. You will show Cugel the bins and sacks, and fit him out with a good reamer and pincts. Cugel, does your equipment include a pair of sound straddlers?”

  Cugel made a negative sign. “I neglected them in my haste.”

  “A pity … Well, you may use Wagmund’s excellent equipment, but you must see to its care.”

  “I shall do so.”

  “Then make ready your gear. It is almost time to fetch the worms; the Galante sails directly upon Soldinck’s order.”

  Lankwiler took Cugel forward to the locker under the forepeak, where he sorted through the gear, putting aside the best articles for his own use and tossing Cugel a casual selection from what remained.

  Lankwiler advised Cugel: “Pay no great heed to old Drofo. He has inhaled too much salt-spray and I suspect that he uses the worms’ ear-tonic as a tipple, for he is often queer.”

  Emboldened by Lankwiler’s affability Cugel put a cautious question: “If we are dealing only with worms, why do we need such crude and heavy gear?”

  Lankwiler looked up blankly, and Cugel hastened to add: “I assume that we work with our worms at a table, or perhaps a bench; therefore I wonder why Drofo glorifies deprivation and exposure to the elements. Are we required to rinse the worms in salt water, or dig them from the mire by night?”

  Lankwiler chuckled. “You have never wormed before?”

  “Very little, certainly.”

  “All will be made clear; let us not gossip and theorize, or waste time in idle verbalizing; like Drofo, I am a man of deeds, not rhetoric.”

  “Just so,” said Cugel coldly.

  With a twitch of sly mockery on his lips, Lankwiler said: “From the peculiar style of your hat I deduce that you derive from a far and exotic region.”

  “True,” said Cugel.

  “And how do you find the Land of Cutz?”

  “It has interesting aspects; still I am anxious to return to civilization.”

  Lankwiler sniffed. “I am from Tugersbir sixty miles to the north, where civilization is also rife. Now then: here are Wagmund’s straddles. I think that I will
borrow this set with the silver conches; you may choose from among the others. Be careful; Wagmund, like a bald-headed man in a fur hat, is proud and vain, and childishly meticulous with his gear. Briskly now, unless you are ready for another barrage of Drofo’s dogma.”

  The two took their gear to the deck. With Drofo in the lead they disembarked from the Galante, and marched north along the dock to a long pen where a number of enormous tubular creatures, seven to nine feet in diameter and almost as long as the Galante itself, lay placidly afloat.

  Drofo pointed. “Yonder with the yellow knobs, Lankwiler, are the beasts which were assigned into your care. As you see, they are in need of attention. Cugel, the two beasts at the extreme left, with the blue knobs, are Wagmund’s fine worms which now come under your supervision.”

  Lankwiler made a thoughtful suggestion. “Why not let Cugel supervise the worms with the yellow knobs, while I command the Blues? This scheme has the advantage of affording Cugel valuable training in basic procedures at a formative time in his career.”

  Drofo ruminated a moment. “Possibly so, possibly so. But we lack time to analyze the matter in all its aspects; therefore we will abide by the original plan.”

  “This is correct thinking,” said Cugel. “It conforms with the Second Axiom of our trade: ‘If Worminger A despoils his beasts, then Worminger A must restore them to health, not blameless hard-working Worminger B’.”

  Lankwiler was discomfited. “Cugel may have learned thirty different axioms from a book, but, as Drofo himself pointed out, these are no substitute for experience.”

  “The original plan will hold,” said Drofo. “Now then: bring your beasts to the ship and clamp them into their cinctures: Cugel to port, Lankwiler to starboard.”

  Lankwiler quickly recovered his composure. “Aye, aye, sir,” he cried heartily. “Come along, Cugel; shake a leg, now! We’ll have those worms clamped up in jig-time, Tugersbir-style!”

  “So long as you tie none of your peculiar Tugersbir knots,” said Drofo. “Last trip Captain Baunt and I pondered the complications of your easy-off hitch for half an hour.”