“In prosperous days they swarm,
But adverse, withdraw their heads not to be heard.”
-Samson Agonistes, On Friends, Milton
“Leviathan’s song rose from the deep to freeze God’s good hymn in our throats,” droned Tory Ball, once such a surly, braggart, bully, now tamed to a polite guest by the hellish jest he related.
‘See how the maid yearns to comfort Tory, keeps looking here. I wonder, did she ever look to me like that? If so, I am blessed not to have noticed. She does shape up well under that indigo apron.’
Tory looked to Peter, no idea that he was a Lancelot in the eyes of the young slave girl, rather admiring Peter, who stood beside Father, the two young men sharing a gaze down the length of the board, the lessers transfixed, Father inquisitive.
“Tory, I curse my hide for decking your good father before such a terrible thing occurred, that this stupid fist deprived Ivanstar of its best Back Tier hand.”
The men raised their cups, except for Tory who continued, “First, storm roiled from the four winds, rain from south, and wind from the west, snow from north, hail from east. The Indians had herded like sheep into Ivanstar, their holy men kissing the church threshold and begging baptism, crows lining the tree tops to the east, gulls hovering like floating vultures over the sound. Father armed us, his jaw tied to his head…”
Father punched himself in the jaw to sound like an ax failing to split an alder knot.
“Father said to me, as he saw Gustavus go down with frigate and crew, in what had seemed only an odd swell, ‘Tory, ride for Grim Hall and beware something as evil prowls there.’”
“‘The word, Father,’ I asked, and he snarled, “Ivanstar be the boot in the snare, Grim Hall the hand that might save the fool from deathfall.’”
The fort was ready in a moment, men on the ramparts, the Church of Saint Peter full of women and children, the Spanish Chapel bursting with Indians seeking baptism and…”
“After we saw the frigate sucked down out in the road of the sound, there was silence of the birds. Then, in the time it takes to load and charge a cannon, the swell of water that had dark-like drunk the frigate moved towards the fort. I was now riding, easily, reluctant, looking over my shoulder. Father angrily pointed his pistol at me for show, too far for a shot, and I gave Boar Boy the spurs.”
Tory drank some beer now, nodded to Old Ben, who sat near with the cask and refilled the cedar mug, and continued, “The look of the crows, eyeing me with hungry intent, put me to the spurs hard, talking to Boar Boy in haste, wanting to get under the distant trees on Battle Hill. [1]”
I did not want, did most fear, that those crows were coming for my eyes in the open, that I needed tree cover, deep ever-gloom of needle and palm to keep my eyes—my eyes cried, I saw their hunger, their silence most abominable. Reaching the crest of the hill, where the Battle Bench marked the treaty place, and the great oak spread, I found its branches full of song birds, black sparrows and blue finch and such, and marked this as a vantage, for a sound of crashing surf sounded below.
I reigned about, on the first good hill above port and saw canoes, a pinace, the Vatican sloop loaded with goods and folks, rise on a great wave, the great pier snapping like so many twigs on a wave that swept over the walls of Ivanstar, washing soldiers, cannon and men into the frozen streets, turned form white to muddy blue. The thing that rose from the wave, shed water like a Kodiak bear rising with a salmon.”
Tory drained his mug and continued, “Whale-like fins there were, yet a head like the crocodile of the Mayan coast our fathers once of the sea, spoke of. Scales were large enough to be seen from a mile out up on Battle Hill. A tail, nearly out in the road of the sound, slapped the water, sending waves south to Tacoma and north where the Brig had vanished earlier, the cause for the initial fuss. Before the fins that batted the Vatican sloop to ruin, where two claws, no doubt claws behind to. These claws turned the heavy sea wall into gravel. They were each, as great as the flare [2] at base of the grandest mother tree, twice over, as wide as the deck of a frigate, each as long as a pinace. For the horror of it, the worse things were two: the voices of many Christian and heathen souls that must have been mingled in pleas of deliverance—most women and children in the church—were unheard, for it’s roar, greater than that of the great waves shedding from its body rendered the last peeps of our kin mute to my ringing ears…
Tory gained a sober look, pushed aside the mug, sat back in the guest chair, looked at Peter Grim and then to Peter The Younger, and said sadly, “The snout of crocodile smiled, rows of teeth clearly visible from a mile, a section of wall munching in its jaws. The head was as large as the church, as long, not so high, the eyes glassy blue as The Deep. From its nostrils, large as horses, showered sparks like from two furnaces… From its mouth issued a roar of wind, misted with whale oil, as if it dines on sperm whale to fuel its hellish lamp. Like a bellows it roared, its breath catching fire from the sparks showering from its nose…
“The Church of Saint Peter was burned, to include the lower reaches swallowed by the wave, turning to steam. All gone, like that. The gulls and the ravens rose in concord, as if under the same master eye, and swooped down to the ruins, the monster back-sliding into the sound. It was visible as a floating swell, thrice as fast as a full sail frigate before a string wind.”
“Tory, thank you,” spoke Father. “Men you know now no madness has gripped us and that among us has come an angel against this deviltry. Tory, you are our saving word, our warning from heaven that our troubles are but little here on the Back Tier.”
Peter Grim then looked to his son, standing by his right side, and asked, “”Son, you have read it all, pagan, heathen, Christian—what says the Good Book on this?”
Peter winced and looked to the Bier where Thirteen loomed, arms crossed.
“Job, 41, names this creature, with a devil bridle. Iron, brass, stones, darts, spears, swords, none of these can harm Leviathan—the King over the Children with Pride. Are you certain, Tory, that no smoke issued from nostrils and no spark from mouth?”
Tory stopped, comforted by Peter’s level inquiry, “Both, issued both, spark from nose into smoke from mouth, returning at rest with smoke from nose and lamp light from mouth—the eyes turned bright as if in joy with the suffering it caused, where at first they rose the color of the deep and then opened like dawn clouds. Steam also followed it—it was in a manner such as a lizard with the aspects of that iron hearth there.”
“The scales?”
Tory thought, “Large enough at a mile to see these were close and seamless, as if glued.”
Peter looked at Tory and rose his voice in command, “Thirteen, was Leviathan a subject of the Pope’s dream?”
“Indeed, Master, rumbled the knight.”
The boom of a culvern sounded out in the night, rousing the anger in Father’s heart, “At dinner! Men!” he yelled standing, “serve up desert to our rude guests—to the wall!”
The men sprang from the table, grabbing at the stack of guns and cutlasses between them and the door, which Thirteen opened with a bellow like a bell, “Keep the wall!”
…
Notes
-1. Battle Hill, on the outskirts of Ivanstar, east of town, separated the apple orchards from the sheep pasture. It was the scene of an 1879 battle between Mucks and Russ.
-2. Cedar trees flare out at the base, making the bottom like a flute and no good for cutting planks. The tree is felled above this point, making a high stump, sometimes hollowed and roofed for storage, or for shelter by shanty Injuns.
