Moby-Dick

I

Loomins

 

Ca me Ishmael. A puckle o year syne – nivver heed foo lang – bein damn near skint, an deaved wi life ashore, Ah thocht tae toor oot an see the weet bittie o the warld. It's jist a ploy o mine tae droon ma spleen, aye an cool ma bleed for that. Fanivver Ah ging grumpy; fanivver haar an mochiness lie aboot me; fanivver Ah canna haud fae gowkin ben the undertaakir's winda or faain in wi fruneals; an maistlie fanivver Ah get sae scunnert wi masel as gars me gang clink ower the cassies tae clour the hats fae fowk – syne div Ah nae ken fine it's time tae ging hyne awa oot tae sea wioot muckle adee. It fairly saves me shottin masel. Cato can fling eesel on ees sword till his hert's content: a bittie mair slee, Ah tak tae the sea. Sma wonder. Maist chiels in their ain wey hairbour the same oot-hairbourin, the same lust tae lowse aff an lat the ocean gie them laldy. Ye ken yirsel.

Owerby, aa its lane, lie the Manhattoes, haudin ticht wi quays, like yon inches oot Indies-wey wi their corally skares – commerce grups it wi her ding o waves. Fae aa the airts the streets rin wattirward. An doontoon avaa lies the battery, far thon braw pierrikie's catslickit wi lappin waves as the day grows airishtie. An fit a bourach o wattir-gowkers!

Tak in the hale toon some dwaumie Sabbath eftirneen. Step oot fae Corlears Hook tae Coenties Slip, an thence haud north bi Whitehall. Fit div ye spy? – A dose o hauf-hung-tae, gypit sentry mannies gowkin at the sea. Antrin anes takin it aisy up agin the piles; ithers squattlin cushy on the pierheids; an twa-three pucklie gommerils aa for China clippers, an wid be rugglin up the riggin for a furderer keek. But damn the ane that's nae a lubber:  aa week inby the biggins o the toon – lashed tae coonters, thirled tae benches, clenched tae desks. Foo does aa this come? Is there nae ony park handy? Fit's their ploy?

But, hey min, here's mair stramash, fowk leggin it tae the wattir, rarin for a dook! Is that nae affa queer? Nithin suits them but the veriest boonds o solid grund; hingin aboot in some warehoose schadda is nae eese. Na, na, they maun get as nigh the wattir as they may – wioot faain in. An there they tak their staun, hunners an hunners o them. Toonsers an countra billies, fae aa the airts an alleys, come aathegither here. Maun be the virr o  aa the shippies' compasses, Ah jalouse, that haals the jing-bang thonder.

But that's nae aa. Plunk yersel in the Hielans an tak ony path ye please. Ten tae wan ye'll be doon some glen in nae time an stood by a burnie's pool. Fit rare!  Tak ony bodie in their dwaum an set them gaain: they'll dander doon tae wattir, if wattir somewey be. Gin ye're feart o drouth in the desert, here's fit tae dae: get a haud o some professor o metaphysics an adopt him in yir tribe. Aye, for aabuddy kens: deep thochts an wattir are nivver far pairtit.

Ower here noo we hae a richt bonny pinter. He ettles tae pint ye the maist dwaum-like bit o schaddowie scapery wis ivver dicht. Sae fit does he go for? Trees, aye: ilkane boss in its intimmers, mair than able tae hide a haler hermit. A park, uh-huh, sure, proper, flooery. A set o dozent kye, an a shielin wi a trail o smowk. A track tae wynd tae the woodies hyne, atween the scherp blue bits o moontain. Glamourie-gramarye:  aye, but nae eneuch. Even gin the pine gies a sair souch abune the shepherd's heid, it's nae mowse onless he's gowkin at some wattir. Awa an luik at the Prairies at June, fan ye canna get muved for Tiger-lilies, but there's still a want, acause there's nae wattir, not a drap. Supposin Niagara wis a rummle o saun, wid ye stir twa steps tae see it? Fit wey did the Tennessee bard, suddenlie hanseled wi haunfaes o siller, debate fither tae seek a new coat, or traik doon tae the sauns at Rockaway? Fit wey's ony hulkin loon wi ony gumption aye at some time daft for the sea? Fan ye first sailed as a passenger, foo dae ye accoont for the thrill ye got fan the laun fell fae sicht? Fit wey wis the sea haudin as holy by the auld Persians? Fy did the Greeks pick for the sea their second-best god, Poseidon, wis that jist a fluke? As for Narcissus, far did he land up? Thrawn vratch tae haud his ain reflection an daundle it in his palm: plunk in ower the heid an that was him. We're nae muckle wiser wirsels. Ettlin tae gresp life's meanin in wattir, as weil hunt for the schadda o an eel.

Noo fan I vow that faain aa bleary or chesty-kind, I'll aye haud seaward, that's nae tae say I'd book a berth an pey good siller for it. Fa says ye can pey fit ye dinna hae? Forbye, passengers at the sea have aye got something – their dennirs winna bide doon – they canna thole each ither – there's neither sleep nor cheer aboot them. An ye winna catch me Captain neither: the name's soond wid surely deafen me, tak it fa wints it. For I can hardlie steer masel, nivver mind a schooner. As for cook, weil, fine as I like ma maet, speciallie a suppie broiled pullet wi nae ower muckle butter an jist a specklie o saut an pepper, I dinna like makkin it. Affa fine if somebuddy else does, though, and that's fit the auld Egyptians must hae thocht an aa, or they widna hae caad for their favourites, sacred whaup and holy potamus, tae be wappit up and left tae  caa awa in canny Pyramid. Na, fan I ging tae the sea, I ging plain sailor, nithin fancie, holit doon in the focsle or hingin on till the tall tapmast. I have tae tak ma orders, of course, an lowp fae spar tae spar like a flech atween a coo's tail and a coo's backside. That's aye gaun tae scunner ye. It's hardly fit ye were brocht up for, and you ane o the rare Van Rensselaers, Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. Or again, if ye've jist come fae lairdin it as a dominie giein muckle loons laldy, it's a bit o a stammygaster tae ging thwack doon on yir knap-banes caulkin seams wi bleck tar. Ach, ye'll get eesed till't, though.

Fit ails me gin a fuskery auld skipper yallochs at me tae git thirled tae a besom till the deck's aa deen? Is that sae ill tae thole, fan ye think fit's aheid o us in Revelation? Gabriel's surely nae a lad tae haud it against me, if aa that Ah did wis jist fit the skipper telled me? Fa's nae a slave, eh, tell me, fa? Greetin-phissed skippers can yalloch oot an blatter me, but it aa comes roon: aabody's on the vrang end o somethin, the warld shaks us aa bi the lug betimes, skippers an aa, sae they've got ma peety, and Ah'll bide content.

I aye ging as a sailor an aa, acause there's siller in't to be had, but nae a brass maik yet for travellers that I ivver heard o. Complete reverse: it's traivellers hae tae shell oot. There's a clinker! If it hadna been for Adam an Eve chowin the vrang aipple, I dinna think peyin wid ivver have got inventit. O, but it's fin an grand fan it comes roond tae peyday. For, as Scripture saith, mebbe a wealthy man needna birze at the Yett: but we're a bunch o chancers an we'll chance it yet!

Tae vrap aa up, I aye ging tae sea as a sailor acause ye'll nae get finer wark nor brisker air nor on the focsle deck. For jist as the warld's mair full o heid o winds (if ye hae a rugg at Pythagoras), sae ony puir Commodore gets his air secondhand fae sailors. Ee thinks he's gettin first draa, but na. Aye, ornery fowk are mair in the lead than their leaders ivver jalouse. I's a good step mair fae antrin sailin tae lang-distance whalin, Ah grant ye, but canna explain. Spier at some bigger craitur, Fate's sergeant, fa has me under his scherp een, fa pads eftir me in saft boots, fa jogs ma elbuck fan ma heid's pointin the ither wey. O, ayew, ee'll likely ken, but nae me. Ah'll jist be a titchy pairt o an antrin plan, draan up dizzens o years syne, as pairt of a grand Providential performance tae please somebuddy, as like as no. Somethin alang the lines o:

PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES IN TITANIC TUSSLE

Ishmael Awa Tae the Whales the Morn

BLOODY BATTLE IN AFGHANISTAN

Foo it got settlit that I was the billy tae haik eftir whales, fan Fate had giein ithers the reenge o life's mair civileesed favours, heich tragedie, genteel comedie and ither sic capers, weil, fa can tell?  Fate and her managers had plantit in ma noddle the notion that I had jist sat doon backstage and weighed aathin tae the last scruple afore choosin the whale-road for masel.

Ma main inspring was doubtless the vera idea o the monstrous whale himlane. Sic an eerie-steerie beast! Aa the unkent dangers o a muckle whale amin great hillocks o wattir wi nae remeid, and aa the soonds an sichts o Patagonia, that's fit must hae sweyed me. There's billies, nae doot, that could have held themsels in leash fae that; but me, I'm aye rarin for the horizon's ither side. Give me a sea far I shouldna be, and a laun that's fu o savages! It's nae that I dinna ken fit's guid, I div, but I cann blink a horror neither. Horror's aa aboot us, and winna quit the warld the morn, sae me and it best shak hauns an be content.

Sae there was aa ma reasons, near aboot, for blithely gaain tae the whales, an the dwaum cam on an whummlit me; as whales cam merchin tae ma mind mair an mair, aa twa an twa, but ane.  But ane alane, the maister in the middle, a ghaist wi a ghaist's fite hood, wallt an swallt like a ben booed in a blizzard. Ah saa him.

*