Work Text:
Upon the return to the Pequod after such a catastrophic event, and after asking other whalemen if such near-disasters were common in the fishery, I set out with my bosom-friend Queequeg to draft my will. How strange it seemed to embark on a whaling voyage to escape the drearyness of city life, only to be met with the precarious circumstances of the fishery, and the possibility of death and disaster on a whaling voyage. Nevertheless, we set out to the level below to draft my will to relieve my soul of the memory of such a precarious experience. After having experienced the looming teeth of danger of searching for whales to harpoon at every moment I knew not why Captain Ahab kept seeking the white whale, for after even a single outing on the boat where I undertook such a precarious job and underwent the event that caused my heart to race and for my body to shake, it seemed unfathomable how Ahab, with his leg bitten off by the great Moby Dick himself, somehow seemed to be unaffected by this trauma as to so willingly seek the white whale again. But of course, Ahab was nonetheless also scarred from this event, and perhaps was so infuriated by the loss of his leg that he did not care about the danger imposed by the white whale’s great size but went on his voyage, seeking him anyway.
So at last Queequeg and I reached the room I sought in the Pequod’s lower deck. There stood a low wooden desk, held up by four narrow wooden legs and bearing several leaves of paper with well-weathered edges on its surface. There was no chair in sight, but I was desperate, and so I sat down to draft my will again.
I had drafted a will three times already, and each and every time Queequeg accompanied me, so that he would be able to execute it and inherit my possessions if I ever came to an untimely end. Considering his experience in the whaling industry (and my lack thereof), it seemed likely that I would meet my demise before him. But then again, Queequeg had the more dangerous job: as a harpooner, he would be initiating the struggle between whale and man, and therefore would be a more reachable target for the leviathan than me. Or perhaps we might die together, on the same boat, both succumbing to the same whale on the same day, perhaps hunting Moby Dick himself; our fates intertwined in even death. But whatever our destinies may be, these thoughts about our possible demise began to worry me. I had not felt such deep dark despair since the day I decided that the only way to save myself was to go out to sea as a sailor on a large whaling vessel. So, leaning down on the uneven wooden table in front of me, I began to write the fourth draft of my will.
I, Ishmael hereby declare that this is indeed my will. I have no wife or children, and if I die all my possessions should hereby be inherited by my dear harpooner friend Queequeg. Queequeg shall be the executor of my will. If Queequeg dies before me…
My soul felt speared by a harpoon just thinking that the burly tattooed harpooner standing by my right shoulder might perhaps die before me. After what I had gone through, from being such a miserable man in New Bedford to a sailor on a mighty whaling ship, I would be terribly upset if my Queequeg was somehow taken from me. I blinked, and my eyelids felt wet against my eyes. My heart shuttered like how I felt before meeting my bosom friend at the Spouter Inn and I immediately realized that as much as I desired to go out to sea, Queequeg was the reason I no longer felt like a dark stormy day inside. My soul tremored with much more indignation, causing the hand which held the stylus to quiver and shake, and then I impatiently dropped the writing utensil, involuntarily leaning towards Queequeg as it rolled and fell to the weathered wooden planks of the floor.
Queequeg did not flinch as I leaned on his shoulder, but he did turn his head to gaze at me intently. “Ishmael, what’s wrong?”
Ishmael looked up at him, though his eyes wavered, unable to stay focused on a single thing. “Queequeg,” I murmured. “Everything’s wrong.” I felt my eyes pool up and felt water streaming down my face. “Queequeg, I can’t lose you.”
I wanted to say more to him, but how much could I truly put into words the deep love and affection I felt for him? After all, Queequeg may have been my friend, but he was also something whom I felt for much deeper, much more passionately. He had been the one to first make me feel safe when I felt at my lowest, the one fateful night at the Spouter-Inn. Now on board the Pequod, under the leadership of Captain Ahab, I was even more uncertain over the fate of everyone. Ahab was certainly one to favor the hunt for the white whale over the safety of his crew. Queequeg might die, I might die, we might both die, or maybe everyone will die. And if Queequeg died before me, I had no idea how I would cope without him.
“I could not imagine living life on the Pequod without you, Queequeg,” I blurted out. “You shone a light into the deepest part of my soul, when all light had been but extinguished from it.” I began sobbing. Queequeg gestured for me to lean against his strong chest, and my eyes met his. I hesitated, but then flooded with the passion of such intense love, I leaned closer and kissed my bosom friend.
After an eternity, we parted and I finished writing my will. Queequeg was my witness. I felt the floor of the cabin shift and rock with the waves underneath the Pequod. As the two of us departed for the main deck, the dark threat of our peculiar captain looming over the fates of us both, we glanced at each other again. After all, Queequeg and I, were the most intimate of companions, and I think we both understood that despite everything, we could nevertheless trust each other.