Hugh Cook - The Walrus and the Warwolf

Drake, too shy (and too conscious of his own safety) to have ever run about the deck calling for a theologian (since he was not in the habit of seeking advice the notion never even occurred to him) was doomed to stay ignorant.

Thus he never learned how the nature of the genius loci explains so many weird and wonderful things, such as the temporary appearance of the dead to the recently bereaved (which is common), the skill of the rain dancer, ghosts (a few of them, anyway, there being in all 127 distinctly different categories of ghost), coins of gold which later turnjo leaves, the treasure found at the end of rainbows (assay-masters know the worthless stuff well), and, indeed, the powers of several minor classes of sorcerers and necromancers (and a few minor effects achieved in certain places by some members of the eight Orders of the Confederation of Wizards, even though all draw their Powers Major from older, more dangerous, more demanding entities).

Drake, then, lacking the guidance of true theology, had to cope with the possibility that maybe the Flame existed, that perhaps the Flame was angry with him, that it might actually be a smart move to bow down and worship the said Flame.

But if the Flame existed as described by Gouda Muck (that is to say, if Muck of Stokos was truly the High God of All Gods) then that cast serious doubts on the pretensions of the Demon, of the bloodlord Hagon.

'I would rather worship You,' said Drake softly, to Hagon.He was not in the habit of addressing his god. If one drew Hagon's attention to oneself, there was always the danger that the Demon would eat one's soul prematurely. Yet, under the circumstances, Drake thought it wise to resolve his doubts by testing the powers of Hagon.

T know it's bad form to ask You for things,' said Drake. 'I know You have given us the Gift. That should be enough for us. Yet, just this once . . .'

Drake prayed to the Demon for an alleviation of the curse which gripped him – for, in other words, a renewal of drunkenness.

'Drink is a part of your Holy Gift,' said Drake. 'I ask only to be holy myself. Religion is the deepest part of my nature. May I not with your Grace practise it?'

He backed up his prayers with a sacrifice. The best thing to slay would, have been an unblemished virgin or a spotless calf. None such was available, but Drake did manage to obtain three rats (one with a crippled left hind leg, for which he apologized to the bloodlord Hagon as politely as he knew how) and twenty-three cockroaches.

T know these aren't sacrifices of the standard You are used to,' said Drake. 'But I hope they might at least have some novelty value.'And he killed them, with all due ceremony.

Just one thing troubled him. These were supposed to be burnt offerings, but the ship had no facilities for burning such. Or did it? Wrapping his offerings in an old shirt stolen from Tiki Slooze, Drake ventured below decks and found his way to the kitchen. He tipped his heap of oddments into a massive cast-iron frying pan, intending to pour raw spirit on top then ignite it.

He was interrupted by the sudden arrival of the cook – not the muttering old man they used to have, who had since died of a stroke, but an ox-built giant who was master chef for Lord Regan of the Rice Empire until caught in flagrante delicto with Lord Regan's teenage son.

'What are you doing here?' said the cook, in a voice which could have commanded cavalry (and had, once – though that is another story).

'I've come to help out,' said Drake, hastily pouring some sauce over the gruesome mess in the frying pan. 'I used to work here before, you know.'

'I see,' said the cook, peering closely; fortunately he had gross myopia and a pronounced astigmatism besides (otherwise he would have been an archer, like his father, and his grandfather's grandfather before him) and didn't see at all. Ornotwell, atanyrate. 'But what exactly are you making?'

'A species of, well, goulash, I suppose you could say,' said Drake, improvising frantically as he stirred in some rough red cooking wine (rough by pirate standards – i.e ;a mouthful would leave one's mouth raw for a week).'The ingredients?'

'It's got, uh, rabbits, yes,' said Drake, putting the frying pan onto a heating iron. 'Yes,' he said, as the mixture began to warm, 'rabbits, small rabbits, I caught them myself on Carawell, and, um, let me think, shrimps, yes, the shellack-shelled Carawell variety, tougher than we're used to but very good.'

As he talked, he added herbs and spices more or less at random, then stirred and mashed, while steam rose and the brew began to bubble. He added vinegar, threw in pickles then scattered breadcrumbs over the mixture.

'You haven't skinned these rabbits!' said the cook, in an accusatorial voice, poking at them with one of his walnut-crunching fingers (cooks love to poke, stroke, caress and fondle foods of all kinds, particularly raw meats; this tactile bias may be because the profession traditionally soaks up part of the world's reservoir of short-sighted people, just as the metal-working trades take the lame).

'This is a traditional dish,' protested Drake. 'A special kind of folk-cookery. The skins are left on to keep in the flavour.'

'The guts are left in too, I suppose,' said the cook, with heavy sarcasm. 'Aye,' said Drake, eagerly. 'They're the best part!' 'Hmmm,' said the cook. He had his doubts.

But as Drake stirred and added, spiced and salted, garnished and basted (and surreptitiously amputated rats' tails and discarded them to the floor, where the ship's cat claimed them) the smell from the frying pan grew better and better, until the cook was more than a little impressed.'Is it done?' he asked.'Almost,' said Drake.

'No, man, it's finished now. I can smell the goodness of it. Here – give me that.'

And, confiscating the frying pan, the cook tipped its contents into two large bowls.'Where are those going?' asked Drake.

'The Walrus and the Warwolf are in conference,' said the cook. 'This'll be just the thing to keep them going.'Drake suppressed a moan, and ran away and hid. But he could not hide forever. Finally, the cook caught him on deck: 'Hey! You!'

Drake, cornered, prepared to meet his doom. 'What do you want?' asked Drake, pretending he didn't know.

'The recipe, man, the recipe! Our captains loved it. You were right, the skins do-keep in the flavour. And they say the guts slipped down something marvellous. There was only one complaint.''What's that?'

'They say next time, shell the shrimps before you cook them. There were bits of shell scattered right through the meal.'

'Well,' said Drake to the Demon, 'you can't say I didn't try.'

He was on watch in the crow's-nest, one of the few places in the ship where one could scratch, pray or masturbate in private.

'So give me that much,' continued Drake. 'I tried. And, in any case, they say that You would rather enjoy a good joke than a burnt virgin any day. So – how about it? Do I get to get drunk again? Or don't I? Please understand, if I don't, it may be a little hard for me to believe in You ever again.'

Drake made that threat because it was known that the Demon liked his believers to show some spirit (unlike some other, less confident entities, which feel uneasy dealing with any supplicant who is not face-down grovelling).

Prayer done, Drake longed to test the efficacy of that prayer. But the liquor ration had run out, and could not be renewed before they reached D'Waith. But there was still some cooking wine aboard, was there not?

There was not. The cook had used the last of it in preparing a goulash to Drake's specifications. ('Not up to the standard df the original,' the captains had complained.)

Drake would have to wait for dry land before he could put his faith to the test.

But dry land was a long time coming. The scrimshaw weather saw them five days at sea between the Lessers and D'Waith, sometimes nosing along at seaslug pace, sometimes becalmed, and once or twice actually being carried backwards by playful little currents.