Story for the Day: The Creature of the Deep

Shanties and seasongs are not exactly the same thing: a shanty is a song chanted out for work purposes, to make the laborious drudgery of heaving the capstan or hauling on the bowline more pleasurable, while seasongs are melodies sung when the crew is otherwise unoccupied. Danaco and the crew of the Myrellenos have a fast catalogue of songs they go through on their journeys, some songs quite vulgar (like Brogan's rendition of Marie the Whore), some downright wholesome (like the Song of the Sahadin), but one that everyone enjoys, because it comes attached to a game of chance is The Creature of the Deep, a seasong by Livanese sailors, telling the tale of the mysterious monster that may or may not live at the bottom of Livanon Sound:

The table was setting for the ensuing gaieties: Feiza was eagerly handing out knives to everyone on deck with a “And one fer you, and here’s fer you, this one’s clean, this one’s a got a bit o’ butter onnit, and here’s one for you,” and the only difficulty now was which song to use for the purpose. There was a sundry of material, all of which Panza and Shanyi were deliberating over as the resident musicians, neither of whom could decide what to play. Should they do a shanty or a seasong? They were off-duty now, but a capstan or a halyard shanty might do for the game, but the rhythm of a sheet shanty was much best, and therefore Creature of the Deep was at last decided on.

                “Can I sing this one, boss?” Rannig asked.

                “You may mouth it, my warbler,” the captain replied, giving him an affectionate rub on the shoulder. “If you sing in full stride, you take down the masts and the whole wharf.”

                “Can I whisper then?”

                “You may, as long as nobody’s ears begin to bleed.”

                Rannig clapped his hands in high glee, and Bartleby insisted that allowing the giant to even murmur a tune was a grievous mistake that was likely to cost someone their hearing.

                “Is Rannig not allowed to sing?” Peppone asked quietly.

                Heigan shook his head. “He’s not allowed to hum or whistle either.”

                “Rannig’s singing powers are renowned throughout the northern seas,” said Danaco. “Those who hear the tonitruous bellow of my giant braying believe him to be a kraken, come up from the depths to slay a gall of sirens. He has no concept of pitch, and his singing voice falls between countertenor and mining-drill. His trills are the cause of many a headache, his hums promote auditory haggerals, and his whistling is shrill enough to shatter every pane of glass from here to the end of the capital.”

                “I’d like a demonstration,” Peppone entreated.

                “You might like to see it, but you wouldn’t like to hear it,” said Ujaro, with eyes wide and head shaking.

                “The boss says I gotta make sure everyone has enough earwax in before I start singin’,” said Rannig. “I made a few gulls fall outta the sky once.”

                “Better than I can do without my knife,” Peppone chuckled. “I can kill a target with anything I can put in my hand, but I can’t kill someone with my voice.” Peppone begged Rannig to at least teach him the lyrics of the song-- without singing them, if possible, though the spore colonies in his ears would defend his hearing—and Rannig reiterated the story belonging to the Creature of the Deep, a tale of maritime misery, of sailors who accidentally discover the ancient resting place of an incomprehensible evil, one that took residence in Livanon Sound and lured sailors to their deaths by inundating them with violent murmurations, curmurs of the depths that made men dash themselves against the rocks and brought frigates to the shallows from the sea. Whole crews succumbed to marinal lunacy, the brabbles and squalls speaking secrets in the swells, and if sailors lived when they reached land, they were fortunate enough to be greeted by the Creature, a one-eyed monstrosity from the bowels of the sea, its tencatles long and crushing, its mouth rhamphoid and wriggling.      

                 “You can be the Creature, Vase Imp,” said Rannig, pointing at Peppone’s chest.

                “What do I have to sing?”

                “Nothin’. Ye just gotta make the wrigglin’ motions and do the blarglarglargh sounds. Oh, ye gotta shout about how yer gonna sink our ship and eat our souls by peelin’ open our chests and leechin’ our hearts out through our ribs and all.”

                “I can do that,” said Peppone, in a ponderous hue.

                “Don’t worry, it’s easy. We’ll tell ye when ye gotta start slurpin’ and all.”

                “Take care, nindano,” said Danaco. “If you perform your role too seriously, Bartleby will accuse you of being a maniacal cephalopod and try to capture you for his aquarium.”

                Bartleby made no counter to this; he only turned his back and flouted in silence.

                “He’s mad ‘cause he can’t sing, and he usually does the monster noises for the song,” said Rannig, in a loud whisper.

                “But ’e usually does ‘em, below deck and not on purpose-like,” said Moppet, switching the knife at his seat for someone else’s.

                “Oh,” said Peppone thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t have to do them.”

                “Do them, by all means,” Bartleby insisted. “Make your rumbles and ree-raw and whathaveyou. You wanted to be a part of this galleyhooing, you garbling fungus. I wanted silence, and the only way to have quiet enough for reading now is to have all this galdering over with as soon as the sally-singsong allows.”

                “But I really don’t mind not doing it,” Peppone laughed. “If you like playing the part of the Creature, I want you to do it.”

                “I do not like doing it,” Bartleby hissed. “I like singing as much as I like hearing Mr Malleythrashing  wind chimes over the bow.”

                “It’s ‘cause the ol’ man can’t proper appreciate music,” Mr Malley replied, eyeing Barlteby with a chary aspect.

                “I like music very well—in fact, I have a fervent appreciation for the Marridon symphony—but I like good music, with instruments expertly played and a chorus that does not think musical keys are akin to complex algebra.”

                “Sure don’t need to know no keys to sing proper,” Feiza contented. “Tune’s a tune, and if us’n carry it, just needs to know the first note, and Panza can play whatever note we want.”

                “Oh, can he?” Bartleby humphed and turned to Panza. “You, with the pauper’s squeezebox. Play something in B sharp major.”

                “Sure,” said Panza, with a flat look. “Let me just get out the magical concertina with more than forty eight buttons, the one that plays more than two octaves.”

                Panza pretended to reach for something under his seat, and instead of an instrument, he produced a vulgar gesture.   

                “There is it,” said Bartleby decidedly, “the extent of the plebian’s musical prowess.”

                “I play traditional tunes and songs, not theoretical keys,” Panza demanded, and then turning toward Peppone. “Creature of the Deep is in E Minor, but I can change it if you’re not comfortable with it, no matter what the old man says.”

                “Well, if I’m just doing the snarling sounds,” said Peppone demurely.

                “I’ll sing it for you once, and then tell you when to growl.”

                Panza pulled the bellows of his concertina, flicked his fingers in a swift appeggio, and began to sing:

It comes, it comes the Creature of the Deep.

It swims in with the tide

It lurks a thousand leagues below the sea

And in the mirk it thrives

Oh, have you heard the Creature of the Deep?

Its violent sanguinary cries?

Oh, have you seen it breach upon the waves,

Its shining nacrous eyes?

Look there, look there, the Creature of the Deep

It preys on lost men’s souls

It haunts the wend of Livanon Sound

Thrashing sailors against shoals

Oh, here it comes, the Creature of the Deep!

You can’t outsail its dreadful reach

Its arms lash out a hundred feet in front

And hurl ships toward the beach

It feeds, it feeds, the Creature of the Deep,

It sups on dead men’s eyes!

It flays your flesh, strips muscle from the bone

Its nourished by your cries

And when its done, the Creature of the Deep

It drags your coprse beneath the waves

Never again will sailors see the shore

They die as senseless slaves

It’s there, it’s there, the Creature of the Deep

Beware its love for hides

It wears men’s skin along its tentacles

And keeps your teeth for tithes

When you’ve paid the price to the Creature of Deep

For sailing the Linvanese Sound

Your wife, your babes, won’t see you again

Your ashes never laid to ground

It’s here, it’s here, the Creature of the Deep

It preys upon our minds

It watches ships pass above its lair

And waits to plague all mankind

                Rannig was all joyous exultation by the end of the recital. “I sure love this song.”

                “It seems cheerful,” Peppone laughingly agreed.