Galapagos Regained by James Morrow

Author:James Morrow
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
ISBN: 9781466880924
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

9

Venomous Snakes Fall from the Sky, Fortress Walls Come Tumbling Down, and a New Plan Hatches in Chloe’s Brain

On maps the region was called Tierra del Fuego, but after an eternity of captivity by the violent weather the Reverend Simon Hallowborn thought of it as Terror del Fuego instead. The howling winds, frigid vistas, and subzero temperatures recalled for Simon an indelible tableau from Dante: Lucifer embedded up to his chest in the solid River Cocytus, his wings sending forth blasts so cold they kept the waters forever frozen. With his ship engulfed by icebergs and mountainous waves, Captain Garrity was now measuring her progress not in leagues but in yards, not in days but in weeks. After a full month of applying his nautical skills to the problem, the master of the Antares had failed to move her more than halfway along the Strait of Magellan. Ahead lay only more treacherous floes, more quixotic currents, and the point of no return.

As the battle against Cape Horn entered its second month, Simon decided the time had come for him to minister to the wretches in the hold. Buffeted by the turbulent seas, chafed by their manacles and fetters, the convicts would need their spirits lifted—and in fact he was prepared to offer them bracing news: a radically reduced prison sentence awaited anyone who participated in the Great Winnowing!

Heart in hand, Bible at the ready, he broached the Stygian depths of the ship, where ninety-two unbathed and probably unbaptized men lay shackled in their hammocks. Setting down his musket, Mr. Moffet deferentially doffed his cap (doubtless recalling how Simon had saved the Antares by rescuing the snared albatross). “Good afternoon, Reverend,” said the midshipman, his words turning to spectral vapor. “What brings you to our icy dungeon?”

Simon explained that he wished to address the prisoners, and so Mr. Moffet ordered his charges to fall in before their visitor. As the men climbed free of their hammocks, arranging themselves in irregular ranks and files, their chains clanking discordantly, Simon assayed the atmosphere, which evidently comprised equal parts vomitus, urine, rotten cabbages, and dead fish. “Future inmates of Mephistropolis, may the blessings of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ be upon you,” he said, sinuses aflame with the ambient stench. “As you’ve doubtless inferred, the Antares is trapped in heavy seas—but know that God means to preserve you, for you’ve been selected to perform a holy task.”

A rheumy-eyed prisoner raised his hand as far as the manacle would allow. “The name’s Ben Colby, the worst kind of horse thief—the sort what gets caught.” Cackles and guffaws reverberated through the hold. “Here’s my question, Reverend. If God needs the lot of us, does that mean He’ll be raisin’ up poor Billy Windham, who expired of the flux on Sunday? Will He be restorin’ old Tom Tattle, dead last month of a fever?”

“I come to you not as a prophet, revealing God’s mind, but as a simple priest, extolling His mercy,” Simon replied. “Devote yourselves

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