Cruise of Shadows by Jean Ray

Author:Jean Ray
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wakefield Press
Published: 2021-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

THE MAINZ PSALTER

Dying men generally impose few forms on their final words; compelled to summarize their entire lives, they subject their words to a rigorous economy.

Nevertheless, in the forecastle of the trawler North Caper out of Grimsby, Ballister was dying.

In vain we tried to staunch the red roads by which his life was escaping. He had no fever, his speech was even and fast. He did not seem to see the linen or the bloody basin: his gaze followed distant and dreadful images.

Reines, the Marconi operator, took notes.

Reines occupies his every free minute writing stories and essays for ephemeral literary magazines; as soon as one of them is born on Paternoster Row,1 you can be sure to read the name of Archile Reines2 among its contributors.

Do not be surprised then at the rather special twist given to this final monologue of a mortally wounded mariner. The fault lies with Reines, that obscure man of letters, who transcribed it. But I can certify that the facts are just as Ballister recounted them before the four crewmembers of the North Caper: the owner Benjamin Cormon; John Copeland, second mate and fishing master; your servant, Ephraim Rose, mechanic; and the aforementioned Archibald Reines.

Thus spoke Ballister:

It was at the Happy Heart tavern that I met the schoolmaster, that we negotiated the deal and he gave me my orders.

The Happy Heart is more like a pub for boatmen than for sailors. Its miserable facade is reflected in a Liverpool back dock where barges of the inland waterways moor.

I looked at the neatly drawn blueprint of a small schooner.

“It’s practically a yacht,” I said, “which in heavy weather ought to be able to run tight; and this broad stern will handle well under a headwind.”

“We also have the auxiliary engine,” he said.

I pouted, having always loved sailing for the sport and from a great love of the sea.

“The yard of Halett and Halett, Glasgow,”3 I said, “built in 1909. An admirable rig; with six men, these sixty tons take to the sea better than a steamer.”

He took on a very satisfied expression and ordered the drinks we’d selected.

“Why,” I added, “would you remove the name ‘Hen-Parrot?’ It’s a nice name; a parrot is a bird I have always liked.”

“That,” he said, with some hesitation, “is an affair of the … heart, or of gratitude if you would prefer.”

“So the boat will be named the Mainz Psalter, very odd … But basically, original.”

The alcohol made him a little more talkative.

“It’s not that,” he said. “One year ago a great-uncle died and left me the legacy of a trunk stuffed with old books.”

“Bah!”

“Hold on! I was sorting through them with no great joy when an old book caught my eye: it was an incunabulum …”

“What did you say?”

“That,” he said, with a bit of superiority, “is the term for a book that dates from the earliest days of printing; and what was my amazement when I thought I recognized the quasi-heraldic mark of Fust and Schoeffer!

“These names probably

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