When There Were Whales: Part 3 of 6
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She woke up dry, and warmer. The cabin was metal, painted cream, and the plates were riveted. On her left a partition split the room in two. She looked round, taking in the pale color, the unadorned walls. A thick odor of raw meat and burning fat permeated the air, almost making her gag.
She sat up, pulling the blanket round herself on realizing her only garments were bra and knickers. “Hello?” she called.
A man’s head appeared round the partition, a shaggy mop of dark blonde hair and a thick beard. He had hazel eyes set in deep sockets, and looked at her with a concerned expression. “At last!” he said, with an accent Oya couldn’t place.
“Where am I?”
“This is Southern Promise of the Norwegian whaling fleet.”
“What?”
“I’ll get the Captain.”
“Whaling fleet?”
“For sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”
The cabin door was on the far side of the partition. When it clanged shut she slid off the bed and peered into the other part of the room. There was a table and chair. She couldn’t see her clothes.
Oya retreated to the bed and pulled the blanket tight. This was a whaling ship? She knew they still operated, but no country claimed a fleet, and certainly not Norway, not for sixty or seventy years. Fear thudded through her, each heart beat felt like a scream for help. She looked at her empty wrist and wondered where her watch was, if it was still transmitting. Her guess was it had been turfed overboard, with anything else that could identify her. As the world’s leading whale conservationist, on an illegal whaling ship. Her immediate future would be unpleasant. Maybe not being saved would have been a better option.
She resolved to fight. Whatever happened she would fight, until they gave it up as a bad job and threw her overboard, unless she could get to the side herself first.
The cabin door opened. Oya huddled back against the bulkhead and drew her knees tightly against her chest. The man who’d spoken to her earlier called round the partition.
“Miss Leke, I have Captain Melde with me. Can we come round?”
The question caught her unawares. “Erm, sure.”
Both men held items of Oya’s clothing.
The Captain said, “Sorry, we don’t have clothing for women aboard, but these have been dried - your boots too. Jürgen and I’ll wait outside.” They placed her clothing on the bed and retreated.
Oya stared at the garments in confusion and didn’t move until the cabin door shut. She dressed quickly. The interior pocket where here identification and permits were kept, in a waterproof pouch, was empty.
She patted herself down, zipped up, and felt ready to face the Captain. Fear and confusion churned her insides. The return of her clothes and the way the men retreated for her to dress allowed a small hope that she may be safe. Though any illegal whaler would recognize her name: ‘Oya Leke, Last Hope of the Whales’ had been a Times Magazine front page story less than a year previously.
“I’m dressed,” she called.
Both men re-entered. The Captain looked at the single seat by the desk and said. “Please, Miss Leke have a seat. Jürgen, fetch another stool, and see what warm food the galley has.” Jürgen nodded and left.
“Thank you,” Oya said. Her belly rumbled at the mention of food. She pressed a hand to her stomach and blood rushed to her cheeks. “I don’t know your name, Captain.”
“Vardr, Vardr Melde. And we have things to discuss, Oya Leke. Like how an American Negress comes to be adrift in the South Atlantic, and what these strange items are.” He reached into a trouser pocket and brought out her phone and watch. “Obviously, one is a watch, though like none I have seen, And what this other thing is…” he shook his head. From his other capacious pocket he retrieved the pouch with her passport and permits. “Of course, the biggest question is why your passport says you are not born for another forty years.”
The ship heeled sharply, Vardr staggered and Oya clasped the desk. They rolled the opposite way almost as violently. They were braced for the next oscillation and shifted with it. The ship steadied.
“I don’t understand, Captain.”
“Is it some plot against the Soviets? Were you to be picked up by one of their ships, or submarines? Or maybe it’s a plot by the Soviets. Such things are beyond a simple whaler like me.”
Oya stared, confused. “The Russians? I don’t understand. And what do you mean about my birthday?”
“Why would a passport, with metal in it, suggest you are born in nineteen ninety-three?”
“Because it’s my year of birth.”
Vardr laughed. “I see. So you were born in forty-one years’ time, were you? Our countries are allies. No need to maintain your pretence. I’m just amazed that your government would use you like this. The Soviets will know it’s a provocation.”
“Captain Vardr, I don’t know what you think. But I am American. And even the Russians haven’t called themselves Soviet for a long time. Your illegal fishing is the provocation here, it’s disgusting.”
The engine thumped, a steady hum of energy which resonated through the ship. Vardr stared at Oya and frowned.
“I run a legal operation,” Vardr said. “When this year’s quota is finished, we’ll head for South Georgia, where this ship will stay until the nineteen fifty-three season begins.”
“Nineteen fifty-three?”
“Yes, why?”
“It’s twenty fifty-two.”
“So your documents claim?”
“They don’t claim, they are.”
Jürgen arrived juggling a chair and a tray. He placed the tray on the table. “I brought some cocoa as well.”
“Thank you,” Oya said. All thought of the disjointed conversation with Captain Vardr disappeared beneath a desperate desire to eat. The smell of chocolate was strong and rich, saliva flooded her mouth in a way she hadn’t experienced since landfall after the last round the world race. She tried to restrain herself but couldn’t. The hot cocoa was warm, sweet, and bitter all at once - like sugar had been mixed with raw cocoa, then added to milk. When the cup was empty, she placed the cup down and wiped her lips.
“Sorry,” she said.
“That’s okay,” Vardr said. “You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours. Go ahead, have the stew.”
Oya did, gulping down meat and vegetables in a thick sauce. She considered what had been said since she awoke. With casual glances she took in the two men before her. She was still worried about being on the ship, but the way they spoke to, and dealt with, her allayed some of the baser fears. But nothing explained the time dislocation.
Vardr stayed silent while she ate. As she was scraping the bowl he said, “English isn’t my first language. So, I’m going to make sure I haven’t misunderstood you.” Oya put her bowl down. “We’ve seen a flare and picked up a US citizen who won’t be born for forty years. You’re carrying things that look like they come from a UFO. One detail I’m missing is how you came to be floating in the middle of the South Atlantic.”
“I’m in the Bacyan solo round the world race. I was pitched overboard when my boat hit debris washed off a container ship.”
Vardr looked up at Jürgen and raised an eyebrow in a high arch. Jürgen shrugged.
“Miss Leke,” Vardr said, “I don’t know what you are. And I’ll leave it to whatever authorities want to deal with you. But you know nothing about sailing or ships. No one sails solo round the world. I think it’s been done once, or that’s the claim. And there are no container ships this far south. When we’ve caught our load we’ll deliver you to Grytviken, South Georgia, and from there you’ll be out of my hands. Until then, well, you understand my ship isn’t designed to have women aboard.”
Oya looked from one man to the other. She shook her head. “Just get me ashore as quickly as possible, or have a chopper come get me.”
“We’ll certainly get you ashore. But there are no helicopters on South Georgia. We’ve done well so far. If our luck continues, we’ll be there in two or three weeks. Until then, this is your cabin. And while I trust my men, I recommend you bolt the door. Jürgen will bring your meals.”
“You’re locking me up?”
“No, just keeping you apart from the crew,” Vardr said. “These may be modern times, but there’s still plenty superstition about women on ships. And black women plucked from the middle of the ocean, who claims to be from the future, will make even my most rational crew nervous.” He paused for a moment. “And, as I said, I trust my crew. But some of them haven’t seen their wives or girlfriends for nearly two years.”
Oya bit her lip, a reflex to stop her talking while she thought over the situation. They swayed sideways as the boat wallowed in the swell of another big wave. There was no way she could be in the past, but it might be better to play along with whatever was going on. She nodded.
text by stuartcturnbull, picture by GB_photo via Pixbay
Part One Here
Part Two Here
Part Three Here
Part Four Here
Part Five Here
Part Six Here