The Rod of Discipline

Stinson woke to a balalaika.  Geissel was above on deck playing a tune that didn’t seem to fit the instrument.  A slow, chunky melody; one would have expected something more brisk and high-pitched.  But what did Stinson know about balalaikas? 

He rose from his bunk, grabbed his wash bag and shaving mirror, and went up to salute the morning.  Captain Littlewood was in the cockpit.  At first, he looked asleep at the wheel, hunched forward on top of it, but then Stinson noticed him step back suddenly, and his hands could be seen clearly steering.   Thank goodness for that.  By now, Stinson had grown somewhat used to seeing a dishevelled madman-like Littlewood in the mornings.  It was as though their hardened Captain had been up all night going heavy on the bottle with only an hour or so of sleep behind him.  But then again, his verve was always stronger at these times too.  His energy had its rise with the sun and later it dipped modestly as the moon came down. 

It didn’t appear to be morning at all.  A fog was upon them and a feeling that Dolores Costello was all that was left of the world.  The boat was slowly creaking through the ashen cloud like a thief on toes.  How was the Captain driving in this?  The main navigation light was on and shooting forcefully ahead but the beam didn’t appear powerful enough to get through the fog.  It only went so far and then burned out.  

Stinson went to the port side which was where he usually went to clean up.  There was a deathly chill in the air and eventually it felt like he was brushing lumps of slushy snow across his grill, not Colgate.

‘Freeze your balls off out here, you would,’ said a voice, giving Stinson a fright.  It was Masterson, quietly standing to Stinson’s left, looking more at home in that long dusty duffle coat than ever before.  There had been no sign of him until now.  In fact, for a moment, the very existence of Father Masterson had happily slithered from thought.

‘It’s cold alright,’ Stinson agreed.  

‘When will that eejit give it up?’ frowned the wolf priest, looking over at Geissel, who was perched on a stool at the front, now playing a more upbeat tune on his balalaika. 

‘Ah, it’s not that bad.  I’ll tell you what.  It certainly brightens up this dreary picture we have before us.’

 As Stinson finished brushing his teeth, he noticed Masterson was holding a long fishing rod.

‘Where did you get that?’ he asked.

‘We’re on a fishing trawler,’ replied Masterson, with expert sarcasm.  ‘I found it in that wee room underneath.  What do you call it?  The cubby.  There’s a bunch of stuff down there.’

‘You’re going to fish right now?’

‘I am.’

Stinson was bemused.  ‘In the fog?’

‘For sure, some say it’s the best time.’

‘Really?  I heard the complete opposite.’

Masterson’s face screwed up.  ‘And who are your sorry sources?’

‘My cousin,’ replied Stinson.  ‘He lives near Lough Corrib.  You get severe fogs out on that lake.  He said the water gets too cold and the fish don’t like to come up to the surface.’

‘How does your cousin know what the fish like or don’t like to do?’

‘Why not ask Captain Littlewood?  He’d know for certain.’

‘Having viewed the man’s book collection, I’d say no.’ Masterson then held the fishing rod aloft and inspected it up and down as a connoisseur of rods would.  ‘A beautiful rod, eh?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Stinson.  ‘But it looks like a good one.’

‘It reminds me of my old metre stick back at St.Michael’s .  The rod of discipline.’  A wistful but slightly fiendish expression came over Masterson’s face then and Father Stinson recoiled, a sequence of horrors flashing in his mind, as once more he was forced to contemplate the wolf priest’s shady past.

‘Stop,’ came a loud warning suddenly, Littlewood hanging out of the cockpit, one hand still on the wheel.  ‘No fishing.’

‘Why not?’ Masterson shouted back.

‘Monsters,’ responded the Captain.