My Lord Shark And His Pages
There is a fish in the sea that evermore, like a surly lord, only goes
abroad attended by his suite. It is the Shovel-nosed Shark. A clumsy
lethargic monster, unshapely as his name, and the last species of his
kind, one would think, to be so bravely waited upon, as he is. His
suite is composed of those dainty little creatures called Pilot fish by
sailors. But by night his retinue is frequently increased by the
presence of several small luminous fish, running in advance, and
flourishing their flambeaux like link-boys lighting the monster’s way.
Pity there were no ray-fish in rear, page-like, to carry his caudal
train.
Now the relation subsisting between the Pilot fish above mentioned and
their huge ungainly lord, seems one of the most inscrutable things in
nature. At any rate, it poses poor me to comprehend. That a monster so
ferocious, should suffer five or six little sparks, hardly fourteen
inches long, to gambol about his grim hull with the utmost impunity, is
of itself something strange. But when it is considered, that by a
reciprocal understanding, the Pilot fish seem to act as scouts to the
shark, warning him of danger, and apprising him of the vicinity of
prey; and moreover, in case of his being killed, evincing their anguish
by certain agitations, otherwise inexplicable; the whole thing becomes
a mystery unfathomable. Truly marvels abound. It needs no dead man to
be raised, to convince us of some things. Even my Viking marveled full
as much at those Pilot fish as he would have marveled at the Pentecost.
But perhaps a little incident, occurring about this period, will best
illustrate the matter in hand.
We were gliding along, hardly three knots an hour, when my comrade, who
had been dozing over the gunwale, suddenly started to his feet, and
pointed out an immense Shovel-nosed Shark, less than a boat’s length
distant, and about half a fathom beneath the surface. A lance was at
once snatched from its place; and true to his calling, Jarl was about
to dart it at the fish, when, interested by the sight of its radiant
little scouts, I begged him to desist.
One of them was right under the shark, nibbling at his ventral fin;
another above, hovering about his dorsal appurtenance; one on each
flank; and a frisking fifth pranking about his nose, seemingly having
something to say of a confidential nature. They were of a bright,
steel-blue color, alternated with jet black stripes; with glistening
bellies of a silver-white. Clinging to the back of the shark, were four
or five Remoras, or sucking-fish; snaky parasites, impossible to remove
from whatever they adhere to, without destroying their lives. The
Remora has little power in swimming; hence its sole locomotion is on
the backs of larger fish. Leech-like, it sticketh closer than a false
brother in prosperity; closer than a beggar to the benevolent; closer
than Webster to the Constitution. But it feeds upon what it clings to;
its feelers having a direct communication with the esophagus.
The shark swam sluggishly; creating no sign of a ripple, but ever and,
anon shaking his Medusa locks, writhing and curling with horrible life.
Now and then, the nimble Pilot fish darted from his side—this way and
that—mostly toward our boat; but previous to taking a fresh start ever
returning to their liege lord to report progress.
A thought struck me. Baiting a rope’s end with a morsel of our almost
useless salt beef, I suffered it to trail in the sea. Instantly the
foremost scout swam toward it; hesitated; paused; but at last
advancing, briskly snuffed at the line, and taking one finical little
nibble, retreated toward the shark. Another moment, and the great
Tamerlane himself turned heavily about; pointing his black, cannon-like
nose directly toward our broadside. Meanwhile, the little Pilot fish
darted hither and thither; keeping up a mighty fidgeting, like men of
small minds in a state of nervous agitation.
Presently, Tamerlane swam nearer and nearer, all the while lazily
eyeing the Chamois, as a wild boar a kid. Suddenly making a rush for
it, in the foam he made away with the bait. But the next instant, the
uplifted lance sped at his skull; and thrashing his requiem with his
sinewy tail, he sunk slowly, through his own blood, out of sight. Down
with him swam the terrified Pilot fish; but soon after, three of them
were observed close to the boat, gliding along at a uniform pace; one
an each side, and one in advance; even as they had attended their lord.
Doubtless, one was under our keel.
“A good omen,” said Jarl; “no harm will befall us so long as they
stay.”
But however that might be, follow us they did, for many days after:
until an event occurred, which necessitated their withdrawal.