After nearly a day of travel, the HMS Fluke is deposited in the Unterzee. The Canal descended, through locks and gates and shadowed turns, from the sunlight of the Surface to the chill waters of the zee, and as soon as the small passenger liner touched the green-black waters the air shifted, morphing into a sense of foreboding and delicious newness. The passengers had been consigned below decks during the descent, the wild tides of the Canal too hungry for men and women without zee-legs to be within it's reach, but with the boat deposited in the Albertine Docks, the lacquered hard-wood floors of the foredeck were open to sightseeing.
The sight of the Neath is one completely alien to surface dwellers. There were stars, thousands of them, and if you looked closely occasionally one of them moved, fast or slow in straight lines or eccentric curves. There is no sun or moon, and the only light comes from the lights of the boat, and the illuminations of the docks, either blinding searchlights or dim street-lamps guiding the residents and workers too and fro on its far-off streets. The zee itself is strange, perhaps more alien than anything else yet. Earlier in the trip, zailors could be heard laughing about surface-dweller's reactions to the zee. Among the portended outcomes, words like "madness" "terror" and "squeal like a faber" made their appearances, and it is clear why. The waters are no color present on the surface, and seeing it for the first time causes an uncomfortable sensation of expansion in the murky corners of your psyche. 'Pelegin', you read. 'The Black of the Underzee', an torpid and deep hue of maddening shade, hinting at depths quite literally unfathomable. It uneases even the most hardy surfacers, and more than one passenger loses the contents of their stomach to the waves, the putrid waste mixing with and quickly disappearing into the passing wave-caps, the uniform blackness returning.
The trip from the Albertine Docks to London is relatively uneventful. The docks themselves are impressive fortifications of stone and concrete, evidently built to withstand attacks from not only nature, but from attacks [both from the canal and from without, if the dual-facing cannon are to be taken seriously]. There is little traffic on the slight waves, and fortunately for all involved no zee-beasts rear whatever they have instead of heads. A few small merchant vessels are passed, evidenced only by their lights, and near halfway through the journey a Royal Navy frigate comes much nearer, the contours of its hull visible from the reflected light of its beaming lamps. Eventually, the light-boats of London can be seen, and the Jewel of the Underzee's glowing halo comes into view, the city silhouetted by its own luminescence.
The Fluke pulls into the Wolfstack Docks, the scurrying dock-urchins tying all manner of ropes to anything sturdy looking, pulling the thick-hulled vessel within walkway range. The docks are a cacophony of sound and color, in stark contrast to the zee. The place is filled with the noise of the city: talking, carriages, gossip, song, engines, shouts and laughs all have their place in the throng. A Trinket Hawker tries to convince passersby that his wares are straight from the House of Mirrors, wherever that may be. A Besotted Poet recites near the gantry, a tawdry verse whose subject is likely unknown even to the poet himself. The uncomfortable counter-melody to the excited buzz of the docks is what comes from under it. Groans and lamentations of Drownies, ex-drowned citizens of the Neath, their minds weak and their flesh scarred and discolored to resemble rotten eggplant more than human skin. Their soft, pitiable bass is accompanied by haunting melodies, beautiful sad songs that stir a slight, but noticeable, desire to join them among the waves.
The sights are more incredible. London truly is the jewel of the Neath, its skyline more vast and magnificent than any other city on or beneath the world, surely, the cavalcade of buildings crowned by the massive spires of the Bazaar, snaking towards the ceiling almost plaintively. The men and women along the docks are a varied crowd; there are people of quality, their fine colors and fashionable suits eye-catching and wonderful. Urchins run about charmingly in their motley and drab, while the everyday citizen finds his or her homogenized way through the thronging crowd. Unfortunately, these charming staples are not the primary occupants of the dock: most atop its thick wood platforms are zailors. Hard men and women [mostly men], with hard stares of hard eyes speaking of hard, maddening times in the pitch black horror of the Neath. Around them a dead zone exists, where the better people dare not step, and it these channels that will no doubt eventually lead you to your destination, written in bright red ink on a note in your breast pocket.
"The Singing Mandrake"
The sight of the Neath is one completely alien to surface dwellers. There were stars, thousands of them, and if you looked closely occasionally one of them moved, fast or slow in straight lines or eccentric curves. There is no sun or moon, and the only light comes from the lights of the boat, and the illuminations of the docks, either blinding searchlights or dim street-lamps guiding the residents and workers too and fro on its far-off streets. The zee itself is strange, perhaps more alien than anything else yet. Earlier in the trip, zailors could be heard laughing about surface-dweller's reactions to the zee. Among the portended outcomes, words like "madness" "terror" and "squeal like a faber" made their appearances, and it is clear why. The waters are no color present on the surface, and seeing it for the first time causes an uncomfortable sensation of expansion in the murky corners of your psyche. 'Pelegin', you read. 'The Black of the Underzee', an torpid and deep hue of maddening shade, hinting at depths quite literally unfathomable. It uneases even the most hardy surfacers, and more than one passenger loses the contents of their stomach to the waves, the putrid waste mixing with and quickly disappearing into the passing wave-caps, the uniform blackness returning.
The trip from the Albertine Docks to London is relatively uneventful. The docks themselves are impressive fortifications of stone and concrete, evidently built to withstand attacks from not only nature, but from attacks [both from the canal and from without, if the dual-facing cannon are to be taken seriously]. There is little traffic on the slight waves, and fortunately for all involved no zee-beasts rear whatever they have instead of heads. A few small merchant vessels are passed, evidenced only by their lights, and near halfway through the journey a Royal Navy frigate comes much nearer, the contours of its hull visible from the reflected light of its beaming lamps. Eventually, the light-boats of London can be seen, and the Jewel of the Underzee's glowing halo comes into view, the city silhouetted by its own luminescence.
The Fluke pulls into the Wolfstack Docks, the scurrying dock-urchins tying all manner of ropes to anything sturdy looking, pulling the thick-hulled vessel within walkway range. The docks are a cacophony of sound and color, in stark contrast to the zee. The place is filled with the noise of the city: talking, carriages, gossip, song, engines, shouts and laughs all have their place in the throng. A Trinket Hawker tries to convince passersby that his wares are straight from the House of Mirrors, wherever that may be. A Besotted Poet recites near the gantry, a tawdry verse whose subject is likely unknown even to the poet himself. The uncomfortable counter-melody to the excited buzz of the docks is what comes from under it. Groans and lamentations of Drownies, ex-drowned citizens of the Neath, their minds weak and their flesh scarred and discolored to resemble rotten eggplant more than human skin. Their soft, pitiable bass is accompanied by haunting melodies, beautiful sad songs that stir a slight, but noticeable, desire to join them among the waves.
The sights are more incredible. London truly is the jewel of the Neath, its skyline more vast and magnificent than any other city on or beneath the world, surely, the cavalcade of buildings crowned by the massive spires of the Bazaar, snaking towards the ceiling almost plaintively. The men and women along the docks are a varied crowd; there are people of quality, their fine colors and fashionable suits eye-catching and wonderful. Urchins run about charmingly in their motley and drab, while the everyday citizen finds his or her homogenized way through the thronging crowd. Unfortunately, these charming staples are not the primary occupants of the dock: most atop its thick wood platforms are zailors. Hard men and women [mostly men], with hard stares of hard eyes speaking of hard, maddening times in the pitch black horror of the Neath. Around them a dead zone exists, where the better people dare not step, and it these channels that will no doubt eventually lead you to your destination, written in bright red ink on a note in your breast pocket.
"The Singing Mandrake"