Call me Ishmael. Years ago, finding myself poor and aimless on land, I decided to sail and view the watery world. This is my method for curing melancholy and regulating my blood. Whenever my mouth grows grim, or my soul feels like a damp, drizzly November, I know it is time to leave. The urge becomes undeniable when I pause before coffin before warehouses, trail behind funerals, or feel a manic impulse to knock hats off in the street. Going to sea is my alternative to suicide. While Cato died on his sword with a flourish, I quietly board a ship. This impulse is not unique; almost all men feel a magnetic pull toward the ocean.
Ishmael walks away from the Pequod with his thoughts churning. The fragments he has heard of Ahab fill him with a vague, wild sense of trouble. He feels sympathy for the man, though he cannot say why, perhaps for the cruel amputation, perhaps for something deeper. And he feels something else, a sensation that is not quite awe but close to it, an attraction mixed with impatience at the mystery. For now, though, other concerns press upon him, and the dark figure of the captain recedes from his mind as he turns toward the next day’s work.
Respecting Queequeg’s religious obligations, Ishmael decides to leave his friend in peace to complete his Ramadan, reflecting that all mortals are somewhat cracked in the head regarding their faith. However, when Ishmael returns in the evening, he finds the door locked and Queequeg unresponsive to his calls. Peering through the keyhole, he sees the harpoon leaning against the wall but no sign of the man. Panic sets in as Ishmael fears Queequeg has suffered an apoplectic fit or committed suicide, recalling the landlady’s story of a previous boarder’s demise.
He rushes to fetch Mrs. Hussey, who is more concerned about her property than the passenger. She attempts to intervene with a spare key, but it fails to turn the lock. Ignoring her protests about damaging the door, Ishmael gathers his momentum and bursts it open with a sudden bodily rush. The door flies off its hinges, revealing Queequeg squatting in the center of the room, rigid and statue-like, with Yojo balanced on his head. He is in a trance-like state, utterly unresponsive to Ishmael’s entreaties or the landlady’s astonishment.
After dismissing the landlady, Ishmael tries to coax Queequeg into a chair or bed, but the savage remains fixed in his uncomfortable posture. Ishmael finally retires, throwing a bearskin over his friend, but spends a sleepless night filled with anxiety at the sight of the silent, wide-awake pagan holding his strange vigil. At dawn, Queequeg’s stiffness breaks, and he cheerfully announces that his Ramadan is concluded.
Relieved but annoyed by the ordeal, Ishmael decides to lecture Queequeg on the foolishness of such religious self-torture. He argues that fasting is physically unhealthy, leads to morbid spirituality, and that hell is merely an idea born of indigestion. Queequeg listens with condescending pity and counters that his only experience with dyspepsia came after a cannibalistic feast celebrating a great military victory, where fifty enemies were consumed. Finding his lecture ineffective, Ishmael abandons the argument. Queequeg proceeds to consume a prodigious breakfast of various chowders to compensate for his fast, and the two friends sally out to board the Pequod.
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