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.
The mattress proved lumpy. He tossed until exhaustion dragged him toward sleep—only to be roused by heavy footsteps. Light crept under the door. The stranger who entered carried a candle in one hand and a shrunken human head in the other. When he turned toward the light, Ishmael’s breath caught. The face was dark purple-yellow, marked with black squares in a checkerboard pattern. His head was entirely bald save for a small knot of hair twisted on his forehead, giving him the appearance of a mildewed skull. The strange checkering covered his entire body—chest, back, arms, legs.
Then the savage produced a small deformed figure of polished ebony—a hunchbacked wooden idol—and set it in the cold fireplace like a shrine. He arranged shavings before it, laid a ship’s biscuit atop them, and kindled a flame. With guttural chants and strange contortions of face, he offered the burnt biscuit to his Congo god. The ritual complete, he stuffed the idol back into his pocket.
Ishmael knew he should speak before the light died. But hesitation cost him everything. The savage picked up his tomahawk, raised it to his lips, and puffed great clouds of tobacco smoke. Then he extinguished the candle and sprang into bed with the weapon still clutched in his teeth.
Ishmael screamed. The cannibal grunted in surprise and began feeling about in the darkness. His guttural voice demanded to know who shared his bed, and when Ishmael stammered, the man raised his smoking tomahawk and threatened death. Ishmael shouted for the landlord, for angels, for anyone who might save him.
The door burst open. The landlord stood grinning in the light. He spoke calm words: Queequeg here would not harm a hair on any man’s head. The harpooneer was a South Sea islander, a sober and paying guest, harmless despite his fearsome appearance. Queequeg sat up in bed, pipe in hand, his tattooed face composed and patient. He motioned Ishmael back toward the covers with genuine courtesy, rolling to one side to give him room.
The fear drained away. Ishmael reflected that this clean, composed savage posed less danger than any drunken Christian sailor stumbling through the night. He asked the landlord to tell Queequeg to put away his tomahawk and pipe. Queequeg complied at once, settling back with the polite grace of a host. Ishmael turned in beside him and slept better than he had in his entire life.
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