“I have accepted the post of worminger,” said Cugel in austere tones.
Captain Baunt stared at Cugel slack-jawed. “You are the under-worminger?”
“That is my understanding,” said Cugel.
Cugel’s new quarters were located far forward in the bilges, where the stem-piece met the keel. The furnishings were simple: a narrow bunk with a sackful of dried reeds and a case where hung a few rancid garments abandoned by Wagmund.
By the light of a candle Cugel assessed his contusions. None seemed of a dangerous or disfiguring nature, even though Captain Baunt’s conduct had exceeded all restraint.
A nasal voice reached his ears: “Cugel, where are you? On deck, at the double!”
Cugel groaned and limped up to the deck. Awaiting him was a tall fleshy young man with a thick cluster of black curls and small close-set black eyes. This person inspected Cugel with frank curiosity. “I am Lankwiler, worminger full and able, and hence your superior, though both of us serve under Chief Worminger Drofo. He now wishes to deliver an inspirational lecture. Listen carefully, if you know what is good for you. Come this way.”
Beside the mast stood Drofo: the gaunt man with dark mahogany beard whom Cugel had noticed on his arrival aboard ship.
Drofo pointed toward the hatch. “Sit.”
Cugel and Lankwiler seated themselves and waited with polite attention.
With head bent forward and hands clasped behind his back Drofo surveyed his underlings. After a moment he spoke, in a deep and passionless voice. “I can tell you much! Listen, and you will gain wisdom to surpass the scholars at the Institute, with their concords and paradigms! But do not mistake me! The weight of my words is no more than the weight of a single rain-drop! To know, you must do! After a hundred worms and ten thousand leagues, then with justice you may say, ‘I am wise!’ or, to precisely the same effect: ‘I am a worminger!’ At this time, because you are wise and because you are a worminger, you will not wish to utter vainglories. You will choose reticence, since your worth will speak for itself!” Drofo looked from face to face. “Am I clear?”
Lankwiler spoke in puzzlement: “Not entirely. The scholars at the Institute routinely calculate the weight of single rain-drops. Is this to be considered good or bad?”
Drofo responded politely: “We are not adjudging the research of scholars at the Institute. We are discussing, rather, the work of the worminger.”
“Ah! All is now clear!”
“Precisely so!” said Cugel. “Proceed, Drofo, with your interesting remarks!”
With arms behind his back, Drofo took a step to port, then a step to starboard. “Our calling is starkly noble! The dilettante, the weakling, the fool: all reveal themselves in their true colors. When the voyage goes well, then any mooncalf is bright and merry; he dances a jig and plays the concertina, and everyone thinks: ‘Oh, for the life of the worminger!’ But then hardship attacks! Black pust rages without remorse; impactions come like the gongs of Fate; the worm takes to rearing and plunging: then the popinjay is revealed, or, more likely, is discovered hiding in the darkest corner of the hold!”
Cugel and Lankwiler mulled over the remarks, while Drofo paced to port, then to starboard.
Drofo pointed a long pale fore-finger toward the sea. “Yonder we go, halfway between the sky and the ocean floor, where the secrets of every age are concealed in a darkness which will grow absolute when the sun goes out.”
As if to emphasize Drofo’s remarks, the face of the sun momentarily glazed over with a dark film, similar to a rheum in an old man’s eye. After a flutter and a wink, the light of day returned, to the obvious relief of Lankwiler, although Drofo ignored the incident. He held his finger in the air.
“The worm is a familiar of the sea! It is wise, though it uses six concepts only: sun, wave, wind, horizon, dark deep, faithful direction, hunger, and satiation … Yes, Lankwiler? Why are you counting on your fingers?”
“Sir, it is no great matter.”
“The worms are not clever,” said Drofo. “They perform no tricks and they know no jokes. The good worminger, like his worms, is a man of simplicity. He cares little for what he eats and is indifferent as to whether he sleeps wet or dry, or even if he sleeps at all. When his worms drive straight, when the wake lies true, when ingestion is sharp and voidure is proper: then the worminger is serene. He craves no more from the world, neither wealth nor ease nor the sensuous caress of languid females nor trinkets like that foppish bedazzlement Cugel wears in his hat. His way is the watery void!”
“Most inspiring!” cried Lankwiler. “I am proud to be a worminger! Cugel, what of you?”
“I no less!” declared Cugel. “It is a worthy calling, and the hat ornament, while of no intrinsic value, is an heirloom.”
Drofo gave an indifferent nod. “Now I will divulge the first axiom of our trade, which indeed can be expanded to a universal application. Thus: ‘A man may show himself to you and say, “I am a Master Worminger!” Or a Master Worminger may stand to the side and speak no word. How is truth to be known? It is told by the worms.’
“I will particularize. Should you see a yellow bilious creature with bloated fausicles, gills crusted with gangue, an impacted clote, who is thereby at fault? The worm, who knows only water and space? Or he who should tend it? Can we call him a worminger? Form your own opinion. But here is another worm, strong, steadfast in direction, pink as the sunrise! This worm testifies to the faith of its worminger, who tirelessly burnishes its linctures, disimpedes its clote, scrapes and combs the gills until they shine like silver! He is in mystical communion with surge and sea, and knows the serenity only the worminger can know!
“I will say little more. Cugel, you have small acquaintance with the trade, but I take it as a good sign that you have come to me for training, since my methods are not soft. You will learn or you will drown, or suffer a blow of the flukes, or worse, incur my displeasure. But you have started well and I will teach you well. Never think me harsh, or over-bearing; you will be in self-defeating error! I am stern, yes, even severe, but in the end, when I acknowledge you a worminger, you will thank me.”
“Good news indeed,” muttered Cugel.
Drofo paid him no heed. “Lankwiler, you perhaps lack something of Cugel’s intensity, but you have the advantage of a voyage beside Wagmund, who suffers a sore leg. I have pointed out to you certain errors and laxities, and my remarks are surely fresh in your mind; am I correct?”
“Absolutely!” said Lankwiler with a bland smile.
“Good. You will show Cugel the bins and sacks, and fit him out with a good reamer and pincts. Cugel, does your equipment include a pair of sound straddlers?”
Cugel made a negative sign. “I neglected them in my haste.”
“A pity … Well, you may use Wagmund’s excellent equipment, but you must see to its care.”
“I shall do so.”
“Then make ready your gear. It is almost time to fetch the worms; the Galante sails directly upon Soldinck’s order.”
Lankwiler took Cugel forward to the locker under the forepeak, where he sorted through the gear, putting aside the best articles for his own use and tossing Cugel a casual selection from what remained.
Lankwiler advised Cugel: “Pay no great heed to old Drofo. He has inhaled too much salt-spray and I suspect that he uses the worms’ ear-tonic as a tipple, for he is often queer.”
Emboldened by Lankwiler’s affability Cugel put a cautious question: “If we are dealing only with worms, why do we need such crude and heavy gear?”
Lankwiler looked up blankly, and Cugel hastened to add: “I assume that we work with our worms at a table, or perhaps a bench; therefore I wonder why Drofo glorifies deprivation and exposure to the elements. Are we required to rinse the worms in salt water, or dig them from the mire by night?”
