Ahab turns, with fire in his eye. "A week, Stubb! And not one whale."

"Aye, sir, you're straining for a fight!" Stubb hangs around most days as Ahab sits adeck, peg leg steadfastly in its hole, sharpening his harpoon over and over, wearing the steel needlessly to hold the point.

There have been a series of shapes. Some small, some large, some seen as mirages out on the water. Whale-like. Whale-esque. Some have even motivated Stubb to approach, squint harder through his spyglass at what might be salvation. But if Ahab is honest with himself, the problem is bad and shows no sign of improvement. 

A fight would be something. A fight would not be more nothing. And if the two fought, maybe the sharpened steel would pierce someone's skin, and the spilled blood would lure more somethings to the deck. 

Things Ahab might not want. 

He sighs. 

Where is his dream now?

It's bothered Stubb, too. The raison d'etre of a whaling crew is to hunt whales. What makes a soul whole changes when one steps aboard the whaling ship. Even in quiet moments, the whaler is a predatory sort. Too long without blood, and the crew grows restless. Too long without blood, and a murmur starts to spread, an alertness sharpened in stillness. Something ravenous. 

Stubb is loyal to his captain. The word mutiny wouldn't cross his lips.

Still, a week is a very, very long time. 

"Did ye see that?" says Ahab.

"What?" says Stubbs. One hand is on his telescope already. He whips it out and finds the dark outline of what Ahab was searching for. It isn't quite breaching, but as it turns in the water he sees something surface and twist. Its length is immense: longer even than the largest whale he has ever seen. A fin flips, hitting the water. 

The family Cetacea is large, and scarce known to man. And the oceans are deep, and whisper their secrets only to the great fish.

The whale is dark, dark. 

The familiar cry, aboard every sailor's lips.

"Thar she blows! Thar, thar she blows!"

Where two men stood in stillness, there is now an frenzy of action. Hatches bursting, sailors eager. Ropes slicked, boats lowering. Men moving by instinct. Each man's eyes, each man's thoughts, are all directed towards one thing.

They seize it. They harpoon it. They drag it onto the deck. But as Ahab scans the chaos he realizes a very curious thing. 

"Is this whale... black?" he asks Stubbs. 

It is. The whale is a midnight black, the opposite of the white whale Ahab has sought for so long. Almost as if the great beast had a twin, something somehow made from its own shadow. 

"It'll fetch the same," Stubbs murmurs. But Ahab feels the famliar tingling. He knows all is not as it seems.