Chapter 18

My Lord Shark And His Pages

There is a fish in the sea that evermore, like a surly lord, only
goes abroad attended by his suite. It is the Shovel-nosed Shark. A
clumsy lethargic monster, unshapely as his name, and the last species
of his kind, one would think, to be so bravely waited upon, as he is.
His suite is composed of those dainty little creatures called Pilot
fish by sailors. But by night his retinue is frequently increased by
the presence of several small luminous fish, running in advance, and
flourishing their flambeaux like link-boys lighting the monster's
way. Pity there were no ray-fish in rear, page-like, to carry his
caudal train.

Now the relation subsisting between the Pilot fish above mentioned
and their huge ungainly lord, seems one of the most inscrutable
things in nature. At any rate, it poses poor me to comprehend. That a
monster so ferocious, should suffer five or six little sparks, hardly
fourteen inches long, to gambol about his grim hull with the utmost
impunity, is of itself something strange. But when it is considered,
that by a reciprocal understanding, the Pilot fish seem to act as
scouts to the shark, warning him of danger, and apprising him of the
vicinity of prey; and moreover, in case of his being killed, evincing
their anguish by certain agitations, otherwise inexplicable; the
whole thing becomes a mystery unfathomable. Truly marvels abound. It
needs no dead man to be raised, to convince us of some things. Even
my Viking marveled full as much at those Pilot fish as he would have
marveled at the Pentecost.

But perhaps a little incident, occurring about this period, will best
illustrate the matter in hand.

We were gliding along, hardly three knots an hour, when my comrade,
who had been dozing over the gunwale, suddenly started to his feet,
and pointed out an immense Shovel-nosed Shark, less than a boat's
length distant, and about half a fathom beneath the surface. A lance
was at once snatched from its place; and true to his calling, Jarl
was about to dart it at the fish, when, interested by the sight of
its radiant little scouts, I begged him to desist.

One of them was right under the shark, nibbling at his ventral fin;
another above, hovering about his dorsal appurtenance; one on each
flank; and a frisking fifth pranking about his nose, seemingly having
something to say of a confidential nature. They were of a bright,
steel-blue color, alternated with jet black stripes; with glistening
bellies of a silver-white. Clinging to the back of the shark, were
four or five Remoras, or sucking-fish; snaky parasites, impossible to
remove from whatever they adhere to, without destroying their lives.
The Remora has little power in swimming; hence its sole