Lines Upon the Deep

Reflections on the Preparations for the Silent Circle Survey

 From the personal Log of Gerald “Charts” Whitcomb, Senior Keeper of Hydrographic Records (published with permission)

The directive lies heavy upon the Order, though none so heavy as upon me. Others may wring their hands over ballast or insurance, but it is the maps that will tell the tale. Without precise bearings, all else is fumbling.

I have already unrolled every chart of Grand Traverse Bay in the Chapter House archive. Some are modern hydrographic issues, neat and clinical. Others are older, annotated by mariners long gone, ink smudged and faded but not without insight. I have cross-referenced each against depth soundings, glacial lines, and sediment reports. The stones are said to rest forty feet down, in formation uncanny enough to draw whispers of a mastodon carved into one. These whispers require coordinates, and coordinates demand redundancy.

I intend to draft not one ledger but three. The first will be the working copy, carried aboard the Little Concord. The second will be the archival copy, inked by hand and sealed in wax at Rawley. The third will be the show copy, prepared for the GLRC’s eyes and stripped of commentary that might give them advantage. This arrangement, I believe, balances integrity with prudence.

Already I have set Eleanor to ordering waterproof inks of suitable viscosity. I have requisitioned compasses, rulers, and protractors, each to be tested and logged. A subcommittee has been formed, though in truth I will do most of the work myself. Their enthusiasm exceeds their accuracy. At last count, three separate members attempted to orient a chart upside down. One insisted the compass rose was decorative. Another asked me whether north was optional.

The GLRC will assume they alone can command precision, with their electronic instruments and endless printouts. Let them. Our charts will outlast their devices, as paper always outlasts gadgetry. Should the satellites fail or the power flicker, it will be Whitcomb’s ink they consult. This, I say with certainty.

Time, however, presses. The November gales are not a bureaucratic deadline but a meteorological certainty. My maps must be prepared, duplicated, and sealed before the winds arrive. I will not have ink running in the damp of hurried October nights.

In my quieter moments, I think of the stones themselves. Aligned, deliberate, or merely ice-scattered, it matters little. What matters is the record. If a mastodon’s outline truly rests beneath the bay, it will be my ink that makes it permanent. And if it turns out to be nothing more than scratches in stone, it will still be my ink that makes it permanent.

I would be dishonest if I did not admit one other thought. The GLRC will be there, and with them perhaps Dr. Selene Armitage will appear. Once Keeper of the Bathymetric Ledger within our own Order, she departed for the Consortium under circumstances still deemed impolite to mention aloud. Some even mutter that my own proximity to her work hastened her departure. I have not dignified such speculation, but I know the whispers persist.

I have not spoken her name in public since, though it lingers at the edge of every chart line. Should we meet again on that vessel, it will not be ink alone that requires steadiness of hand.

Charts will endure, as always.