Whalefall

Deep down at the bottom of the ocean, where leviathans decompose and the earth stutters and moans - something crashed down into the cold sand. A whale. 

Once settled, hagfish and sleeper sharks scavenged across the soft tissue for months gnawing at the rubbery hide. Seasons passed overhead but none penetrated through the blinding darkness of the sea. 

At the first opportunity to colonise the bones and organic sediment, worms burrowed into the spine. Fornicating in their new home, the worms spawn larvae in the giant’s ribs and eye sockets. The way they vibrate and move looks almost ritual, like a ceremony for a vile God.

Then the bacteria creeps into the crevices that bigger creatures dare not dream of. Breaking down the fat, the oils, the strange substances that are wiped away in a hunk of tissue without a second thought. This is a buffet not to be missed, one that will last a century.

At the bottom of the sea, there is no whale anymore and the sand is not quite sand. Where a carcass was, a blooming reef thrives. Fish, molluscs, arachnids, crustaceans, bacteria, flora and fauna busy themselves with opportunity. Vibrant colours spread across the ocean bed, each one brighter than the last. None of that dull grey whale.

At the centre of this spread, is a misshapen reef. Contorted at its centre. Years and years ago, a humpback whale swam in the sea. A research group named her Moon, it’s unclear if she had a name she called herself.

Humpback whales are said to communicate with one another, remembering and recognising things as they do so. They hunt, they play, they feed and Moon was no different. Moon sang many melodies. Sometimes Moon heard male humpback whales sing across the entire ocean. Some of the singing was sexy and some of it angry. 

Moon tended not to sing as much as the horny men did. She preferred to listen. There were wupping purrs and swopping squeaks. And something miraculous happened to the singing. 

Moon was born in a busy sea, where she and her fellow calves would swim up and look at the strange oblongs that dotted across the surface. There aren’t many things in the ocean as big as her, or as fast. And there are few things which can breach the surface as good as her and her Mum can.

Boats. Curious things. They cross the oceans like Moon does, they make their own songs like whales do but they don’t swim and they don’t sing.

Accustomed to a life amongst plankton and freighters, Moon was surprised to find one day that the ocean was quieter than usual. The usual murmurs, booms and grunts had faded away. The odd oblongs were sometimes present but most had disappeared. And this quiet didn’t go away, it lasted. It lasted a while. Whale song never felt louder than at this time.

The scientists keeping an eye on Moon were delighted to hear how loud the ocean could be when you listened to it. But those same scientists discovered something had happened to Moon, when the quiet of the ocean faded and the industrial hums returned.

Moon swam in a dark sea, lit only by pale moonlight and the creeping torch of a ship. The two did not find one another in time, and collided. Moon’s back was broken, badly. She could no longer use her tail to propel her way forward. But Moon was not one to give up easily, and so she pushed thousands of miles covered in lice to see her children.

She was emaciated and broken when she arrived. Using her breast stroke alone, Moon had made it to her offspring. The quiet ocean was once again loud, but that did not stop Moon from resting near the ocean’s surface where she gently fell asleep. 

There are songs sung by whales when they die, songs you only hear from a whale that lost something. Songs that ships can not hear. At the bottom of the ocean, a quiet song can make a big difference. But all songs must end.