"Here comes the sail," he grunted.
CHAPTER THREE
The gnomish sailing vessel was a true technological wonder. (The wonder being, as Sturm said, that it managed to stay afloat, much less actually sail!) Years in design (longer years in committee), and centuries of craftsmanship later, the gnome ship was the terror of the high seas. (This was quite true. Most ships fled in terror at the sight of the gnome flag — a golden screw on a field of puce — but this was because the steam-generating boilers had an unfortunate habit of exploding. The gnomes claimed to have once attacked and sunk a minotaur pirate ship. The truth of the matter was that the minotaurs, rendered helpless by laughter, negligently allowed their ship to drift too close to the gnomes who, in panic, released the pressurized air stored in casks used to steer the vessel. The resulting blast blew the minotaurs out of the water and the gnomes off course by about twenty miles.)
Let other races mock them, the gnomes knew that their ship was years ahead of its time in practicality, economy, and design. The fact that it was slower than anything on the water — averaging about half-a-knot on a good day with a strong wind — didn't bother the gnomes. They know that nothing is perfect. (A committee is currently working on this problem and is confidently expected to come up with a solution sometime in the next millennium.)
The gnomes knew that all ships had sails. This was requisite, in their opinion, of a ship being a ship. The gnome's ship had a sail, therefore. But the gnomes, upon studying vessels built by other, less intelligent races, considered it a waste of space to clutter the deck with masts and ropes and canvas and an additional waste of energy hoisting sails up and down in an effort to catch the wind. The gnome ship, therefore, used one gigantic sail that not only caught the wind but, in essence, dragged it along with it.
It was this sail that gave the ship its revolutionary design. An enormous affair of billowing canvas with a beam the size of ten stout oaks, the sail rested upon three greased wooden rails, one on either side of the ship and one down the middle. Huge cables, running the length of the ship and driven by steam generated in a giant boiler down below operated this miracle of modem naval technology, pulling the sail along the greased wooden rail at a high rate of speed. The sail, moving from front to back, manufactured its own wind as it roared along and thus propelled the ship on its course.
When the sail had completed its impressive sweep across the deck and reached the ship's prow at the rear… (There WAS one tiny problem. It was impossible to turn the ship around. Therefore the stem looked just like the prow. The gnomes had solved this slight hitch in design by fixing the sail so that it could go either forward or backward, as needed, and had given the ship two figureheads — buxom gnome maidens, one on either end, each holding screws in their hands and staring out to sea with resolute intensity.)..
Where were we? Ah yes. When the sail reached the prow
at the rear, it rolled itself up neatly and traveled under the ship through the water until it reached the prow at the front. Here it leaped out of the water, unfurled itself, and thundered along the deck once more.
At least, that is what the sail did on the drawing board and in numerous gnomish bathtubs. In actuality, the gears that controlled the winding-up mechanism rusted almost immediately in the salt water, and the sail often hit the water either completely or partially open. In this manner it swept under the ship, creating a tremendous drag that occasionally pulled the vessel back farther than it had gone forward. This small inconvenience was considered to be fully outweighed, however, by an unlooked-for bonus. When the open sail came up from the sea, it acted as a net, hauling in schools of fish. As the sail lifted up over the prow, fish rained down upon the deck, providing lunch, dinner, and the occasional concussion if one had the misfortune to be struck by a falling tuna.
The ship had no tiller, there being nowhere for a tiller to go, since the boat had, in essence, two prows and no stern. Nothing daunted, the gnomes designed their vessel to be steered by the use of the aforementioned pressurized air casks. Located at either side of the hull, these were kept filled with air by giant, steam-driven bellows. Letting the air out of one or the other allowed the ship to be whooshed along on a different tack. (We have said earlier that it was impossible to turn the ship around. We were in error. The gnomes had discovered that the ship COULD be turned by means of releasing the air in both casks simultaneously. This caused the ship to revolve, but at such an alarming rate that most of the crew was flung overboard and those that remained could never afterward walk a straight line. These unfortunates were promptly hired by the gnome Street Designers Guild.)
The name of this remarkable vessel was
THE GREAT GNOME SHIP OF EXPLORATION AND QUESTING MADE OF WOODEN PLANKS HELD TOGETHER BY THE MIRACLE OF GNOME GLUE (OF WHICH THE LESS SAID THE BETTER) INSTEAD OF THAT PALTRY HUMAN INVENTION THE NAIL WHICH WE HAVE DESIGNED MORE EFFICIENTLY ANYWAY AND DRIVEN BY STEAM CREATED BY BRINGING WATER TO A RAPID BOIL
and so forth and so on, the full name taking up several volumes of text in the gnomes' library. This name, or rather a shortened version, was carved upon the hull and, when the gnomes ran out of room, the deck as well.
Needless to say, traveling upon the miracle (the shorter human version of the name) was not conducive to either peace of mind or keeping one's dinner down. The ship wallowed in the water like a drunken sea elf when the sail was underneath it, surged forward with a stomach wrenching jolt when the sail was sweeping along the deck, and rocked sickeningly when the sail hit the water behind. The bilge pumps were at work constantly (due to the wonders of gnome glue). Fortunately, the gnomes were heading in a straight direction — due west — so that it was not necessary to turn the ship, thus avoiding the need to open the air casks (a thrill akin to being caught in a cyclone) — a blessing rather lost upon Tanin, Sturm, and Palin during the mercifully short voyage. This, then, was the miracle witha crew of gnomes, a dwarf for its captain, and three sea sick, hung-over adventurers (though Dougan assured them solemnly that they should thank their respective gods for it!).
Night was falling. The sun sank down into the sea in a blaze of red, as though trying to outshine the gaudily dressed dwarf. Crouching miserably on the foredeck, the brothers were glad to see night come. They had spent a wretched day, forced to duck every time the sail raced overhead. In addition, they were pelted by fish and drenched with water streaming down from the sail. There was little for them to eat except fish (plenty of that) and some sort of gnome biscuit that looked suspiciously like the miracle glue. To take their minds off their troubles and prepare them for the quest ahead, Dougan proposed to tell them the story of the Graygem of Gargath.
"I know that story," Tanin said sullenly. "Everyone on Krynn knows that story 1 I've heard it since I was a child"
"Ah, but do you know the true story?" Dougan asked, gazing at them intently with his bright dark eyes.
No one replied, being unable to hear themselves think as the sail — with much flapping of canvas and creaking of winches — leaped out of the water and hurtled along the deck. Fish flopped about their feet, the gnomes hopping here and there after them. The sail's traversal along the deck was punctuated by shrieks and screams as certain unlucky gnomes forgot to duck and were swept overboard by the beam. Since this happened almost every time the sail made a pass, several gnomes were stationed permanently along the sides of the ship to yell "Gnome overboard!" (which they did with great gusto) and heave their floundering fellows life-saving devices (which also doubled as anchors when in port).