And the wind is whistling past the graveyard and past the land and past the sea and past the ships upon the sea and past the sailors upon the decks and in the companionways, tethered by their ropes and harnesses and heaving their axes and mauls against the shattering ice coating their still upright ships and even here even in this peculiar time the sailors revert to their age-old method of coping with their labours at sea and the perils of the sea and they break out into thunderous shanties – yes, even thunderous enough to best and beat the thunderous wind and crashing waves – that tell of wind and waves and women and graveyards and ghosts and the whistling that is supposed to keep the ghosts at bay, and, keep the bodies beneath the ground.
“Heave ‘er to, boys/
“Heave ‘er to and smash her down/
“Get the rhythm, boys/
“Get the rhythm so we won’t drown//
“It’s girls or ghosts, boys//
“Girls or ghosts that we next meet/
“Smash that ice boys/
“If you want our meeting sweet.”
“They’re singing about you,” says Alison Alexandra.
“And you, too,” says R/Jane-the-Ghost. “And I don’t mind if you’re the one to win.”
“It’s the wind, boys/
“Screaming like Banshees from Hell//
“Give ‘er Hell, boys/
“Or that’s where we will dwell.”