The Ice Maiden

by Sara Sheridan

  It was a sunny garden with roses trailing across latticework and flower beds strewn with flaming yellow and orange petals. Through the bushes she saw a swing strung from the branch of an oak tree. Is this England? she thought. Without pondering more, she left the ice and entered, following the path and crouching in the shade beneath the oak’s heavy boughs. Scott’s men seemed a million miles away. Above her the sky was bright and blue and beneath her feet the grass was lush. There was no darkness. No cold. No ice anywhere.

  Then she spotted her – an old lady on the other side of the oak. She was sitting alone. Karina peered. The woman was wearing a high-necked dress of pale peach silk. Her fingers fumbled in the long grass around the base of the tree. Her expression was mournful. She started when she saw Karina as if she hadn’t expected anyone, but she didn’t acknowledge her. You are a ghost, aren’t you? Karina asked. Nothing. Was this old lady blind, Karina wondered. Was this her heaven?

  Then she glanced beyond the tree and recognized the red sandstone building and the greenhouses further up the slope, and what was happening fell into place. It had nothing to do with George Vince’s injury or Scott’s expedition. This was Hooker’s house. This was Glasgow. And this woman – was she Frances? Frances who cut a trim figure in her claret dress all those years ago? Karina peered at her. Perhaps. She was so old now and, it occurred to Karina, she seemed old-fashioned. She has died. Karina realized. She has seen the story of what happened. She has only now understood his lies. The old lady lifted an arm and pointed, furious straight at Karina.

  He is my husband, she said. Then she winced. She had seen the connection between them. She knew now.

  But he went back to you. You had him, Karina objected. A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek.

  So young, she said vaguely, and ran a palm over the stiff fabric of her dress. He loved the money I brought. All the money. How could I have been happy here? she wailed. I should have married Stanley. The regret was palpable, it glowed from the woman’s frame like firelight.

  I’m sorry, Karina managed. It was wrong for both of us, then.

  And the woman began to fade, an image made out of light alone, freckled with flashes of what looked like certificates and cheques and stocks and shares.

  Karina knew she didn’t have long. These visions faded quickly and when they did, they were over for ever. She ran across the lawn and looking down realized that she was not a wraith any more. Pink-skinned she was in her twenties again and she could feel the grass beneath her feet and the sun on her back. This is where she should have ended up – here in his house.

  At a stretch she made it to the long windows of Hooker’s study. Inside, he sat in a leather chair, dressed in mourning clothes. He seemed so frail. So ancient. He was comforting a younger man. Is that his son? Raising her fist she banged on the window, her nails cleanly cut again, the hem of her skirt flitting around her ankles in the breeze.

  ‘Joseph,’ she shouted. ‘Joseph. Let me in.’

  Hooker passed his son a well-laundered handkerchief. The mirror behind him was draped in dark cloth. A maid entered the room and poured brandy from a decanter. The men took a glass each and the girl bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘Joseph,’ Karina howled. ‘I’m here! Joseph! I’m here.’

  Finally, as he looked up he squinted through the window. He put his head to one side as if he was confused. ‘Joseph,’ she shouted. But it was as if he didn’t recognize her. Did I mean so little? Did you ruin me for nothing at all?

  She was about to shout louder and bang harder but before she could the lights dimmed. Her heart sank in her chest and she was lassoed backwards, past Frances who was standing now, a collage of paper and coin, looking bemused at what had just transpired in her lush Glasgow garden. He didn’t even know me. He didn’t even remember. The last thing she saw was the old woman smiling. And howling, Karina was pulled upwards, through the rip in the sky and along a thin, cold tunnel until the pinprick of bright yellow light that was Hooker’s home was extinguished.

  With what felt like a slap in the face she landed once more only a mile from where she started. Barne and his party were ahead. She lay still a moment, defeated and all she kept thinking was, How could he forget? Snow whipped around her. A blizzard had started and the men could not see further than ten yards in front of them. It was protocol to pitch a tent and wait it out but they were freezing cold and starving and the Discovery was only two miles away by Barne’s calculation and they all wanted to continue as far as they could.

  Vince had been taken off the sledge but he needed help walking. Barne and Wild hauled while Evans took on the duty of guiding Vince, step by step. He did so without complaint though it made the going hard.

  ‘Shall we pitch, sir?’ Evans asked, though it was not really a question.

  Barne looked to Hare for inspiration.

  ‘Your view, Hare?’

  Clarence, lowest of the low, paused nervously. It was difficult to know if Barne was asking for his opinion because he wanted to foster team spirit or if the lieutenant had become somehow confused. Clarence, unlike the more experienced seamen, didn’t know what he thought – it was the first time an officer had ever asked him for an assessment of anything.

  ‘Well, sir, we’ve seen worse, haven’t we?’ he tried.

  That was true. A fortnight ago there was a blizzard that afforded no visibility at all. But they weren’t out in it. The spectre of one of Clarke’s rhubarb pies, tantalizingly close, coloured Barne’s judgement. Besides, Vince needed a doctor.

  ‘We should attempt to make it back,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep trying.’

  Evans didn’t argue. Barne was an officer and Evans had made his name by taking on the difficult jobs without complaint.

  Karina rolled over in the soft snow, heaving for breath. She cursed herself for being stupid. Hooker didn’t love her, he never had. She watched the men trudging as the group battled on for another twenty minutes, dragging leaden step after leaden step. None of them could think clearly enough to describe the penetrating cold and how difficult it was to move through. All any man could contemplate was his next footfall. They hardly looked up and when they did there was nothing to see anyway. After another few yards, Barne stopped and wheeling around realized that they were one man short – he could not see Hare, the most junior of the team. A sense of panic rushed through him. He stopped the group and the men shouted into the storm.

  ‘Hare! Clarence!’

  Evans gave a piercing whistle that you’d think would carry for miles but the snow muffled it. They waited but the weather had wrapped Hare in its soft white blanket and he was nowhere to be seen.

  A few yards away, Karina draped herself round Clarence Hare’s shoulders as he stumbled through the blizzard. The damn English. Damn sailors. Damn men. He left me here. He left me.

  ‘Damn,’ Barne cursed under his breath, surprised at himself because he would never normally swear.

  He didn’t know what to do. He thought back to Royds’ evaluation of Hare. ‘He’s a tough enough fellow,’ he told himself. He was in good fettle when they had stopped only a little while ago. He voted to go on. The priority, surely, was Vince who was injured. They should try to get the poor man home. Hare would fend for himself and if not they’d send a party back later.

  ‘This way,’ Barne turned.

  No sooner had he done so than he slipped and went down. Evans tried to help him and went over too. One by one the men slid as if someone had pulled a carpet away and before they knew it they were tumbling down the long slope. All Barne could think was that damn fool Royds saying how much easier it was going to be on the way home. This wasn’t even the steep part of the hill or at least he didn’t think it was.

  There was no way to be sure exactly how far they’d come. The men landed like sacks of potatoes piled against each other. Barne got to his feet first and panicked, calling to the others but the wind distorted his words and the men fumbled, following echoes, reaching out to grab each other – an ar
m here and there as they clustered together. The lieutenant decided once he’d rounded everyone up they’d have to damn well pitch camp till the weather cleared. Enough was enough. He came across Quartly and helped him to his feet. Then there was a scream of desperation on the frantic air. The tone was so frenzied that it carried despite the storm and so high pitched it almost sounded animal, though there was nothing else living. Both men turned, trying to locate it.

  ‘Where are you?’ Barne shouted.

  ‘Here, sir,’ Evans called. He sounded afraid. It wasn’t like him. ‘It’s sheer. A sheer drop. I can’t see properly. Oh God.’

  Slowly, measuring step by step, Barne and Quartly headed towards Evans’s voice.

  ‘Help me,’ Wild shrieked. ‘I can’t hold on.’

  Quartly felt something brush by him but there was nothing there. It was as if the wind was alive. His heart was racing. There was something else in the blizzard. A presence. He could swear it. Something thin and white, darting. It’s the fall, he thought. It’s shaken me up. Still, he put his hand on Barne’s arm so he would not be alone. Then there was another scream and more shouting.

  Karina hovered at the edge of the cliff. They were so stupid. She thought of the grass beneath her feet and how she had longed for decades to feel it. She thought of Hooker’s eyes, blank as he stared at her. The pain of that. Had none of them loved her? No one at all? Unable to bear it, she launched herself onto the icy wind and flurried with the snow. The cliff was white and craggy. It was difficult to make out where it ended and where the drop began. Lazily, as if she didn’t know what she was doing, she caught the man in the folds of her dress and tugged.

  ‘Man overboard,’ Evans’s voice sounded.

  These men were Royal Navy – they had no other word for it. Barne stumbled towards him.

  ‘Oh God. Have we lost Wild?’ he asked.

  But then Wild appeared – short, stocky and still limping. Even through the snow they could see he was in a bad way.

  ‘I couldn’t hold him any longer,’ he burbled. ‘I lost my grip and he went over. It’s Vince. He’s gone.’

  Barne bristled. Vince was the man down – the weakest one they should all have been protecting.

  ‘Where?’ he shrieked.

  Wild motioned and as Barne made to look over the edge, Evans grabbed him.

  ‘It’s a sheer drop, sir. Into the sea,’ he warned.

  ‘It’s as if the wind snatched him from me,’ Wild shouted desperately. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

  As Barne looked down he saw where the snowy surface disappeared but he couldn’t make out the water below.

  ‘It’s sea down there,’ Evans insisted.

  Barne couldn’t take it in.

  ‘Vince!’ he shouted over the edge.

  There was no reply. The realization settled on his stomach. There was no surviving the Antarctic waters. If the fall hadn’t killed Vince the sea would finish the job. He had lost a man.

  Karina slid across the choppy waters watching Vince as he struggled. If this was revenge, it was satisfying. As the others scrambled above, realizing what had happened, she hovered watching Vince’s terrified eyes as he fought the sea. Then suddenly he stopped struggling and disappeared. She had killed a man.

  Momentarily she hoped he might appear in death – a companion at last. There was a second or two when she thought that glimmer of hope might be realized. She swooped low over the water and Vince’s pale-faced spirit surfaced only for the merest snatch of time until a bright corridor opened above the whirling sea and in the distance she saw him sucked into a meadow that she knew was called Dorset. Is it England? He must have been a country boy at heart. One down. She relished the thought, letting her hair stream in the wind. Faithless creature.

  Above, Barne was crying but the others couldn’t see. He was thinking that he should have saved poor Vince. The living can do so little. Did any of the men really try to save me when I fell? she wondered. And there it was. She was brought back to it. The day of her fall. The very second. If Hooker had cared for her surely he would have tried harder. He had pulled Farmer back from the edge but why was Farmer the first one there? Karina searched her memory. Hooker and the officer from the Erebus had been standing together as Pearce managed the flag being raised. When she had screamed, what had happened? ‘Women.’ Hooker rolled his eyes. Women? she snarled. She had not seen him as she tumbled and she had not heard what he said. But now it was clear, decades later. Women. As if women were all the same. As if she was not worth the trouble.

  Above, Barne and his men succeeded in raising a tent. Inside, they huddled, trying not to share their guilt and their grief. As they settled to wait out the storm, Karina saw Hooker all those years ago, clear as day, scrambling on board the Terror. She saw him beg Ross to go back, to check that she was truly gone. The crew considered him brave for that. Three men stepped forward to volunteer. But it is show. Just show. Women? Is that all he could have said? His old eyes without a glimmer of recognition flashed in front of her through the study’s uneven glass. His son fussing. The maid and the brandy. Did I mean nothing? Or simply not enough? Someone might have saved me, it occurred to her. And what then?

  Above, Barne and Hare fell asleep but Evans couldn’t. The wind howled around the tent and Karina considered killing all of them. It would be easy to whip away their shelter and let the weather do its work. No one would ever find the bodies. No one will ever find mine. And then she thought of Marijke on the roof of their house in Ven. She thought of what Marijke would say. Karina was always the one with the temper. But who can blame me? She realized it was possible that all those years ago Hooker had simply frozen – just as stunned as Barne had been when Vince disappeared over the precipice. Just as clueless.

  Evans was crying quietly now. Vince would be missed. When they got back with the news none of them would be able to face unpacking his trunk. It would stand to one side as a monument. Whatever was in there would have to wait. What has become of me? she thought. Wild turned in his sleep. He had had George Vince by the hand and he let him go. He was afraid now that George might come to him – some kind of furious ghost. Wild’s gut turned as he wished it had been different. If only he’d been stronger. If only the blizzard had eased. If only George had moved to the left instead of to the right and he’d have been able to keep a grip. The poor man was tortured.

  Karina hovered. He’s happy where he is, she cooed.

  She could not for the life of her think why she would say such a thing. She had no idea if it was true. Wild started. His eyes opened. He pulled his hand from under his cover, touched the air and crossed himself. Evans pretended not to notice.

  ‘Are you an angel?’ he moaned.

  His fingers quivered and he stared right at her.

  Can you see me?

  Wild nodded silently. ‘Yes, miss,’ he said, hesitating as he searched for the right word. ‘Are you an angel?’

  And instead of taking her revenge on the men in the tent, she flew upwards, spiralling on the wind. She took off for the stars. She drilled into the heart of the mountain. She spread herself thinly across the ice plain until she was at one with the stretch of McMurdo Sound where George Vince’s body lay. This way she would not notice them. This way she need not return to the world of men. Eventually Scott and his crew would either die or they would leave and Karina decided it would be best for her if she did not care greatly which of these things transpired. She would not take any more notice of them. Never again.

  ‘We will never forget him. He was the first of us to give his life, here at the end of the world.’ Scott’s voice was flat.

  The title was a dubious honour. The darkness was coming and the light would not return for months. The men around the table did not catch each other’s eyes. For once the mess felt too warm. Shackleton had noticed that his dreams had calmed. He no longer heard voices. Perhaps the darkness would be easier than the light.

  ‘It was a sheer precipice,’ Barne mumbled.
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  He could not bring himself to say more. He was in charge. He should have made camp. Vince died because Barne wanted to get home for dinner. He’d never forgive himself. Scott had already berated him, privately. Royds would do so again when he returned. Now the skipper cut in to forestall any public hand-wringing on the lieutenant’s part.

  ‘At least the end must have come quickly. The sea is all but ice,’ he said.

  Barnacchi looked particularly low. He was the only man who had spent a winter on the ice already and Vince’s loss reminded him of the two men who died on that expedition. One was a Norwegian sailor washed overboard in a storm. And then there was Barnacchi’s friend, Emile, who fell foul of heart disease, here where there was no help for such trouble. This tragic accident was worse even than that, though. Not one of them can help imagining falling into the sea awash with icy slush and there being no hope of rescue. They only hoped that Vince died when he fell and didn’t have to endure the water.

  ‘Poor Vince. We shall always remember him,’ Shackleton said, thinking that Vince was wearing those foolish fur boots that had no grip. Kit, he was realizing, was of vital importance. Scott did not seem to have entirely taken it in.

  The crew spend the evening reminiscing fondly about Vince’s limited abilities. Later the skipper would have to write a letter to the boy’s next of kin. Poor Mrs Vince would not know what had happened to her young husband for months, perhaps more than a year. The boy’s father, Scott recalled, was dead. His mother too. He had no idea how many brothers or sisters Vince might have had or who might comfort his wife, who could not be more than twenty-three or -four. He tried not to think of it.

  ‘We shall raise a cross to his memory. It will stand where he fell. We shall have a proper service,’ he promised.

  When Royds returned, the sun disappeared over the Discovery’s prow for the last time and the light went out of the sky. The blackness was tempered by snow, falling lightly in the plummeting cold. Gnasterver, Karina would have called it. Each kind of snow had a name in Swedish. It was odd that despite the English obsession with weather, they did not name it properly.