The race to conquer the Equatorial Poles and find the much-desired Northwest Passage linking the Atlantic and Pacific oceans during the 19th and early 20th centuries is well-documented. The horrifying failure of the Scott expedition and the triumphant story of the Peary venture are both well-known.
However, the burning ambition to conquer those frozen lands began long, long ago with figures such as Martin Frobisher, Godske Lindenov, and of course, the famous Erikson men, Eric and Leif.
A private journal from one such expedition of the 1700’s survived the rigors and vagaries of time within the Lytton family of North Lancashire and was recently sold at auction. This researcher purchased it as part of a bulk lot, bought sight unseen as a favor, wishing to help a friend in greatly reduced circumstances. As is so often the case, the kindnesses we think we are extending selflessly to others, work to our own benefit, and this treasure of a journal is proof of that. Ensign E.G. Lytton’s account of his quest for the Northwest Passage aboard HMS Leander is an enthralling and unusual read.
W.D. (Whitehall archivist, 1919)
The morning of the 23rd found us near Cape Repulse. Foggy, gray but sea calmer until we rounded a good-sized berg and were drawn into a strong tide that sent us amongst heavy streams of ice. We were certain to be dashed against them when an eddying current spun us around and into calmer waters near a large berg to which we anchored to wait out the tide. Very little progress today but managed to stay close to the bergs which, due to their deep draught, afforded us some protection from the floes and smaller drifting ice. That is to say, we crept like mice, avoiding our frosty, hulking predators.
June 6th. Approaching Repulse Bay we were surprised by a small flotilla of Esquimuax natives paddling furiously to overtake us. In less than an hour we found ourselves in the midst of at least twenty craft, which I shall later attempt to describe. For now I will recount the appearance of their occupants.
All had inky-black hair worn either in a knot on top of the head or else free and lying about their shoulders giving them a disheveled appearance. The men were mostly beard-less. Both sexes were somewhat squat and round though this may be due to their layers of clothing. Some sport spiraling blue tattoos around their mouths.
Some have difficulties with their vision and wear eyeshades made of wood. One wonders if the constant glare from the ice does not contribute to their condition.
Complexions were of brown or copper hue, difficult to be sure as they were not given to washing and thus were often quite dirty. Nosebleeds were seen frequently and to our disgust they lick and drink the blood with greedy enjoyment as it pours.
Made primarily of seal skins the dress of the sexes differed but little. The women’s outer jackets had a large pocket attached to the shoulders and hung down the back. This was used as a hood during less temperate weather but also served to transport their infants whom they left quite naked while thus contained. I leave it to the reader to imagine their condition of cleanliness or lack thereof. Older children were wrapped as warmly as the adults and their wonderfully tanned seal skins appear impervious to water.
They were eager to trade and I fear were cheated as we were offered (and accepted) oil, skins, and ivory in exchange for paltry items such as buttons and iron nails. With each successful barter they licked the received item before putting it away. I never saw them omit this ritual and the more they desired the item the more thoroughly they licked it.
As the evening came on they returned to their boats, some sleeping there but others withdrew to a small island about a mile distant and encamped there.
June 7th. Pressed on the next day, taking soundings as we went, always struggling to find a way through the ice. A small number of the natives continued to trail us in their boats but the majority turned back. We spied a group of sea unicorns* and though we dispatched a boat, could not get close enough to kill one.
About suppertime we came upon an island and took the opportunity to explore. Our Esquimuax escort attempted to dissuade us from disembarking, one old gentleman giving a long speech of which we understood not a word. His companions nodded fearfully throughout and when they found we were determined to go on they paddled sorrowfully away and were soon lost to sight.
We landed a small party, led by myself and on the lookout for any signs of the large, yellow-white bears often seen in the distance. We saw no animals other than the snow buntins abundant throughout the journey. Quantities of driftwood lay washed up by the tide, so high that the island must suffer near complete inundation at times. Stunted, twisting trees, little more than scrub, marked the mouth of an icy pool of fresh water, constantly replenished by a sparkling waterfall. There was no evidence of recent human habitation. A few old, ruined stone huts dotted the slope. One contained a human skull, broken in two.
Just past the broken, bleached bones of an ancient whale carcass we came upon a small, jagged rise of hills. A certain symmetry to their arrangement caused conjecture as to whether they had perhaps been made by humans but we never found convincing proof. An irregular opening, little more than four feet high, marked the largest hill.
Entering the yawning, black mouth we found a cave with a smooth pebbled floor that sloped down and presumably back into the hillside but the darkness revealed little else to our gaze. The ceiling was quite low though we were able to stand upright in the center. Water trickled down the walls and pooled shallowly in the middle of the pebble floor before running down and back out of sight. Retreating outside we made camp for the night.
Sometime after midnight, a gale set in and we were indeed sore beset. Stinging ice pelted us without mercy and our driftwood fire was extinguished. Stumbling in the darkness and seeking shelter we made for the cave. Seaman Peabody rescued most of our firewood and we soon had a warm, though smoky, encampment in the little grotto.
Unable to sleep we improvised flambeaux and made to explore our surroundings more thoroughly. I greatly feared coming across one of the gigantic, white bears seen on the ice and we all had our weapons out and ready.
Descending the slight slope we found evidence of an ancient battle. Scattered alongside the trickling water but not in it were broad swords flaking with rust and an occasional dagger, jeweled hilts glinting dully in the torchlight. Human skeletons, none in one piece, were flung about the passage in great confusion.
The cold increased as we went deeper into the earth. Not very far along the passage we came upon a jumble of stones where a portion of the ceiling had fallen. Ice, possibly condensed from ceiling drips throughout the years, covered the entire mass.
We could go no further. The rocks and ice completely blocked the remainder of the passageway (if more there was) and we had turned back when Peabody called a halt. His voice echoed eerily off the constricting walls as he shouted that something was in the ice.
He stood holding his torch over the rock fall. Indeed there was a body. Upon closer examination it appeared to be a man. The face, though blackened and distorted, did not resemble the natives of this land. European features and fair hair were clearly visible. The facial features, despite their Caucasian bent, gave an odd impression of brutishness and vacuity. Clothing, style or material, was impossible to make out. Clearly he died here long ago, probably in the rock fall, his body preserved by the ice.
Back at the cave entrance we were confronted again by the storm. It should have been close to dawn but of course little distinguishes day from night at this season. The ice and wind drove us back into the cave.
Trapped and restless as we were it took little for Peabody to persuade us to venture to melt the ice around the enclosed man for further inspection. An uneasiness, almost a fear, tugged at my mind each time I peered at the poor brute but I dismissed the notion. In short course we rekindled our fire the short distance to the back of the cave, leaving a guard posted back at the entrance. The light from the fire illuminated the low ceiling and Morgan pointed out marks there that looked like those of axes or picks, making me wonder if some human hand preci
pitated the long ago rock fall. Could they have been mining the cave? I saw nothing to indicate the presence of any precious mineral.
We dozed. The dark cave grew warm from the fire. The ice encasing the dead man cracked and popped as it melted but we paid it little mind until the clacking began.
It started with a rhythmic clicking, sounds just seconds apart. Startled, we assumed a defensive formation in preparation to battle we knew not what but the source of the sound was not hard to find.
Our ice man, blackened and decayed as he was, had come to life. His lower extremities remained ice-bound but his twisting head and clutching, writhing arms were thawed. The warmth also released an overpowering odor of putrefaction, so strong it was an assault on the senses. His teeth clashed together and he seemed possessed of a most desperate hunger.
Building up the fire and lighting the remains of our torches we inspected him closely whilst staying clear of his raking fingers which were only blackened bone but sharp. What remained of his eyes resembled withered, mold-covered polyps but as stated before his straight, hawk like nose and thin lips were overtly European engendering thoughts of Vikings sailing their dragon-bowed ships through the ice floes. If only we could devise some means of communicating with him! To actually converse with an adventurer of the remote past would be an opportunity unheard of in history!
His struggles and the warmth released one twisted leg and he pulled himself forward, to our disbelief slowly tearing off the leg still trapped and leaving it behind.
My only other language is German and in hope that a Norseman such as he might recognize some of the words I shouted at him to halt and stay where he was. To no avail. His struggles caused more and more of the rock pile to tumble and more blackened, wizened figures began to crawl from the rubble behind him.
We all had our cutlasses out but only I and Morgan carried flintlocks. Too close range for these anyway and our task seemed straightforward. We all moved forward as one and impaled our attackers with less trouble than anticipated. These creatures made no attempt to defend themselves or slow their approach.
They did not die! They did not flinch or even seem aware of their impalement! Desiccated, rotten hands continued to flail and grapple for us. The man on my cutlass slid forward to the hilt, clawing and scratching at my face with those dagger-sharp finger bones. In disgust I placed my boot against his chest to push him back and only managed to sink my foot up past my ankle into a stinking mass of black ichor. My heel connected with the bones of his spine and I eventually pushed him back enough to extract my blade.
The cave was full of shouts and the creatures’ harsh, eldritch moans. Peabody pushed at the creature attacking him and the man bit down on his arm, hanging on like a mad dog despite Peabody’s screams and attempts to shake him off.
More and more of the loathsome things advanced, some dragging themselves forward along the cave floor like hideously overgrown creeping lizards. We were greatly outnumbered. Our only advantage over them was our speed and we retreated and regrouped at the mouth of the cave where Peabody began hacking frantically at the roof with a small axe he habitually carried at his belt. Discerning his intent we all attacked the low ceiling with our swords until we managed to set off a small rock fall. Continued efforts produced a large cave-in and our pursuers were once again trapped inside their icy tomb. With one exception.
Our fair-haired Norseman had beaten the rocks and still struggled after us. The sounds he made were only vaguely human, a sort of rasping, drawn-out moan of pain. Whatever else he was feeling he was clearly in agony. Pulling himself forward with mouth stretched wide he made as if to devour my crew.
We drove our swords through his body, pinning him to the ground, and watching his continued struggles. Were these creatures some collection of possessed ghouls? Finally we ended him with a crushing blow to the head using a stone.
We carried the body back to the Leander for a closer examination, hoping to find some clue as to the creature’s origins and cause of its incredible revival from frozen death.
I concluded, based on his visage and the style of weapons found in the cave that he was most probably a Norseman. Age was difficult to determine but surely no older than thirty or so. The body was emaciated and damaged, with extensive wounds to the abdomen and shoulders missing large areas of flesh. The neck was torn with a deep, ragged, leathery wound revealing the spinal column. Even if not killed by the rock fall, this man should have been dead from blood loss long ago. Did the ice somehow preserve his life?
Our savage little Esquimaux followers returned and seeing the body, drew back and refused to come any closer. Through much gesturing and pantomime they indicated the creature was dangerous and must be burned. Somehow they managed to gather enough driftwood to build a large fire and the dried, brittle corpse caught fire quickly and was soon a charred bundle of bones. Even then they insisted on scattering the ashes containing these. When they became aware that Seaman Peabody was wounded they avoided him with a fright that was almost comical.
With a stealthiness and savagery we did not suspect them capable of until now two of their number stole onto the Leander where Seaman Peabody lay, suffering from an ague as well as the bite he received in the cave, and beheaded him as he slept. I made an example of both men, hanging them by the necks until dead and leaving the bodies aloft and dangling for a time from the mizzen-mast as a warning to their fellows.
*Narwhals
“Wow,” David said quietly to himself. He hadn’t read this one back in the shelter. He downloaded the entire drive to the computer then pulled out his own memory stick and loaded the new file on it. He hadn’t confided information about his own “Z file” to many people. Despite collecting the information over the last few years he had no way of verifying it and never had any plans for using it. He still didn’t but who knew when it might come in handy. After a moment’s thought he emailed the entire file to his user account. Then he placed the small laptop in his backpack and looked out the window.
Dawn had crept unnoticed into the sky revealing mostly clear streets. Homer’s black truck gleamed as the sun hit it reminding David he had forgotten to search Homer’s body for the keys. Reluctantly he pushed the sofa away from the wall and rolled the headless body onto its back. In a jeans pocket was a set of keys that hung from a plastic picture fob containing the images of two smiling boys, one with a cowlick and the other beaming with a gap-toothed grin. David crouched by the body, holding the keys in the palm of his hand, looking at the small pictures. Boys any father would be proud of. Boys who would never grow up.
The dead man’s hand twitched, startling David into falling back against the wall, hitting his head and momentarily stunning him. The hand groped at the floor, only for a few seconds, then went flaccid.
David shoved the body against the wall and pushed the sofa back in place. They couldn’t get out of here soon enough. He checked his weapon and looked out the window again. A small group stood at the bottom of the driveway, shuffling and jostling one another randomly.
He found Bea sleeping in one of the twin beds upstairs. The morning light coming through a crack in the curtains just touched her hair, turning it to warm gold. Her cheek was smudged and he tried to wipe it away then saw her eyes open. She watched him with a look of intense concentration while he gently dabbed at her cheek before moving on to trace the outline of her lips. She closed her eyes again for a moment then sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed onto the floor. David’s hand dropped to his side.
“What does it look like outside?” she asked.
“Better. Fewer dead and the sun is out. It’s a lot warmer. And I have a surprise.” He jingled the keys in his hand.
Bea looked relieved. “Do you know what vehicle they go with?”
“Yeah, pretty sure I do.”
“Let’s do this then.”
The dead came for them as soon as the door opened. David was ready and knocked an emaciated woman to the ground. Bea split her skull wide with
a sharp blow from her rail. There was little left of her brain other than viscous black fluid.
Homer’s truck was unlocked and started on the first try. The gas hand was on “F” and the heater warmed up the cab in minutes. Attempts to find something on the radio produced nothing but static.
Winding through the unfamiliar streets, it took them a while to find a way to I-71. Every time they found signs directing them to the interstate they would have to detour around pile-ups or the dead and find themselves lost again. Looted stores, glass fronts broken, were ever present reminders they were now in a post-apocalyptic world and that resources like food and water were finite and viciously fought for. When they did find an on-ramp they encountered blockages they were fortunately able to weave through. Many, many cars still contained their dead occupants, entombed within glass and steel, struggling to get out.
Bea checked her phone but found no new messages. She sent Brian a short text telling him their approximate location and that they were going to continue to head west.
“That might be the equivalent of a message in a bottle but I have to keep trying,” she said, putting her phone in her pocket.
“You are nothing if not persistent. Does the thought of throwing in the towel never cross your mind?”
“What would be the point of that? Would you give up if it were your brother?”
“No, probably not. So where does the stubbornness come from? Your mother or your father? I’m betting it was your mom.”
She was silent for several moments, face turned away and looking out at the fields flashing by in the sunlight. It was only when the light glinted on her cheeks that he realized she was crying.
“Sorry, I didn’t even think before I said that. Your parents- they left you, right? I just thought it was a long time ago maybe and-”
“It was a long time ago but it still hurts. Sometimes I’m afraid they’re dead. A lot of people are but I can’t picture my parents dead. Sometimes I have trouble picturing them at all. You asked if my parents are stubborn. I equate stubbornness with strength and if I use that equation the answer is no. They were never strong, probably still aren’t. They left us, first my dad, then my mom. Our social worker usually referred to them as a substance abuse case. Alcohol mainly with some prescription drug abuse. Even before they left, Brian and I were mostly on our own. ” She pressed her palms against her face then wiped her cheeks. The tears were gone.
The Living Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Coast Page 5
