by Stef Penney
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After that, Flora watched for Sellar’s figure on deck, tuned her ear to his uncouth accent and became adept at picking out his voice through wooden walls. Men were never alone on board ship, apart from the few minutes they spent at the head, but even had he been alone, she would not have approached him. She could not imagine what she might say.
In long twilights, father and daughter searched for Venus and Mars, Altair, Arcturus and Polaris. Sometimes they sat up through the whole brief night and followed the stars as they wheeled across the sky. They were circled by constellations that never set: the Bears, the Dragon, Perseus, Cassiopeia, Cepheus – none of them looking anything like what they were supposed to represent, except Draco the dragon.
‘Why is the Plough called the Great Bear when it looks like a plough?’
‘You’re not seeing all of it. The plough is just the bear’s back and tail.’
‘Bears don’t have tails. Not long ones.’
‘Perhaps old Greek bears had long tails.’
Flora laughed derisively. Her father thought she was getting above herself.
‘How do you know that Draco looks like a dragon, in any case?’ he went on. ‘Have you seen one?’
‘I’ve seen pictures.’
‘Do you think those pictures were drawn from life?’
‘Of course not! They don’t exist.’
‘So perhaps Draco is no more like a dragon than Ursa Major is like a bear.’
‘Yes, but . . . it can’t be unlike something that doesn’t exist because . . .’ She stopped, on uncertain ground. ‘There are bears. Why do they have to make something up? They could have called it the Snake. Snakes exist.’
‘Are you asking me why people invented monsters?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Perhaps because they had never been whaling. Look in Draco’s tail – halfway between the bears. There is one brighter . . . the second-brightest star.’
She steadied his telescope on the yardarm. The ship was completely still; the sea like a pond. An iceberg hung, motionless, two hundred yards away, doubled in the mirror surface. The stars were multiplied, as though the Vega were suspended in dark space, stars under them, and infinite depth.
‘Do you see? That is Thuban. Once upon a time, he was the Pole Star, when the Egyptians were building their pyramids. You remember the Egyptians?’
‘Yes. They had a god with a falcon’s head.’
‘They did. Whose name was . . . ?’
A fraction of a pause. ‘Horus.’
‘Yes. The Egyptians built their Great Pyramid so that Thuban shone down a shaft into the middle of the pyramid.’
Flora was disturbed.
‘How could it be the Pole Star?’
‘Five thousand years ago, Thuban was the Pole Star. And one day – far in the future – it will be the Pole Star again. And it will be more perfectly placed than Polaris. Why? Because the earth moves on its axis. Like a spinning top when it’s going to fall over.’ He demonstrated with his hand held vertically, waving it back and forth. ‘Very, very slowly. Now, of course, Polaris is the Pole Star, or rather, it is closer to the celestial pole than anything else, but one day . . . Everything changes, Flora. No matter how good, or how bad, nothing lasts forever.’ He moved the telescope up and fractionally to the left. ‘Now look there.’
‘I see Vega,’ said Flora firmly, alarmed by the conversation’s metaphysical turn.
‘Good. One day, very many thousands of years in the future, she too will be a Pole Star. And a very bright and good Pole Star she will be, although not as well placed as Thuban. And when she is the Pole Star, summer will fall in December and midwinter in June.’
When Flora got over this disturbing news, she decided that she liked Thuban – once and future lodestar. She liked things to be right; not nearly right, or good enough. Best of all, she liked Vega. She belonged to all of them on the ship, but especially, Flora felt, to her. When she found out – as she was shortly to do – that the Eskimos called Vega the Old Woman, she was violently, though secretly, offended.
The Atlantic swell disappeared, quelled by the increasing frequency of icebergs. The sun came out, and stayed around the clock, as if it couldn’t bear to leave them. It conjured colours out of grey ice: green depths, royal-blue shadows, aquamarine hollows. The whole watery, deliquescent world glittered.
Flora spent hours hanging over the gunwale, staring at the ice. It was like watching a fire – you couldn’t stop. There was a precision about ice that she felt as a new quality in her experience. Every piece was different and particular, effortlessly beautiful.
A sight she was always to remember: a peculiarly fine berg, crested and crenellated like an Alpine peak, which rotated to reveal an arch of ice, seventy feet high. It glittered white, scored with clefts that glowed deep blue above and, at its water-worn foot, a pale, silky green. A ruined masterpiece from a vanished civilisation, it drew even the most ice-weary sailors to the rails.
The crow’s nest called down: ‘If Miss Mackie would care to come up, she will see something fine.’
Mackie sent Flora up ahead of him – it wasn’t the first time she had been to the crow’s nest on a calm day, but he made her tuck up her skirts and climbed the ratlines behind her, just in case. John Inkster hauled her up through the hole and she wriggled into the narrow space in front of him. He kept his arms loosely around her, to stop her from plunging the eighty feet to the deck below.
Above the arch, the top of the iceberg flattened into a small plateau. The sun’s rays had begun to melt the ice, which formed a round pool the intense blue of a melted sapphire – and now, she could see, a little stream was carving a channel in the pool’s white bank, a stream of milky blue that ran to the edge of the plateau and vanished over the other side. A blind, blue eye, weeping a single, endless tear.
‘Well, Miss Flora,’ said Inkster, his breath warming her ear. ‘What do you think of our ice islands? Are they not fine?’
Flora found she could not speak. There were no words good enough. She turned full, gleaming eyes to Inkster, who laughed, but kindly. He thought it made her look almost bonny.
It was a good run, but at seventy-three degrees north, they hit the pack ice. Fog descended, blotting out the ice-choked coast of Baffin Land. Other ships in the fleet caught up: Ravenscraig, Symmetry, Mariscal and Hope . . . They threaded their way through the loose pack to the North Water, where whales might lurk. A lookout conned the ship, peering into the murk, shouting himself hoarse. The fog smothered all sound other than the eerily slopping water and the masthead’s cries.
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‘A fall! A fall!’
Flora was in the cabin. She crept on deck, keeping out of the way as men ran to the whaleboats hanging in the davits. She could feel the tension in the ship: running feet, bitten-off commands. She watched Ian Sellar spring into the first whaleboat, his face alive with excitement. The five men took their positions and the deck crew winched them down on to the water. They pushed off, and the boat-steerer barked orders. The oarsmen swept them around in their own length and the boat shot off at a swift clip. Her father’s hand landed on her shoulder.
‘Flora,’ he said warningly, ‘when they come back with the fish, you get below. If I see you on deck after that, I will give you such a hiding.’
‘When do I come out again?’
‘When I say.’
‘But what if . . . ?’
He gave her a look of such ferocity that she shut up. He had sworn to himself Flora would not witness the actual business of whaling. She thought she knew all about it. She thought she was prepared. In the end, the boat returned empty-handed, having lost the whale.
The following day, they had more luck: boats were lowered after two whales; one was brought back. Flora listened to the shouts as the carcass was brought alongside. The men were cock-a-h
oop. She sat quietly and saw nothing, but heard everything, and smelled a stench worse than anything she had ever imagined. The reek of blood filled her nostrils, her mouth, her eyes. Another foul, chokingly awful smell – rich, ripe decay – made her retch. The men were working amidships, but she heard the drumming of feet and the laughter – louder and wilder than the men’s usual discourse, as though they were drunk on slaughter.
She heard the blades’ slicing and chopping, the sawing of bone and the ripping – the endless ripping – of skin; a sloshing that she hoped was water, even as she felt it was blood. Seeing it couldn’t have been any worse – this way, she imagined the knives plunging into flesh and fat, the blood swilling around the men’s limbs, sleeving them in red. When at last her father came to release her from the cabin, she was sickened and mutinous. Seawater had been pumped over the decks to flush out the bloody sawdust. But the whale’s despoiled carcass was still near, low in the water, violated by fish and gluttonous seabirds. Heaps of grey-pink blubber were on deck, as men pitchforked it down into the hold. Blood-streaked bone hung, drying, on the yardarms.
‘I told you it’s not a pretty business,’ said her father. ‘Do you understand why I don’t want you to witness it?’
‘I don’t know how seeing it can be worse than hearing and smelling it,’ she said. ‘I just imagine it. And in the cabin I can’t breathe.’
Her father – to his credit – took her opinion seriously. Subsequently, she was allowed a small area of freedom aft of the mizzen when the men were working, from where she could glimpse the bloody process, but not get under their feet. She appreciated the dangers – the deck became slick with blood and oil, and more than once she saw a man slip, and be cut by the wicked blades.
Chapter 2
Melville Bay, 76˚21’N, 71˚04’W
Winter 1883–4
The men called Flora their mascot – that season, the Vega butchered more whales than any other ship. In mid-August, a gale jammed the ice into the bottleneck between Cape Alexander and Cape Isabella. The old Symmetry was caught fast. The other ships clustered round, ready to take on the crew if – when – she was crushed. The storm worsened – south-westerlies pushed the ships back into Melville Bay and piled an immense field of ice around them. Captain Mackie sat Flora down in the cabin to explain that they wouldn’t be going home this year. To his surprise, she smiled.
Once he had found a floe to his liking – a thick sheet of ice the size of Barclay Park – he sent the crew out with twelve-foot saws. Flora watched as they carved out a slot that would be the Vega’s home for the winter. The days dwindled. At noon, the sun was so low that, if Flora stood at the rail, facing south, it hit her straight in the eyes.
She was elated. She felt she had lost her disadvantage – when a ship is in dock, sailors have no function either. She was allowed to roam where she liked, within sight of the ship. The purser made her a pair of pantaloons, and, with her hair stuffed under a woollen cap, she looked like any of the shorter sailors. When the ice dock was ready, the Vega was warped into place, and new ice sealed her in. Visible to the west was Symmetry, locked in her icy cell.
Flora watched the sea change. First, it became a supple, gelatinous black paste, then a milky film crept over it. One morning, the ice pulled off one of its most seductive tricks: an eruption of crystal flowers; jagged white blooms were strewn across the dark ice as if there had been a frost wedding. Flora employed Robert and an oar to fish up some of the flowers and take them into her cabin, where she tried to draw them before they melted. Frustrated by failure, she cried.
The thickened water still heaved, like the flank of a breathing animal, but sluggishly. It congealed into porridge, which swallowed the flowers, then became big, grey pancakes that fused together, like armour plate. Mare concretum – the concrete sea. She couldn’t remember the sound of waves.
The Vega was no longer a ship riding on water, but a wooden cockleshell held in a medium that cracked and creaked and yelped. The pack ice could sound like a menagerie of animals in various states of distress: puppies whining peevishly, or bees swarming, or a whale groaning in agony. Or it was insensate and violent: cloth ripping, artillery fire, a grand piano falling from a second-storey window. There were sounds that resembled nothing else.
The day before her thirteenth birthday, when daylight was no more than a glow on the horizon, they had visitors. The lookout shouted – there were dark dots on the ice, coming closer. Flora watched with alarm. Eskimos. The men had talked about them, so she did not feel she had very much to fear, but by all accounts they were a small, strange, greasy, murmuring people. As they got closer, one of them shouted distinctly, ‘Vega! Vega! Mackie!’ Flora was profoundly shocked. These people knew her father! She did not think she would like them.
Three Eskimos came aboard the Vega and were admitted to a makeshift saloon on the deck, covered with canvas. Flora sat in the corner behind her father. A fire blazed in a bucket. Of the three figures, Flora could make out only one name, which was Kali. Kali was a man – he had a wispy beard and was extremely fond of tobacco. The other two had smooth faces and long black hair. One wore a pointed hat made of fur, turned skin-side out. None of them was taller than Flora. They gave the crew of the Vega dried pieces of something, which they chewed. One handed Flora a piece, murmuring at her. Flora sniffed it and tried tasting it. She had no idea what it was, but it was rank and hard, clearly inedible. She smiled politely. Captain Mackie handed out tobacco and produced lengths of red cloth and beads. There was smiling and talk from the Eskimos in their mumbled language, while her father smiled and spoke in English about the whales. The Eskimos nodded, but Flora did not see how they could understand each other. Before leaving, one of the Eskimos took Flora’s shoulder and smiled, talking all the while. She smiled, and was worried in case she had committed herself to some dangerous undertaking.
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‘You knew them before!’ Flora accused her father afterwards.
It was still an astonishing concept. While she was sitting in Crichton Street, he had entertained these people, and chewed their horrible food. She gathered now that it was the dried skin of a unicorn fish. At home, he had never spoken about this.
‘We usually meet the huskies when we’re here. They like to trade, so we bring tools and cloth. Iron goods are precious to them, as they have no metal. And timber. I met Kali before. He is a decent fellow, for a heathen. Apilah, I have also met, although not his wife, Simiak.’
‘Which one was the wife?’
‘The one in the hat. Only women wear the tall hats. It can be hard to tell otherwise, unless the men have beards. Most of them don’t.’
Flora stored this information away.
‘So they are friendly? They wouldn’t hurt us?’
‘Good heavens, no. They are not an aggressive people – they can hardly afford to be. They know we have guns. I think Apilah wants you to meet his children.’
‘Why?’
‘To play with, I imagine. I think you are of an age.’
‘But I can’t talk to them.’
‘Come, Flora, it is just like meeting children in Dundee. It is up to you to show them good manners. Listen, I will teach you a few words.’
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The next day, more Eskimos came back, with two children. Apilah introduced the children to Flora. Both were shorter than Flora, with long, greasy hair. Neither had hats, so she assumed they were boys. This was a lucky guess; girls did not, she later discovered, wear the hats until they were married.
One of the boys was called Tateraq. He was sturdily built, had a round, smiling face and held himself with confidence. The other boy was Aniguin. He was perhaps Apilah’s son, perhaps not; Mackie wasn’t sure. He was slighter than Tateraq, and clearly, from their mannerisms, his inferior. He smiled a lot, but sometimes looked fearful, sometimes flinched.
They took Flora off with them. They had brought a sled
and two dogs, which they treated with casual cruelty. The boys built snow targets and practised throwing their harpoons. They let Flora try – or rather Aniguin, at Tateraq’s command, let Flora try with his harpoon. Almost everything she did, whether clumsy or deft, produced laughter. She smiled dutifully at first, determined not to lose face, but was soon laughing with them. She had the feeling that it was not mocking; the laughter was just there, like the snow.
From November to February, it was dark. A grey light emanated from the ice as much as from the sky, sometimes tinged with blue, or rose, or violet. Flora got confused about time. She fell asleep in the middle of the day, was wide awake at night.
Strange, dreamlike things happened in this twilight. One day, she went with Tateraq and Aniguin to a place under the cliffs. It was clear, and a green aurora sizzled above them. She gaped at the writhing lights, but the boys didn’t seem interested. She supposed they were as ordinary to them as rain was to her: not worthy of notice. The boys stuck hands in their trousers and, pulling out their penises, started to agitate them hard. Flora stared, open-mouthed, as Aniguin laughed, and seemed to be exhorting her to join in. Appalled, she turned and ran.
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Afterwards, she stayed in the cabin for days, complaining of a stomach-ache. Since she was rarely ill, Captain Mackie asked Dr Honey to see her. Flora, not ill in the least, felt guilty.
‘I feel better now,’ she announced. ‘I think it was something I ate.’
Honey grimaced.
‘Yes, the food on board is somewhat indigestible. Hardly suitable for young ladies. And the constant darkness is not suitable for anyone. But describe your symptoms to me. Your father said you were suffering from stomach pains. Has there been any vomiting?’
‘Um . . . no.’
‘And what about . . . ?’ He blushed, not meeting Flora’s eye. ‘How are your bowel movements? Do you know what I mean by that?’
