The man knew he had to do more and that's how he came to swim beneath North Pole.
He flew to the Pole in a converted Spad. The dozen Iron Crosses just below the cockpit confirmed its service in the Lafayette Escadrille. Its pilot, Owen Verlander, was a member of that famed group. An enterprising fellow like most Americans, Verlander used his flying skills to start a custom touring service after the war. His clients were mostly businessmen who didn’t have enough time for the Grand Adventure but who needed the cachet of a few exotic names - Timbuktu, Tashkent, Thebes - to toss around for effect.
Verlander's Custom Tours had grown to where by 1930, he had a fleet of six planes and offered quick trips to destinations in every continent including, most recently, the Arctic.
They’d left Spitsbergen on August 8th and had reached the Pole on the following evening after stopping to refuel. Phibes planned to swim for an hour at the most. Verlander would keep the Spad at the ready for their return to Spitsbergen at first light on the 10th.
How foolhardy! No one in his right mind is going to swim the North Pole! And under ice, at that!!
And indeed, the Spad flew over 660km of sea ice to make the trip. But Phibes was no mere adventurer. His wrecked physique, his wife lying serene and immutable in her rose quartz sarcophagus were drivers enough.
The water was cold, its silken intensity equaling and then surpassing the inferno when the benzine exploded after the crash. He had survived that by mastering the pain. How can you describe pain when it ceases to be felt?!
There is simply too much of it.
He wore a suit of his own invention for the swim, a triple rubber casing which gave him two insulating layers of air plus a rubber hood that fit the contours of his head and neck. His feet were finned for propulsion.
Streamlined, he was shearing the water at four knots, the music flowing with the currents. Yes!
He soon realized that the great oceans of the lower latitudes all came together here and so he swam, gliding from the Atlantic Blues to the Pacific Greens. These waters were an amalgamation of the Bering Sea with the turbulent Greenland waters - where the Viking Long Boats a millennium ago had penetrated Scapa Flow, that modern-day bastion of British Sea Power - with the Barents Sea whose Port of Murmansk offered the only navigable harbor north of the Arctic Circle, and finally with the coldest sea of them all: Chukchi.
He streaked through those condensed latitudes, shedding his pain now at the top of the world.
The air temperature was -30 degrees. He wore a Monel metal chisel at his ankle to pierce the sea ice when he needed air, seldom, to his surprise because of the many air pockets it contained. So the air he was breathing was centuries old, or more!
He moved as if in velvet, the soft suppleness of royalty. He swam without direction or intent, no sideways motion but straight ahead, his legs scissoring the waters undisturbed for millennia like some errant pen pressed to virgin parchment, so smooth, so indelible it would be easy to dream one's life away in the swiftness.
He pushed on with muscular intent, the memory of the crash tightening his frame like steel. He felt ready for battle, the soft threshing current propelling him into the fray.
The bubbles clotted, clustered, closed, their clear blue shapes thickened to pink, patchy shreds, jerkily flowing. Floundering.
Krill! Krill carpeting Aladdin-like in every direction weaving, undulating, catching here and there a jewel-like glimmer. A vein of diamonds.
And then with a huge rush something black and potent ripped into the pocket crashing through the krill, tearing it apart and then gone with a rush.
But not before the whale's mouth yawned full open, the baleen strands inhaling hundreds of gallons of the feed. Engorgement or survival, who's to say?
All over so fast save for that final instant where - angled above the baleen – his eyes wide open. And looking right at him!
Phibes didn’t blink. One more glance and the whale was gone.
MALDINE SQUARE
Maldine Square was never as famous as its name until quite recently when, in the 1930s - that troubled interregnum between two world wars - a series of disquieting events lifted it out of obscurity and into the press.
The Square is a collection of 15 brownstones, none of them over five storeys, that form three sides of a rectangle. The fourth side is open to the local thoroughfare which, like the Square itself, is paved with red bricks in a herringbone pattern. These are quite worn and greasy from the local traffic.
Bermondsey, the nearest underground stop, is a brisk 20-minute walk away from the Square - a challenge to all but a few of the residents. In this post-war era most of these were women; the few men among them were either senile or severely degraded. None owned the building they lived in.
The recent sale of Number 5, a building that’d lain dormant for longer than anyone could remember, had set the neighbors’ tongues to wagging. The new owners had yet to make an appearance so there was much speculation as to why anyone would want to move into Maldine Square in the first place?!
Thus, the perennial divide between tenants and landlords.
‘A very engaging fellow but he surprised me with his quaff!’ Gertie said to her friend over scones and root beer at a Sweet Shoppe near her office. The day was cold and wet and grey, pretty standard for this time of year but Gertie wanted to celebrate the sale - her first - with her friend Jardine. So they agreed to meet at their usual place right after work.
Gertie was a trainee at The Bungalow, an agency where ‘…we make your housing dreams come true’. A bustling no-nonsense shop - 3 brokers and 12 salespeople of varied experience - it was plunked right in the heart of Bermondsey, an ancient Thames-side locale that dated back to the Conquest and beyond. For centuries it had bustled with riverine commerce including the famed Canary Docks. But by the early 20th century, town elders wanted to balance out its rusting wharves and were struggling to attract a modicum of home dwellers.
It did have an inventory of private residences, including the Maldine Square brownstones, but most of these had long since been boarded up. The notion of ‘curb appeal’ had not yet arrived in Bermondsey in the 1930s, which is why Gertie Falters was so animated on this grey and wet Tuesday afternoon.
He didn’t say much, she enthused to her companion. But I could see that he was excited. At least he seemed so.
Oh! How so? Jardine was Gertie's closest friend. Having arrived in London six months earlier than the realtor-in-training, Jardine's every utterance was experience talking (and worthy of respect).
I dunno. His shoulders seemed to move as if he’d made a point.
Gertie, you didn’t argue with a client?!
Argue? Not at all. Very satisfied he seemed. Didn’t say much. Just looked at his assistant.
The addition puzzles the pragmatic Jardine. What's she look like? How d’you know she wasn’t his girlfriend…Are you sweet on the guy?
Jardine! I’d never met the man. It was all by phone up to that point. Never did put much stock in it till that 5000-pound draft came in the post.
The mention of serious money cleared the air. Gushing with praises for her rookie friend on making the sale, Jardine ordered fresh drinks
They were toasting to more of the same in the future just as the street lamps came on, a good sign!
The neighbors were less welcoming. Where's he come off trying to stuff his money down our throats, they grumbled when one of their buildings, that very same #5, caught the dawn light one fair morning in May. And there for the first time in a century, it stood revealed in all its golden radiance!
Some cheek! they added with more vehemence, showing off in this shithole! Had anyone been awake during the wee hours, they would’ve seen some very strange goings-on out on the Square. There, # 5 was literally crawling with a team of midget gymnasts who, with hose and bucket and basin, were scrubbing away decades of grime from its brownstone façade. The team moved with nimble intent, pyramiding up from the sidewalk to the third storey in ef
fortless pulses. This area needed extra scrubbing because of the heavy cornices above its windows (five in all). Once they finished this task, the gymnasts moved on higher with the aid of short handled plungers until they reached a slim balcony between floors four and five. Pausing, they formed another pyramid with their limber frames, elongating in a final athletic flourish and spelling out the name P-H-I-B-E-S as they reached the roof.
No one was awake down below to see this. The only exception was the tenant in #9, a Polish lady who shrewdly kept her residence after her third husband died. A follower of Madame Blavatsky, she hosted sessions in honor of this mystical fraud once a month.
She also attended to the needs of her members’ young sons, which is why she was absent on this particular night. These private sessions were highly lucrative for this still-comely widow, who had built her career on discretion and personalized service. Growth Counselor her card declared in gold sans serif.
Prostitute, said her neighbors - behind her back.
#5‘s arising was followed by two weeks of inactivity, which had the neighbors thinking that the new (and as yet unseen) owner had undergone a change of heart. They were priding themselves that they’d - secretly of course - wished away this intruder when suddenly, with a great shaking that would have, if it continued, uprooted the Square's red paving bricks, a huge truck lumbered into the Square from the roadway outside.
LONGOBARDO DRAYAGE COMPANY, its sides’ proclaimed in blazing red-and-gold lettering. This monstrous chain-driven dreadnought, with its solid rubber-on-steel wheels, was more than a match for the cracked and broken roadways it had to traverse. It was the truck of choice for that era's furniture movers.
And when it eased to the curb and disgorged the moving crew, the gawkers on the sidewalk grew livid with rage. A bunch of fucking bellhops! they growled at this smartly-uniformed bunch whose pillbox hats did indeed give them a hotel-lobby look.
On signal the truck's rear doors opened. The crew entered in formation and in a few short moments, were moving the cargo from the truck up the steps of #5 and into the house.
Every piece was draped in a purple felt wrap on which was displayed a prominent golden ‘P‘. So one of the British Royals was moving into the Square! At what seemed to them a display of nobility, the natives knew that the game was up. They faded away into their doorways, resolved to greet their new neighbor if he or she so deigned.
They would wait a long time for this personage, after the ruckus of his move-in, was quiet to the point of being secretive. Days went by with #5's pristine quiescence untrammeled by a single visitor. Letter carriers kept their distance nor did deliverymen climb its brownstone stoop. For all intents and purposes, its occupants might have embraced a sort of mute seclusion, save for a little night music.
What's that jazz? The neighbors wondered at the snappy strains sifting from behind #5's heavily-draped windows, and whose occupants were becoming curiouser and curiouser.
SEA EAGLE
This equilibrium was broken one nippy November morning by the arrival of a huge bird, the likes of which had never been seen before this far inland. The few locals about at this six o’clock hour were jerked out of their drowsings by the heavy pounding overhead:
THUMP…THUMP…THUMP!!!
The noise was very high up. And it was honing in. A crowd gathered on the Bermondsey thoroughfare with more folks pouring out of their doorways to see what this noise was all about.
ZEPPELIN!
That nightmare apparition from the War had come back! But the War was over, so what is it, that black streak high up in the clouds, and getting closer?
People started to run, darting in and out of the early morning traffic in near-panic. Brakes squealed and one poor woman pushing a pram was knocked to the ground. Some boys tried to help her but she quickly righted herself with not a peep out of the baby. No damage here but two of the onlookers fainted. Sirens wailed in the distance signaling that help was on the way. The thumping damped to a stop. There was a brief terrible silence while the crowd waited for the bombs to drop but the silence prevailed and the crowd soon evaporated. No one noticed the oversized bird that dropped from the sky in a leisurely spiral.
It was a sea eagle. And it was coming home!
Sea eagles are the largest of the hunting birds. Weighing in at 15 to 25 pounds and sporting 12’ wingspans, they have no enemies and for that reason, zoologists call them ‘apex predators’. These great raptors can be seen along the coast of every major continent where, skimming the thermal currents with the remarkable efficiency of a true hunter, they feed on turtles and seals and an occasional deer. Seen from great distances, they're often confused with aircraft.
This eagle has come from South America, from the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais, to be exact. Aided by favorable winds, he crossed the Atlantic in eighteen days, making landfall on the Irish coast, where he promptly ran down a ewe and gorged himself into nightfall.
But rather than rest up from his transatlantic crossing, he set out for London the very next day. It was a straight flight, the eagle permitting himself no distractions. At a mile up, he flew under most of the local air traffic but by two o’clock his hunger caught up with him. He’d left the ewe's carcass where he found her. She was mostly intact and the crows would feast on her for days. He hated the thought but there was nothing much he could do about it now.
He had to get to London. Was there enough light left to get there before dark? One big city remained between him and his destination: Manchester, so he had to make a choice: fly over this industrial center with the sulfurous updrafts from its smelters? Or fly around it and add extra miles to his trip.
Manchester was stinking when he got there. Unimaginable filth crawled up from its industrial belt, the yellowish vapors fouling the air around him and burning his eyes, the noise down below adding to the calamity.
Was it worth it? He was breathing hard but the blue air in the distance said that it was.
The eagle kept his thoughts on what he carried in his beak. Granite, that most common of building materials, is favored by architects and contractors for its strength and durability. Slabs of granite skin the downtown office towers in the globe's great urban centers. Public buildings especially assume monumental status thanks to this popular stone. Giza's Great Pyramid, St. Petersburg's Winter Palace and the Empire State Building are all sheathed in granite.
Embedded quartz gives granite its glassy sparkle. Thanks to its complex chemistry, this commonplace mineral offers a spectrum of colored stones valued for their decorative effects.
Rose is by far the rarest of the quartzes. Cut in round or oval shapes by jewel smiths and set in gold or platinum, these gems are a gift worth giving.
Diamonds are the traditional way of saying ‘I love you’. Rose quartz adds a bit of mystery to the expression.
But if granite is commonplace, rose quartz is quite rare. The Pitangui mine, just west of Belo Horizonte, capital of the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais, is one of the few sources of rose quartz in the world.
Thanks to its natural resources, Brazil is increasingly referred to as the fifth global power (along with the United States, Russia, China & Japan). The Amazon Basin is the largest watershed on earth. And the Brazilian rain forest contains a myriad of medicinal plants and a zoology that is still full of surprises. Taken as a whole, Brazil is intertwined with our planet's well-being.
Located in the southeast corner of Brazil, Minas Gerais is the source of much of that country's wealth. Larger than France in land area it is Brazil's mining and manufacturing center. But tourists prefer Rio and Copacabana to Minas Gerais, where a premium is put on hard work vs. leisure.
With its milky hue and the pink wraiths that flow through it, rose quartz has been prized for its beauty since the time of Ramses. The legendary Faberge Eggs feature samples of this singular gemstone.
A piece of this rare quartz has found its way into the sea eagle's beak. Why he transported it across 8500 miles of the Atlantic
Ocean we will soon find out
“SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
LIKE THE NIGHT…
…Of cloudless climes and starry skies”…
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
The house was dark. It was always dark when she got up at 3, her usual hour. There were so many things to do that she needed this head start on the day just to stay apace.
The quietness made it easier to move about the house. She really appreciated the thick carpeting on the staircases, a high-piled worsted that allowed her to climb between landings without changing her walking speed. The main staircase was birch. Kept in waxed perfection by the original owners, it had weathered well. She knew the condition of the wood through the carpeting: it was very hard indeed.
Falling on the stairs could do a lot of damage, especially to a poorly-balanced person. But Vulnavia - that is her name - had the assured stride of a runway model. Tall without being lanky and muscled without being muscular, she dressed like one too. Today was no exception. The simple A-frame fit her contours perfectly without restricting her stride. The apple-green fabric sent a flow of color through the sedate hallways.
She had to get his dressing room ready. It was her first chore of the morning and his toilette permitted no mistakes. There was much detail to attend to and on busy days, time was a real consideration. Today was going to be a busy day.
Lighting the hallways of #5 were fluted sconces, very popular in the 1920s. These were interspersed amongst sequenced doorways that led, on the third floor, to divers bedrooms, including the master suite on the far southern edge of the mansion. He didn’t use this suite, preferring instead the spare, almost Spartan utility room on the floor above. There he slept on a thin foldaway cot whose tick was thinner than three fingers and whose white appliqué coverlet provided not much warmth. A small pillow made of cotton batting completed the bedclothes, the crisp snowy white sheets affording the room's only nod to luxury.
All the other rooms on the fourth floor were either laboratories or offices. These were kept securely locked when not in use: no one was permitted entry unless in his company. Vulnavia was the one exception. She had free rein to every floor - and to its doorways - except the fifth. But today that's exactly where she was headed, thanks to the morning's chore list.
Dr. Phibes in The Beginning Page 4
