Minds of Winter

by Ed O’Loughlin

  ‘If their sugar was in short supply, he said, they ought to come back with him to Destruction City. There was sugar there aplenty, and soon there would also be fresh meat: he would find caribou enough to get them all through the winter. But – he lowered his voice now, and looked at them meaningfully – in their present condition, and without further help, he feared that when spring came they could go neither forward nor back, but must be locked away for ever in their secret prison.

  ‘As he looked from one to the other he saw how their eyes remained locked in a mutual loathing as cold and as final as the land into which they had blundered. Then Weatherbee snickered again, and Cuthfert showed the broken tombstones that flapped from his gums, and both men told him that they had no wish to go on from here, nor to turn back in the spring, but would stay where they were. “Because,” said Cuthfert, “not all the treasures of this land are hidden in the Klondike creek.”

  ‘Now Ivan guessed it: it was the lust for gold that held them here, dying; they must have thought there was colour in that frozen creek and – too lazy and weak to grub through the winter, thawing and digging and piling up pay dirt for sluicing in the spring – they would squat here until the land thawed and – contrary to the code of the prospecting brotherhood – keep their good luck to themselves.

  ‘But then Ivan had another thought, and even as it crossed his mind he felt ashamed of himself, as if he had been corrupted just by sitting in this fetid air. Spring would not come for Cuthfert and Weatherbee. If there really was gold here, he need only leave them alone with it until they murdered each other, or let the scurvy soften their bones and their wills until they could do no more than lie on their beds, the stove untended, watching the frost flowers creep up the walls . . . Yes, Ivan could go back to Destruction City, honour his pledge to hunt for its people, take what money they paid him, and then return alone to this place in the spring with his pan and his shovel . . . He must be sure to get here before the thaw, when the corpses would rot and make this house unliveable . . .’

  ‘He really opened up to you, this Ivan chap. He seems very chatty for a Russki.’

  ‘Look: if I embellish a little, it’s just to fill in the sort of details that are implicit from the general context: stuff you could pretty much work out for yourself if you thought it through.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘All this went through Ivan’s mind in an instant. But he put his dark thought aside and remonstrated with his hosts. Better to come back with him to Destruction City while they still had the strength to follow the trail he would break for them.

  ‘And at that a curious look came over Cuthfert’s face, an expression at once fearful and cunning. No one was going anywhere, he said. And now, as their guest was here, perhaps he would join them in their meal.’

  ‘Now remember, old chap: you can’t go back on your word about who’s in that stew.’

  The writer refreshed their mugs from his bottle. ‘Poor Ivan would rather have eaten his own foot than anything that came out of Weatherbee’s pot, but there was no possible excuse: he could hardly claim, having come from the forest in forty degrees of frost, that he wasn’t hungry: he was famishing. So he sat there in dread while Weatherbee scraped the filth from three pewter plates, smacking his lips with the wet, dismal sound of a fish’s dying spasms in the bottom of a boat.’

  ‘I say! That’s rather good.’

  ‘Thanks. While Weatherbee doled out the stew, Cuthfert went to the stove, took out a tin and set it on the table. It was a loaf of fresh bread, piping hot, with an odour so pleasant that it almost made up for the stink of the hovel. Cuthfert divided the bread into three equal chunks which he set on the table, leaving the tin to one side. The bread did not repulse Ivan, so he bit off a chunk to settle his stomach. When it came, the stew too proved surprisingly wholesome: after only a moment’s hesitation Ivan was able to swallow a spoonful, then a second and a third. Cuthfert sat opposite, while Weatherbee overturned a bucket for a seat and placed it by Ivan’s side. The two of them watched their guest eat, grinning at his appetite. Only when he heard the scrape of their spoons on their plates, the sound of their gums sucking and mashing on the meat in the stew, did he dare to look up from his meal. It was then that he noticed the pages in the bread tin.

  ‘To keep the loaf from sticking, Cuthfert had lined the baking tin with leaves from some unwanted book. As Ivan stared at the pages he found himself, for the second time that day, making the sign of the cross with two fingers. He saw before him, still clearly legible despite the scorching of the paper, the Cyrillic letters of his half-forgotten childhood. And though he could not read Greek, he recognized at once the columns and rubrics of an Orthodox Bible.

  ‘Now Ivan was not, as I said, a religious man, in the sense that men of the south are religious. Yet still it seemed to him blasphemous to rip up a Bible. Surely his hosts knew what those pages were: one did not need to be able to read a book to see the cross upon its cover. His Russian blood stirred in him now. Letting his spoon fall to his plate he wondered, as if in passing, where they had found those curious pages which lined the baking tin.

  ‘A strange look passed between his hosts, and then Cuthfert gagged down a piece of imperfectly chewed gristle. “I guess there’s no harm you seeing it. Who are you going to tell? – Weatherbee: show him the stuff.”

  ‘Weatherbee took an old flour bag from a jumble of crates at the end of the house and carried it back to the table. It made a soft but firm thud when he set it down. Something metal clinked inside it.

  ‘ “Go on,” said Cuthfert. “Look.”

  ‘Ivan loosened the knot that tied the sack and tipped the contents onto the table. There were books, at least a dozen of them, leather-bound volumes with stiff linen pages coated with wax to preserve them – journals or logs of some kind, filled with handwritten letters and figures and sketches for maps. Ivan spread them out in front of him, but he could not read Roman letters, and the maps were of islands and seas that he did not know. He raised the sack again, tipped it higher above the table, and as the rest of its contents slid out, Ivan became aware that Weatherbee was close behind him, peering over his shoulder.’

  The man on the cot stirred, as if about to sit up, then sank back onto his pillow. The writer could see the glint of his eyes in the lamplight.

  ‘Ivan next saw a holy icon, a Virgin and Infant, inscribed and painted on a wrought silver cross. He picked it up and held it in his hands, turning it over, stupefied by its unexpected beauty, its call to the very depths of his soul. He had not seen such a thing since he’d crossed the straits from the Eastern Cape. Yet how had it come here, far beyond the bounds of Russian Alaska? And how had its beauty survived the rust and decay of the long Arctic winters? He set it down, and considered the other objects on the table.

  ‘The second thing was also familiar to him in its form and function: a revolving pistol. Although very old, it was also untarnished by time. He was about to pick it up when Cuthfert reached over and slid it away from him. “It’s loaded,” he said. “Better be careful.”

  ‘The third object on the table was a puzzle to Ivan. It was a hollow metal tube, about a foot or so long, made from pewter or tin and sealed at both ends with soldered metal caps. There was a mark stamped on its side, an arrow-head symbol formed by three thin triangles that joined at their tips.’

  The man on the cot rose up on one elbow, wincing at the pain in his side. ‘A message tube,’ he said. ‘The Royal Navy used to issue them to ships in the old days. They’d put them in stone cairns, to leave word where they were going. The stamp is the broad arrow of the Board of Ordnance.’

  ‘You’re quite right. But how did you know that? Ivan had no idea what it was. I had to work it out for myself later, from his description. It’s not the kind of thing you see every day.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite keen on that sort of thing. Exploration and science and that.’ He pushed himse
lf upright, grimacing, until his back leaned against the wall of the tent and his feet swung over the side of the cot.

  The writer went on: ‘So. The thing in his hands was a message tube. And although Ivan could not open it, much less read its contents, he understood it was a wonder from another age. He put it down and then he looked at the antique revolver, which sat out of reach between Cuthfert’s hands. Untarnished, still loaded? Then he thought of the axe in the corner, the good Finnish-forged trade axe, the indispensable tool – knife, weapon, spade, hewer of firewood – without which no Siberian would go into the forest . . . Where had it gone? Why was that axe no longer in the corner?

  ‘As the hairs rose on Ivan’s neck, he had time to wonder whether it was the horror of his predicament that made his nape crawl, or the poisoned breath of the wizened ghoul who, Ivan knew without looking, stood close behind him and hefted the axe.’

  In another cubicle, somewhere close at hand, a voice babbled feverishly in Japanese. The man on the cot leaned forward to hear the writer better, swinging his feet in the air. ‘Oh boy, as they say in California.’

  ‘Oh boy indeed . . . You’ve been to California? Where? San Francisco? That’s my home town, you know.’

  ‘I passed through two years ago, on my way to Japan . . . But do please go on.’

  ‘Alright . . . So, Ivan felt his skin crawl, and understood his deadly peril. Across the table from him, Cuthfert showed his fangs again, nodding at him as if humouring a child, but his hand stole towards the pistol on the table. No one was going anywhere, Cuthfert had joked with Weatherbee . . . Their lair was to remain a secret . . .

  ‘Ivan threw himself forward and sideways, crashing into the table with all of his weight. The axe plucked harmlessly at the back of his jacket as he rolled across the floor.

  ‘The table slammed into Cuthfert, who yelped and fell backwards, spilling the pistol. It spun across the room and landed on a cot.

  ‘Ivan rolled away as the axe swung again, embedding itself in the floor by his head. He heard Weatherbee hiss in the shadows, but his attention was all for Cuthfert, who skittered on his hands and knees towards the pistol on the bed.

  ‘Ivan was upon him just as Cuthfert’s fingers closed on the butt of the gun. As the two of them wrestled for the weapon, Ivan could hear behind him the slow, measured shuffle of Weatherbee’s steps, his rotten stumps wrapped in their pustulant foot-cloths, closing the range on his unprotected back.

  ‘Ivan had very little time, but he had the advantage of health and vigour: Cuthfert was little more than a wraith. With a heave, Ivan jerked the pistol free from Cuthfert’s hand; as it came away the trigger-guard, twisting on Cuthfert’s finger, tore it from the knuckle as a wire cuts through cheese.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said the man on the bed.

  ‘Cuthfert howled, the startled gurgle of a mewling infant. Yet Ivan, sprawled across Cuthfert, heard only the shuffle of feet in the shadows behind him, their cessation, then the creak of floorboards as weight shifted from one foot to the other, as shoulders wound up to swing an axe.

  ‘Despairing, Ivan seized Cuthfert by the shirt-front and rolled over on his back, bringing the howling man across him. The axe glinted as it swung, and Ivan felt the dull thud as it sank into Cuthfert’s back. He heard Cuthfert stop howling and felt his limbs go limp.

  ‘The shade that was Weatherbee withdrew the axe from Cuthfert’s body with a wet, sucking noise and a scrape of steel on bone.

  ‘The axe swung up again, spraying blood across the ceiling.

  ‘The cabin flared white and vanished, the air filling with the choking, sulphurous smoke of a black-powder discharge. Ivan rolled away, releasing Cuthfert’s inert carcass, and fell off the end of the cot. He cowered by the wall, blinded by the muzzle flash and deafened by the shot, pistol raised blindly to menace the void.

  ‘How long did he crouch there? Slowly, the gift of sight, of life, returned to him: the stars in his eyes faded and died, and he could see again dimly in the twilight from the shutters. There were two men on the bed, and neither one was moving.

  ‘Ivan got to his feet and went closer, pistol at the ready. Weatherbee had staggered forwards and fallen into the arms of Cuthfert, who lay on his back on the bed. A dark patch on Weatherbee’s shirt showed that the first lucky shot had drilled through his heart. His face rested on Cuthfert’s shoulder like an infant seeking comfort from its mother.

  ‘Cuthfert lay face up, his unblinking eyes staring up at the ceiling. A log in the stove shifted, throwing a few sparks through its half-open door. They expired on the tin fireguard; all was still once more. And Ivan, alone there in that place of madness and horror, remembered another iron law of the Northland: as the last man standing, it was his job to bury the dead. His sense of justice revolted at this prospect: what duty did he owe these creatures who had schemed to deceive and to kill him? What humanity did he share with these things that were so much less than men?

  ‘But a law is a law. Ivan would do his duty, though he knew that had he defaulted no other man living would know of the lapse or judge him harshly for it. He would have to work quickly, to lay the corpses out before their limbs stiffened . . . He would also have to make a fire in the clearing, to thaw out some ground for yet another shallow grave. What terrible, back-breaking work, and this time with no pay dirt to sift at the end of it. If he could only walk away . . . But no. He seized hold of Weatherbee’s shoulder and started to drag his corpse away from Cuthfert.

  ‘ “Leave him,” whispered Cuthfert. “It is right that we should lie together in death. With all my soul I loathed him. He was the fittest companion that I ever had.”

  ‘Ivan let go of Weatherbee and sprang away from the cot. Cuthfert’s eyes moved in his head, following him into the shadows.

  ‘ “That creek is full of gold. It’s yours now, I guess.”

  ‘Ivan said nothing. Was this thing on the cot still alive or was he hearing from a spectre?

  ‘ “There are some nuggets on the windowsill, in that old tobacco tin. You should take them for assay.”

  ‘And what, thought Ivan, does it want in return? He had heard tales in his youth of lost houses in the forest, strange figures in the trees, of Baba Yaga and bartered souls. It was better, he knew, neither to listen nor speak when the devil wants to bargain. The house was growing cold; he walked over to the stove, opened the door and picked up a log.

  ‘ “Please don’t feed the fire,” murmured Cuthfert. “I want to lie here in peace and watch the frost climb the walls. Take what you want and leave us as we are.” ’

  ‘The message tube,’ said the man on the cot, sitting forward. The writer was surprised by his listener’s eagerness. ‘Did Ivan take that? And the journals and maps? What happened to them?’

  ‘He put them,’ said the writer, ‘back where they had come from, into two airtight metal cases he found in the corner, marked with that same broad arrow stamp. He put the ancient pistol in his pocket and prised the axe from Weatherbee’s dead hand. Cuthfert’s eyes flickered as Ivan moved back and forth, passing through his field of dying vision, but he never spoke again. The fire in the stove was already no more than a glow and the beautiful frost flowers bloomed on the walls.

  ‘His preparations completed, Ivan went to the windowsill and picked up the tobacco tin. He shook it, looked inside, then put it back where he had found it. The black joke was complete: they had ruined themselves – ruined themselves utterly – for an ounce of fool’s gold.

  ‘Ivan took the other things outside and closed the door behind him. Nothing now would ever make him go back inside: a man would only be given one warning. He crossed the clearing. Now that he stood over them, he could see that the two graves had been disturbed. Two narrow depressions in the snow, set close beside each other, showed where respectful hands had made the original excavations, shallow rectangles clawed into frozen soil. But the rocks which had been piled ove
r the two graves had lately been displaced, pushed to one side, making it look from a distance, under the trampled snow of the clearing, as if the two graves were further apart than they were.

  ‘There was a shovel by the porch. Two feet down, its blade struck wood under the snow. Reaching down, Ivan pulled

  the lid from a coffin. Then he dropped the shovel and started back.

  ‘The subsoil of this Arctic region, which does not thaw even in summer, had preserved the eyes that now gazed up at Ivan. They looked as if they were still capable of sight. The face was that of a man of about fifty or sixty, of Tartar or Mongol appearance, with black hair attached to the scalp and a scrap of black beard on his cheeks. Only the frost-blackened skin, drawn tight across wide cheekbones, spoke of the many long years he had lain in the darkness, his lips shrunken back to show stained, yellow teeth. The upper body was hidden by a deerskin coat made by some northern tribe unknown to Ivan: around his neck, the sleeper wore a strange amulet, a necklace of whalebone, carved in the likeness of a screaming human face. There was such terror in that image that Ivan, never a fanciful man, almost lost his nerve and fled. But he mastered himself, and continued to gaze. A pistol’s lanyard still circled the dead man’s neck but the ends had been cut and the pistol was missing. As was the man’s lower body, from the waist down. A loop of frozen intestine, severed by an axe cut, protruded from under the caribou coat.

  ‘Ivan had underestimated Cuthfert and Weatherbee. Their scheme was not as doomed as he had imagined. They had stumbled across a way to beat the scurvy. They had found a supply of meat – fresh meat, more or less, after it was thawed and stewed. And – in his own person – they had found a way to augment their supply . . .’