Blood and Ice

by Robert Masello

  While the other seals had looked on, still unalarmed-indeed unconcerned, about what had just befallen their compatriot-he wiped his sword clean on the snow, then dragged his prize back to the sled. There would be provisions for some time to come… though what he and Eleanor would do in the longer term was as dire a prospect as it had ever been.

  Sinclair was no sailor, but as someone who had been on the run for well over two years after Balaclava, he had learned to read the weather signs as well as anyone. He could tell that the temperature, brutal to begin with, was falling even more, and the sky on the far horizon was growing darker and more ominous by the minute. Under normal circumstances, Sinclair had a fine sense of direction- more than once he had advised his fellow cavalry officers on the proper course to follow-but in this accursed place it was well-nigh impossible. There was no night, so there were no stars, and there was no day-not day as one would commonly know it; how could one gauge the movement of a constant sun, or track shadows that barely changed? And as for landmarks, at times he could make out-though inland, and too distant to be reached-a black ridge of mountains, snaking through the otherwise flat expanse, like a jagged scar on a smooth white cheek. But that was about all.

  Once he had gotten under way again, the weather changed even more rapidly, the wind buffeting the sled, the dogs often having to pull straight into it. He was fortunate to be wearing, atop his own uniform coat, the new red coat, with the white crosses on the back and sleeves, that he had salvaged from the shed-and to huddle behind the windbreak provided by the sled itself. His knees ached from crouching there, but to stand up was to risk being blown clear of the sled altogether. He worried, too, about Eleanor and what condition he would find her in. He had not liked to lock her in the rectory, but he feared for what she might do. Whether she was in possession of her wits, or temporarily out of them, he could not be sure.

  From experience, he knew that the fever could come and go, like the bouts of malaria that Sergeant Hatch had endured, but he also knew that the terrible craving never went away. It was always there, sometimes running like an underground stream, at other times bursting forth and demanding gratification, and he wondered how Eleanor-slim as a reed at the best of times, and so young- continued to survive its relentless pull. Their affliction was at once their salvation, preserving them from a hundred mortal frailties, and the curse that held them forever in its own dark power. Liberator and jailer, simultaneously. There were times when he doubted Eleanor's will, and even her desire, to go on under such circumstances. But the force of his own will, he felt sure, was strong enough for them both. Whether she wished it so or not, she needed what he was bringing to her-and, above all, she needed him. He shouted at the dogs, urging them on, but the wind seemed to gather his words and fling them back into his chattering teeth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  December 16, 8:15 p.m.

  Michael left the infirmary with his thoughts teeming. It was all too unbelievable, too astonishing, too impossible to comprehend. Had he really just been talking to someone who'd been frozen in the ice for over a hundred years before he'd even been born?

  He had to calm down, he told himself. Take things logically. Go one step at a time. And just then, those first steps, as he clung fast to the guide ropes strung between the modules, took him past the glaciology lab. He knew that Danzig was out there somewhere, but why not make sure he wasn't just hiding out in the lair where his body had been deposited? Murphy had no doubt checked on it already, but Michael needed to confirm it with his own eyes. At least that would be one thing he could nail down, beyond any doubt, and if there was anything he needed at that moment, it was certainty. Of something. Anything.

  With reality threatening to slip its moorings completely, he was more determined than ever to tie it to the dock.

  Betty and Tina, to his relief, were nowhere in evidence. Warily, he clambered down the icy steps into the vault where Danzig's body had been laid. The plastic body bags had been ripped apart and lay in shreds on the frozen slab. The tableau reminded him, unavoidably of some terrible version of the resurrection. Jesus rising from his tomb and leaving only the shroud behind.

  Once he climbed back to the top of the stairs, there was more bad news. When he stopped at the plasma crate to check on Ollie, he found the box empty. The wood shavings in back were still shaped like a nest, but apart from a loose gray feather or two, there was no sign of the bird at all. He took some fried grits from his pocket-he'd snagged them when he fetched the food for Eleanor-and dropped them in the box, in case the bird returned. It was only a skua, considered no more than Antarctic riffraff, but he was going to miss the little guy.

  Then, with his head down, he made his way back, past the rec hall, where he could hear some raucous voices and piano playing. Normally, he might have gone in and joined them, but not right now. At the moment, all he wanted was time to think, alone, and let his thoughts settle.

  Fortunately, Darryl was not in their room. He drew the curtains across the horizontal windowpane and turned on the desk lamp, with a rare incandescent bulb that he had “liberated” from a tiny lounge area at the end of the hall. Then he kicked off his shoes and sweaty socks and dug his toes into the shag carpet. Work. He just needed to focus for a while on his work; he'd been letting it slide. He took the bottle of Scotch from the shelf in the closet and poured himself three fingers’ worth. With his laptop on the table, he started downloading the dozens of photographs he'd taken since first arriving at Point Adelie. There were shots of the Weddell seals, which had been whelping on the ice floes for the first few days there, and others of the birds-the snowy petrels and assorted scavengers- who frequented the base. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second as he wondered anew what had become of Ollie.

  There were shots of the dive hut, and a couple of Darryl inside it, looking like one of Santa's elves, in his full dry suit and his red hair wet and shining; in one, he was holding a speargun like a javelin over his shoulder. There were a bunch of pictures of Danzig and the dogs, some posed, and some that Michael had taken on the fly when the team was being exercised. And there was one with Kodiak licking the ice crystals from Danzig's beard. Selecting a few of the best shots, he moved them to a separate file. Then he downloaded another batch and found himself looking straight into the face of Sleeping Beauty.

  Or Eleanor Ames, as he now knew.

  Her eyes were open, and she was gazing out through a thick film of the ice. He enlarged the photo, and her green eyes came into even greater relief. It was as if they were looking right at him, and he felt as if he were looking right back. As if he were looking across a chasm of time, and the gulf between life and death. He took another sip of the Scotch. Was that indeed what he'd been doing?

  The wind came up another notch and battered the sides of the module. The curtains stirred; the window would have to be closed more tightly.

  Michael sat back, staring at the photo and wondering what Eleanor was doing now. Was she sleeping? Or was she awake and terrified by her new captivity?

  And then he thought he heard something-a lot like a human cry-mingled with the howling wind. Rising from his chair, he parted the curtains, hooded his eyes, and looked outside, but in the swirling snow he couldn't see a thing. For that much, he was grateful. What could he have done, he wondered, if it had been Danzig…

  He gave the window crank another turn.

  But then he thought he heard the cry again, and this time he could have sworn it was a deep voice, wailing words that were indecipherable. But even after turning off the lamp, hooding his eyes and staring out again, he could see nothing.

  Whoa, he thought, drawing the curtains firmly closed, that Scotch must be higher proof than I thought.

  He plopped back into the chair, and after one more look at the photo of Eleanor, flicked open some shots he'd taken of the abandoned whaling station. The rusted hulk of the Albatros gaped on the beach, piles of bleached bones lay scattered among the rocks, gravestones leaned at crazy
angles in the churchyard. The curtains stirred again, but he knew it wasn't because of the window. The door at the end of the hallway must have been opened, and that always sent a draft blowing straight down the hall, all the way to the communal bathroom and sauna. It was probably Darryl, and Michael was already preparing what he would say-or not say in respect to the discovery of Eleanor-as he listened to the sound of wet footsteps trudging down the hall. He closed the file on the computer just as they stopped outside. He waited to hear Darryl's key enter the lock-locked dorm rooms had become the rule, according to Murphy-but instead he simply saw the doorknob turn. Just a little bit, before the lock kicked in.

  He could see a shadow under the door, and he could hear breathing outside-labored breathing. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly prickled, and he got up, slowly, and tiptoed barefoot to the door. He took hold of the door handle, just as it was jiggled again; he held it firm, and put his ear to the door. It was thin plywood, and never in his life did he wish harder for a slab of solid oak. A trickle of icy water ran under the door and touched his toes.

  The handle was tried again, the other way, but it still didn't give. Michael tried not to breathe.

  He heard a full exhalation, and the sound of rustling, frost-covered clothes. Michael pressed his ear tighter against the door and leaned his shoulder against it, too.

  “Give…” the voice mumbled “… it… back.”

  Michael's blood froze in his veins, and he waited, ready to do anything to blockade the door, when he heard some laughing at the other end of the module-the bathroom end-and the snapping of a towel.

  “Grow up!” someone shouted.

  The jiggling abruptly stopped, and the shadow under the door disappeared. There was a rapid, squelching sound-wet boots on dry carpet-and a few seconds after Michael heard the outer door slam at the far end of the module, the bedroom door started to open. He was still holding the knob, and he heard Darryl mutter, “Fuck this key…”

  Michael let go, and the knob turned. Darryl came in, in his bathrobe and flip-flops, with a towel wrapped around his neck. He looked startled to see Michael standing there behind the door.

  “What are you, the doorman now?”

  Michael ducked around him and stuck his head into the hall. “Did you see anybody out here?”

  “What?” Darryl said, vigorously toweling his head. “Oh, yeah, I think somebody was just going out.” He tossed his key onto the dresser. “Why?”

  Michael closed the door and locked it. The icy trickle had already begun to dry on the carpet.

  Noticing the open laptop, Darryl said, “You were working?”

  “Yeah,” Michael said, turning it off now. “I was.”

  “Turn up anything interesting at Stromviken?”

  “No, nothing new,” Michael said, turning away to conceal any expression that might betray him.

  Spotting the glass of Scotch, Darryl said, “I'll have a shot of that.”

  While Michael poured some of the Scotch into a glass, Darryl tossed his towel toward their dresser. It fell off, carrying a hairbrush and some other stuff with it. “Sorry,” he said, “my three-point shot was always weak.” He bent down and picked a few things up off the carpet, but the last item he weighed thoughtfully in his hand.

  When Michael handed him the glass, Darryl offered him the item he'd just retrieved-a walrus-tooth necklace that unspooled into Michael's palm like a snake.

  “When you get back to the world,” Darryl said, “I guess you could always mail it back to his widow. She'd probably like to have it.”

  December 16, 8:20 p.m.

  Once Michael had left the infirmary-and Eleanor was sorry to see him go-the doctor ushered her into the bathroom, showed her how the hot shower worked, and left her everything else she'd need. There was a slender cylinder, for example, soft to the touch, that emitted a paste for scrubbing the teeth-the taste reminded her of lime-and a brush, too, with very fine, clear bristles. Eleanor wondered for a moment what animal the bristles could possibly have come from.

  “You need anything else, I'm right next door,” the doctor said.

  And then Eleanor was alone-alone in a lavatory that resembled nothing she'd ever seen, with fresh apparel to put on, for the first time in over 150 years, and with no idea what would happen to her next. Or to Sinclair, wherever he might be. Was he still reconnoitering? Or hunting? Had he been caught, too far from the church, in the midst of the storm, and was he stranded in the alien landscape?

  Or had he come back, only to find the bolt on the door thrown back and the room empty? He would know that someone must have intruded on her. She felt a sharp pang, the pang she knew she'd have felt if their positions had been reversed… if she'd had reason to believe that Sinclair had been taken from her, God knew where. Ever since the day he had been brought back from the battlefield, and she had seen his name on the roster of the newly admitted, they had been united in a way that she could never have explained to anyone.

  How could anyone else have ever understood?

  She had found him in one of the larger fever wards. Stained muslin curtains hung from sagging rods, and since few of the doctors, or even the orderlies, cared to risk the chance of contagion, there was no one to ask about exactly where he had been billeted. Ignoring the piteous cries for water or help, from men dying of thirst or lost in some terrible fever dream, she had stumbled through the ward, looking everywhere… until she spied a fair-haired head lying on a straw bolster on the floor.

  “Sinclair!” she'd exclaimed, running to his side.

  He looked up at her, but said nothing-and then he had smiled. But it was a dreamy smile, a smile that told her he did not believe she was really there. It was the smile of a man consciously enjoying what he knew to be a reverie.

  “Sinclair, it's me,” she said, falling to her knees beside his flimsy pallet and taking hold of his limp hand. “I'm here. Truly.”

  The smile faltered, as if her touch was eroding, rather than reinforcing, his fragile dream.

  She pressed her cheek to the back of his hand. “I'm here, and you're alive, and that's all that matters.”

  He withdrew the hand-peeved-at this further intrusion.

  Tears welled up in her eyes, but she searched the ward until she found a pitcher of stagnant water-the only water available at all- and returned to mop his brow and face. There were flakes of blood in his moustache, and she wiped those away, too.

  The soldier lying on the floor behind her, a Highlander judging from what was left of his uniform, clutched at the hem of her skirt and begged for a drop of the water. She turned and poured some of the water over his cracked lips. He was an older man, somewhere past thirty, with broken teeth and skin the color of chalk. He would not, she knew, be long for this world.

  “Thank'ee, Missus,” he murmured. “But mind you, steer clear of him.” He meant Sinclair. “He's a bad ‘un.” He turned his pallid face away, suddenly overcome by a barking cough.

  Delirium, she thought, before turning back to Sinclair. But it was as if, in those few seconds, his mind had cleared somewhat; he was looking at her now with comprehension. “My God,” escaped his lips. “It is you.”

  Her tears burst forth, and she bent to embrace him. She could feel his skin and bones through the thin nightshirt he had been issued, and wondered how quickly she could fetch some hot porridge from the kitchens. Or find him a proper bed.

  He was weak and frail but able to speak a few words at a time, and Eleanor filled in the rest. She didn't want to exhaust him-and she knew that she had duties to fulfill-but he seemed to be gaining strength from her very presence and she dreaded leaving him, even for a few hours. When, finally, she had to do so, promising to return at her first opportunity, he followed her with his eyes until she was obscured by the muslin curtains billowing like shrouds.

  Even as she looked at herself now in the spotless lavatory mirror, she could perfectly remember the look on his face, and see it as clearly as her own. She turned the shower ha
ndles as the doctor had shown her-and after piling the last of her clothes atop a wicker hamper, stepped gingerly into the hot spray. The water poured from a circular device, and seemed to pulsate as it rained down on her. A bar of soap-green, of all things-lay in a shallow niche on the tiled wall. And just as the paste she had used on her teeth had a taste of citrus, the soap had a fragrance, of evergreen trees. Did everything in this strange new world bear a foreign flavor or aroma? Eleanor let the hot torrent fall over her arms, then her shoulders. Unsure how long the miraculous cascade might last, she put her face up to the spray. Everything was so alien, and so unexpected, it was as if she had landed in the Crimea all over again.