Blood and Ice

by Robert Masello

  Michael opened the door, parted the plastic curtains just inside, and ushered her into the botany lab proper. Hot, humid air suddenly engulfed them, and Eleanor gasped in surprise. He drew her farther inside and helped her to unzip her coat and pull off her hat and gloves. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, but there was a welcome spot of color in her cheeks. And her green eyes shone.

  Shrugging off his own outer gear, he said, “They study all kinds of plants in here-the local variety, to the extent that there are any, and foreign. Antarctica's still the cleanest environment on earth for lab work.” He brushed away the long hair that was plastered to his forehead. “But the way things are going, it may not be for long.”

  Eleanor had already wandered away, drawn by the fragrant aroma of fat strawberries, ripening on the vines that hung from the hydroponic pipes that crisscrossed the ceiling. Their green leaves, with the serrated edges, were studded with white flowers and yellow buds, and the berries, wet from the misting tubes, glistened in the artificial light. Ackerley had rigged up the whole lab himself, so it was a mixture of high-tech equipment and jerry-built contraptions, aluminum tubes and rubber hoses, plastic buckets and high-intensity discharge lamps. At the moment, the lamps were on low, but as Eleanor, with her eyes closed, buried her face in the flowering vines, Michael flicked the lamps to high.

  Instantly, the whole area was flooded with light, magnified by rows of reflectors that Ackerley had fashioned from coat hangers and tinfoil. The strawberries glowed like rubies, the white petals gleamed, the droplets of water clinging to the green leaves sparkled like diamonds. Eleanor's eyes sprang open, then she shielded them with her hand, laughing.

  Michael hadn't heard her so happy since he'd introduced her to the miracle of Beethoven on the stereo.

  “Didn't I tell you?” he said.

  And she bobbed her head, still smiling, and said, “You did, sir, you did-though I still don't understand how it's been done.” She quickly surveyed the glowing lamps and the silver reflectors, before once again protecting her eyes.

  “Try a strawberry,” Michael suggested. “The cook here uses them to make strawberry shortcake.”

  “Truly?” she said. “It's all right?”

  Michael reached up and plucked a juicy one from the vine and held it toward her lips. She hesitated, a hot flush rising into her cheeks, then bent her head to the berry and neatly bit it in half.

  The hot lights played across her hair as she savored it, and the golden rim of her brooch gleamed.

  “Finish it,” he said, still holding out the remaining half.

  She paused, her lips moist from the berry, and their eyes met. His heart was overwhelmed by such a confusion of feelings-tenderness, uncertainty, desire-that he could barely hold her gaze.

  But she held his, as she leaned forward and took the rest of the fruit into her mouth. Her teeth grazed the tips of his fingers before she withdrew, delicately plucking the green crown of the strawberry from her lips. He stood, transfixed.

  And she said, “Thank you, Michael.”

  Was this the first time she'd used his name-for real and not just in a dream?

  “That was a great treat.”

  “It's a Christmas present.”

  “It is?” she said, surprised. “Is this Christmas Day?”

  He nodded, his shoulders positively aching from wanting to reach out and embrace her. But he didn't dare. That was not why he'd brought her to the lab. That was not in the game plan. There was no future in that.

  So why did he have to keep reminding himself?

  “At Christmas, we would decorate the house with mistletoe and ivy and evergreens,” she said, meditatively. “My mother would make a pudding, stick a sprig of holly in the top, and douse it with brandy. When my father touched a match to it, the whole room would blaze like a bonfire.”

  After a few seconds, she turned around and stepped out of the glow from the lamps. “The light is very hot.”

  She moved down one of the aisles, the long blue dress with its billowing sleeves and high white collar emphasizing her slender frame; her fingers trailed across the rows of tomato plants on trusses, the lettuces and onions and radishes all being grown on tabletops and in shallow bowls of clear liquid.

  “There is no soil,” she said, over her shoulder. “How does anything grow?”

  “It's called hydroponics,” he said, following her up the aisle. “All the minerals and nutrients that the plants need are mixed into the water supply. Add light and air and you're done.”

  “It's miraculous,” she said, “and rather like the hothouse at the Great Exhibition. My father took me there, with my sister Abigail.”

  “When was that?”

  “Eighteen fifty-one,” she said, as if it were generally known, “at the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park.”

  The shock never entirely wore off.

  There was another bank of lights off to the rear, illuminating a tiny garden of roses and lilies and Ackerley's prized orchids.

  “Oh, how beautiful,” Eleanor said, stepping into the narrow aisle surrounded by the brilliant red roses and the multicolored orchids, on their long, crooked stems. Even without the soil, there was the hot, humid scent of a jungle. Eleanor unfastened the top button on her collar, but no more, and breathed deeply.

  “I could not have imagined a place like this,” she said, taking in the riot of color and scent, “in a country so remote and cold. Who takes care of all these plants? Is it you?”

  “Oh, no,” Michael said, “they'd be dead in a week if I were in charge.” But how could he possibly explain, to her of all people, what had happened to Ackerley? And what would she say if he did? Would she then confess to him her own undeniable, but secret, need?

  If there was one thing he knew, it was that he never wanted to hear words to that effect pass her lips.

  “We all pitch in,” he said, to provide some sort of answer. “But most of it's programmed by computers and timers.”

  He realized that none of this would make any sense to her. “It's mechanical,” he added, simply, and she seemed content… but reflective, too. Even as she pressed her face to the roses to inhale their aroma, he could tell her thoughts had entered a darker channel. Her brow was furrowed, and her head held still.

  “Michael,” she finally said, without finishing her thought.

  “Yes?”

  After another moment of deliberation, she plunged ahead. “I can't help but feel that there's something you're not telling me.”

  She has that right, Michael thought, but there were so many things he wasn't telling her that he wouldn't have known where to start.

  “Does it have to do with Lieutenant Copley?”

  Michael hesitated; he didn't want to lie, but he was forbidden to tell her the truth. “We've been looking for him.”

  “You know that he will come looking for me. If he hasn't already, he soon will.”

  “I'd expect that,” he said, “from your husband.”

  She looked at him intently, as if her suspicions-or at least some of them-had been confirmed. “Why would you say that?”

  “Sorry, I just assumed-”

  “In Sinclair's eyes, that may be so. But in the eyes of God, we are most assuredly not. For reasons I can't explain, it could never happen.”

  Why her peremptory tone should have pleased him so, he did not wish to dwell on. But since the topic had been introduced, he felt he couldn't let the opportunity go.

  “But wouldn't you want to be reunited… assuming, of course, that he's alive and well?”

  She studied one of the yellow orchids intently, rubbing her fingers on the waxy leaves.

  He was surprised that she wavered at all.

  “Sinclair was, and always shall be, the great love of my life.”

  Her fingers caressed the golden yellow petals themselves.

  “But the life we are forced to lead together cannot be sustained… nor should it be.”

  Michael knew of course what she was r
eferring to, but kept silent.

  “And over the years, I fear that he has fallen in love with something else-something that holds him in its sway more powerfully than I can ever do.”

  The misters suddenly went off, sending a fine spray of cool water into the air above their heads, but Eleanor didn't move.

  “What?” Michael asked.

  And she replied, “Death.”

  The misters stopped again, and she turned to one side, as if ashamed by what she'd just admitted.

  “He has been steeped in it so long that he has learned to live with it. He keeps it by him at all times, like a loyal hound. He wasn't always like that,” she quickly added, as if regretting her betrayal. “Not when we met, in London. He was kind and attentive and always so eager to find ways to amuse me.” That last caused her to smile.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Oh, just remembering. A day at Ascot, a dinner at his club in London. Poor Sinclair-I think he was often just one step ahead of his creditors.”

  “But didn't you tell me once that he came from a family of aristocrats?”

  “His father was an earl-and Sinclair would have been one, too, one day-but he had called upon the family fortune on too many occasions already. His father, I believe, was sorely disappointed in him.”

  The mist had settled like a fine veil atop her hair.

  “And his prospects… they were altered in the Crimea. Everyone who went there was changed by it, everyone who survived was damaged. It was impossible not to be.”

  She brushed the mist from her hair with the back of one hand.

  “You cannot bathe in blood every night,” she said, “and emerge the next morning unstained.”

  Michael couldn't help but think of all the wars that had passed since her time, and all the soldiers who had struggled, with that same futility, to put the horrors behind them. Some things never changed.

  Without looking at him, she abruptly said, “How long do you think I'm to be kept here?”

  To dodge the question he said, “Where would you want to go?”

  “Oh, that's simple enough. I want to go home, to Yorkshire. I know that no one in my family will be there, and that many, many things will have changed… but still, it can't all be gone, can it? The hills must still be there, and the trees and the streams. The old shops in the village will be gone, but new ones will have taken their place. The town square, the church, the train station, with its tearoom and the smell of hot scones and butter…”

  Michael wondered, as she spoke, if any of it was left, if the hills hadn't been leveled for an apartment complex and the train station hadn't been shuttered for years.

  “I just don't want to die in a place like this. I don't want to die in the ice.” Her head lowered, and her shoulders shivered at the thought.

  Michael put out a hand and turned her gently toward him. “That won't happen,” he said. “I promise you.”

  Tears were welling in her eyes. She looked up at him, desperate to believe.

  “But how can you make such a promise?”

  “I can,” he said, “and I will. I promise I won't leave here without you.”

  “You're going?” she said, a note of alarm in her voice. “Where are you going?”

  “Back home, to the United States.”

  “When?”

  He knew what she was afraid of-not just dying in the ice, but of succumbing to her need before she could see her old home again. Even now, he thought, she's probably resisting, with every ounce of her strength, a nearly irresistible urge.

  “Soon,” he said, “soon,” and he gathered her into his arms. Beads of moisture still clung to her hair.

  She came willingly, pressing her cheek against his chest. “You don't understand,” she said, softly, “and if you did, you would never make so rash a promise.”

  But Michael knew that he would.

  He was reminded of another promise he had made, on a mountainside in the Cascades. And just like that one, he meant to keep it, come hell or high water. “I won't leave you behind,” he swore.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  December 26, 9:30 a.m.

  Sinclair had made a studied assessment of his two jailers, trying to decide which one it would be wiser to move against.

  While the fellow named Franklin was plainly the less intelligent of the two, he was also the more wary. Like a private in the army, he took his orders seriously and didn't like to think about them very much. He'd been told to stay clear of the prisoner, and he did. He even refused to engage in conversation, keeping his nose buried in one of those scandalous gazettes for the duration of each of his shifts.

  The one named Lawson, on the other hand, was more intelligent, more sociable, and in general more curious. He was fascinated, Sinclair could see, by an unexpected visitor from another time and, despite the fact that he'd no doubt been given the same orders Franklin had, he thought nothing of defying them. When he came in to conduct his watch, Franklin couldn't leave fast enough, and Lawson positively settled in, stretching out his legs and leaning back against a crate for a nice long talk. Sinclair had noted that his boots looked very sturdy, with thick soles and heavy laces, and were in far better condition than his own riding boots, one of which had been torn by the sled dog.

  Today, Lawson had brought with him a large book with many colored pictures in it. Sinclair could not see what it was, but he knew he would find out in good time. Lawson could not resist talking. After a few minutes, during which Sinclair silently waited him out, Lawson finally said, “Everything okay with you?”

  Sinclair gave him a puzzled, but utterly benign, look.

  “Oh, sorry. That just means: Is everything all right? You need me to call the doctor or anything?”

  The doctor? Surely that would be the last request Sinclair would ever make. “No, no-not at all.” Sinclair gave him a forlorn smile. “It's the enforced idleness, that's all. Our friend Franklin provides little in the way of company.”

  Why not flatter this fool?

  “Oh, Franklin's a pretty good guy,” Lawson said. “He's just following orders.”

  Sinclair chuckled. “If there's a swifter route to damnation than that, I'd like to know what it is.” He knew that such pronouncements only served to pique Lawson's interest. His fingers, he noted, drummed on the cover of the big book.

  With a weary pro forma air, Sinclair asked about Eleanor and her welfare-no one ever told him anything of substance, but he asked, nonetheless-and received the usual vague reply; on this subject, even Lawson apparently knew enough to keep mum. But just what were they keeping from him? Sinclair wondered. Was she truly well? How could she be? How could she be satisfying the peculiar need that neither of them could ever confess to anyone? Sinclair did not know how much longer he could last himself. And he'd recently had the benefit of the slaughtered seal.

  But Lawson eventually turned the topic, as Sinclair knew he would, to his own interests. His fascination with Sinclair's odyssey had become evident over their past few sessions together, and the purpose of that big book became clear, too. It was an atlas, and there were little colored pieces of paper attached to the edge of certain pages. It was to these pages that Lawson threw the book open in his lap.

  “I've been trying to map out your journey,” he said, like some schoolboy swotting for an examination, “from Balaclava to Lisbon, and I think I've got most of it.”

  The man was a born cartographer.

  “But I got a little lost around Genoa. When you and Eleanor left, did you sail across the Ligurian Sea to Marseilles or take the overland route?”

  Sinclair remembered every step of the journey quite well, even after all this time, but he pretended to be confused. In fact, they had traveled by coach-he recalled stopping at a public house in San Remo, not far from Genoa, where he had won a large sum at the game of telesina, a local variation on poker. Another player had accused him of cheating, and Sinclair had of course demanded satisfaction. The man had assumed he meant a du
el, and though that was accomplished the same night-Sinclair ran him through with his cavalry saber-true satisfaction took a bit longer. When Sinclair had finished with him, he washed the blood from his face in a fragrant grove of lemon trees, before returning to Eleanor at the inn where they were staying.

  “I'm not sure I recall the name of the town,” Sinclair said now, as if struggling, “but it was in Italy-it might have been San Remo. Can you find it there?”

  He saw Lawson bend his head closer to the map and try to trace some route with his finger; he had one of those silly kerchiefs on his head, like some common seaman. It would only be a matter of time before Sinclair was able to persuade him to come closer and show him the map itself.

  Then… he would shake off his chains and reclaim his stolen bride.

  “Tomorrow,” Murphy repeated, leaning on the back of his desk chair. “The supply plane's coming tomorrow, at eight in the morning,” and he ran one hand nervously through his hair again. The other hand clutched a red marker, with which he had just circled the next day's date on the whiteboard mounted on the wall behind his desk. “And you're going back on it,” he said to Michael.

  “What are you talking about?” Michael protested. “My NSF pass is good until the end of the month.”

  “We've got another massive low-pressure system moving in, and by the time it's passed, the crevassing will be even worse out there than it is already. The plane won't be able to land.”

  “Then I'll take the next one out.”

  “Where the hell do you think you are?” Murphy said. “There's not gonna be a next plane out, not till maybe February.”

  Michael's mind was reeling. How could he possibly leave the next day? He'd made a promise to Eleanor, and he was not about to break it. He looked over at Darryl, sitting beside him, but all Darryl could do was return a sympathetic glance.

  “What are you planning to do with Eleanor-and now Sinclair?” Michael said. “I'm the one who found them in the first place.”

  “And don't I wish you hadn't. Don't I wish I was rid of them both.”