But ah – said the doubters – that was the point. She was a dead scapegoat. She had failed in her appointed task, for her ship had met with disaster, had it not? Thus it would be madness to heed her …
The decision, everyone knew, would be Vincente’s – but it seemed that the captain too was in rare doubt. Why else would they be lying at anchor, fog or no fog, when they had pushed on regardless at all other times? Rumour had it that he was locked in his cabin, hesitating over the fateful choice that lay before him: to go home, the bearer of grim news, but to safety – or to press onwards, further into the unknown, and into danger.
Dow too pondered the choice, curled in his hammock. He wanted to press on, but it was only when he considered the alternative that he realised how badly he wanted it. For if they turned back – if the voyage was over – then what were his prospects? Life-long imprisonment on the Twelfth Kingdom. Unless, that was, he could stake a claim – as he’d sworn to do when the voyage began – to a permanent position aboard the Chloe.
But had he staked that claim yet?
He was not at all sure …
It was with relief, then, that he woke later to find that the fog had cleared and Vincente had made his decision. When the sails were raised, the Chloe headed north once more, deeper into the gulf.
The cutters too were ordered out again. With the mist gone, the way forward was clearly outlined between the pale emerald gleam of the ice walls, but the water remained black, and Vincente was wary now of running aground on more unseen islets in the channel.
Camp Island itself soon fell behind, its sad relics and graves lost from sight, much to the relief of the crew – but in fact one poignant reminder of the disaster followed with them: the last of the Bent Wing’s boats. The Chloe had eight boats of its own, but not knowing into what difficulties he might be sailing, Vincente had seen no sense in leaving a perfectly sound craft behind, and so ordered this ninth boat to be recovered from the snow. There was no space for it on the main deck, however, so the craft – the Bent Wing 2 – was attached by a line to the Chloe’s stern, and trailed after them now like a forlorn pet. Or, as some gloomily noted, like an omen of ill luck.
But nothing delayed them for the present; the ship crept on, the channel winding slowly back and forth in great reaches. They encountered no other isles, nor any sign that other humans had passed this way before them. The Chloe’s bell marked the sunless hours dolefully, and after fourteen such hours they were, by the officers’ reckoning, thirty miles further along, and now fully seventy from the open ocean. At which point another bank of fog marched out of the night, and Vincente, in his new caution, recalled the boats and ordered the anchor dropped.
The word was given that the crew should sleep while they might. The blackness was complete around the ship, and the men obediently hunkered in their hammocks, but few found rest, for out of that blackness came varied trills and groans and anguished cracks from the ice walls, loud as cannon fire in the still night, snapping any sleeper wide awake. And at one point there occured a peculiar surge and bubble in the waters of the channel, a southward rush in its flow, that sent the ship swinging slowly on its chain, as lookouts stared vainly into the dark, unable to find a cause.
But the mists lifted at last, and once more the Chloe raised anchor and sent out the cutters, and crept on in the slow airs. That day, their fourth in the gulf by the timekeeper’s log – for without sunrise or stars there was no other way to tell – was one of arctic surreality. A formless mass seemed to hang in the sky, as if immense falls of snow were descending silently from above, never to reach the sea, or even the high rim of the ice cliffs.
And yet beneath this canopy the gulf seemed to have some internal lustre, so that its waters glowed with subtle shades of blue and black. An uncanny quiet held over all, broken only by the crackle of frozen canvas, or by sharp reports from the walls. But every now and then another surge of water would come hurrying down the channel, though nothing still could be seen to explain it.
After a further twelve hours of this, the word from the Great Cabin was that they were now some ninety five miles from the sea. The gulf, though it had narrowed somewhat in that distance, showed no signs of closing. So the question was again being broached – how far might it be to the pole? No captain of old had ever measured the breadth of the ice cap exactly, even those who had sailed full circle around it. Nevertheless, current wisdom held that it could not be much more than three or four hundred miles across. At some point, then, if the gulf stayed open, the middle of the ice cap must be reached. It might be as close – some suggested hopefully – as fifty miles away.
Fifty miles to the pole! Even the naysayers among the crew looked up with a glint in their eyes at that. To think that such a legendary place was so nearly in reach, and with open water still ahead!
The prospect revived flagging spirits, even when fog settled again, and the Chloe was forced to anchor for another sleepless night – disturbed repeatedly by the mysterious surges in the channel, each strong enough to set the ship rocking – before raising sail once more.
But progress became only stranger now, for in addition to the creaks and groans of the ice, there came intermittently a whistling sound, echoing out of the north between the high walls, faint and yet profound, as of a great wind heard from afar, eerie and unsettling to the ear. What it could be, no one could guess. And not only did surge currents continue to come rushing down the gulf, streaming south for a quarter of an hour or so before slowing, it was also noted that sometimes the water in the channel would reverse itself and started to run north, subtly but surely hurrying the ship onwards.
The grim whisperers below decks started up once more. The ghostly whistling, the inexplicable ebbs and flows in the channel – they were warnings of something dire ahead, pole or no pole. And worse, rumour from the high deck spoke of disturbing readings from the compass. The iron needle had begun to grope blindly about its dial, bereft of its magical abilities. Where then, asked the whisperers, was north now? Did the gulf even lead that way still, or was it twisting about upon itself? Perhaps they were already ensnared in some icy maze. They must surely turn around now and flee!
Dow – as he steered the Chloe 4 during yet another long and cheerless stint leading out with their ice lamp – found himself staring with near desperation up to the sky. If only the stars were visible, then they could be sure of their course. But the veil of cloud might have been fixed in this part of the world, so little did it change, a greenish pall forever cold, featureless and without comfort.
And yet, just as their patrol was due to end, something did manifest in the sky for Dow and his crew to behold. Not stars, but something far more baffling. For a strange glow began to leap up, flaring red against the green underside of the clouds, its source seeming to lie north, away and beyond the high rim of the ice cliffs.
Watchers on the Chloe had observed it too, Dow learned when he was back on board. And at first, reassuring murmurs ran about the ship, for after all, such lights were not unheard of. Did not the old tales speak of exactly such a glow glimpsed beyond the ice, proof perhaps of lands and cities existing beyond the Wall, in the warm seas at the pole? But the whisperers were doubtful. The lights came from no city, they said. They were only a phantom glow, a mirage, drawing the ship on to its ruin.
Then a more fell portent took shape in the northern sky – if north it truly was. A vast figure formed there, looming above the ice walls. It was made, no doubt, only of cloud or whirling snow, but its appearance was of some immense manlike thing, or the shadow of such a being, cast hugely against the sky by a light behind it. Its head stared down at them blindly, but one great arm seemed to beckon, urging the Chloe onwards, as coldly as might a hangman urge on the condemned man to the noose. And from the depths of the gulf ahead the terrible whistling rose again, closer than ever now, the moan of a hurricane wind, even though all about the ship was still.
Fearful cries ran about the main deck, but the sound soon fell
away, and within an hour the figure in the sky was gone too, lost in the dull glare of red and green. Vincente, if he had observed the figure at all, paid it no mind, for they sailed on as ever. Indeed, there was no need even of the cutters anymore, so well did the glare light their way. And so the crew took courage again, for if their captain dared something, then so must they.
Besides – said the navigators, bent over their maps – their ordeal was surely almost done. The pole might be less than thirty miles off by now. Just another day perhaps, and the great discovery, and all the fame and fortune that would go with it, would be their prize …
But they were not, it seemed, to be granted that last day.
For the gulf – having held wide and clear for so long – now began to close in about them as they pressed northward. Soon it was less than a mile across, and there was concern on the high deck about the ship having sea room enough to safely manoeuvre.
But worse was to follow. For at length they came about a great bend in the channel and found that they could go no further at all. With the abruptness of a slammed door, the two walls of the gulf bent to each other and met to form a frowning dead end.
The officers and crew stared in disbelief. All their suffering in the cold and dark, all their travails – had been for this? To reach this bitter cul de sac, walled irrefutably on all sides by ice three miles high?
Ah … but there, directly ahead …
It could be seen now, as the ship drifted closer, that the two walls of the gulf did not quite meet. Instead, between them there remained a hairline fracture that ran from the waterline all the way to the cliff-tops; a chasm of fantastic height and narrowness, barely fifty yards wide at its mouth, and twisting away northwards beyond sight between sheer walls of icy black.
So the way was not utterly shut …
They hove to near the entrance of the rift, and Vincente ordered the anchor dropped, then he and his senior officers gathered on the high deck in earnest debate. Dow waited anxiously for their decision. Obviously the Chloe could never hope to venture down such a constricted passage – but there was room yet for the cutters to continue. And surely some end – some answer – must lie almost within reach now, down that twisting interior. And if it should be so, then the renown that would go to the crews of those boats!
But just when the officers’ debate concluded and the order was given to prepare the cutters for launch, there came a sudden rumbling from within the chasm. All eyes turned to it. A sound arose – familiar, and made even ghastlier now by proximity – the rush of wind rising swiftly within the narrow rift, moaning and piping as if from an enormous set of pursed lips.
The waters in the chasm sank away abruptly, only to rise up again as a black wall came roaring out of the interior, a wave fifty feet high, or a hundred, foaming all down its front. It erupted from the rift and collapsed in a white flood that set the Chloe bucking at its anchor; then, in a great frothing tide the deluge went rolling away southwards down the channel.
The wind shrieked a last time and died, but for a quarter hour longer the flood continued, a high river flowing through the rift and off down the gulf, before it too dwindled away to an apparent calm.
The launch of the cutters was delayed. The Chloe withdrew to a safer distance, and then a watch was set upon the rift, to see if the surge would be repeated.
It was. For some ten hours the ship waited there, observing, and a further three times in those hours the awful whistling arose in the chasm, and first a great wave and then a following flood came rushing out. Between those floods, significantly, the current could be seen to flow into the chasm, as if the waters were mounting there, only to be hurled back out again.
That some recurring cataclysm within – or beyond – the rift was the cause, no one doubted, but none could guess what that cataclysm might be. The only clue was that now and then a great rumbling or trembling seemed to shake the ice cliffs that towered all about the ship, making them rain lethal shards of themselves into the sea; and strange shadows pulsated in the dim sky, like immense beasts battling in the clouds.
Finally a fog sank down from above, at which point Captain Vincente had had enough.
There would be no launching of the cutters, he announced. The way forward was too perilous for any craft now, of whatever size. There was no sign anyway that survivors of the missing fleet had come this far – and if they had, and then ventured into the chasm, then they were certainly long since drowned. Nor could the Chloe tarry there in the hope of a favourable change in conditions. It was too dangerous, with the cliffs looming so close and liable to drop even larger shards of ice at any time.
No, they would remain only until the fog lifted, and then they would set sail south, and begin the long voyage home to Great Island.
The search for the Lord Designate was over.
Despondency settled upon the crew, a sour mood of hopes cheated. What had happened to their luck, which had brought them so far, and so swiftly? How could the great gulf, in all its wonder and possibility, have led them nowhere, and told them nothing? How could they be denied so cruelly – when they were so close, everyone was certain – to the pole?
But if the disappointment was bitter for all, none felt it as keenly as Dow. After all, the ship’s luck was his luck, was it not? Hadn’t his special fortune blessed the voyage, according to the likes of Alfons? Hadn’t the ice albatross summoned him – and so all of them – to the north? But why had it done so, if the voyage was only to end in frustration? And if Dow in fact had no special fortune, then what role could he really claim on the Chloe?
That was the crux of it. To everyone else their failure simply meant that they must return home in sadness and defeat. But for Dow there was no returning home. For him, the end to the search only raised once more the unresolved question of his future freedom.
Coldly, he forced himself to review his performance. What had he achieved, really, on this northern voyage?
Well, he had learned to pilot a cutter during the long-ago drills ordered by Commander Fidel, and had done so competently in the end – but no more than competently, in truth. Then he had landed upon Trap Island, where no one had before – but that had been against orders, and anyway, Samson had been in official command that day. And finally Dow had served for many long nights now in the boats out upon the freezing seas, leading the Chloe safely through all perils of ice and fog – but once again, only under Samson’s command, and anyway, so had nearly thirty other sailors and officers.
So had he done anything of true note, or on his own? From Vincente’ s point of view, was there anything that had marked him out as a sailor and seaman that the Chloe simply could not afford to lose?
The answer, Dow had to admit, was no.
It was with such uncomfortable conclusions that he went to his cold hammock to sleep, for as long as the fog hung thick and the Chloe swung idly at anchor, there was little else to do. But sleep would not come, no matter that Johannes and Nicky were snoring in their own beds, under mounds of blankets. At length Dow rose and donned his anorak, then stole quietly up through the sleeping ship and emerged into the freezing air of the main deck.
As ever, the cold took his breath away – but so did the sight that greeted him. The fog gathered heavy upon the water, but from about the level of the mastheads up it thinned, and rearing above the mist were the ice cliffs, looming as a monstrous amphitheatre all around the ship, roofed by a dome of sky which shimmered green and red, the colours glinting off the ice and making the wraiths of fog glow as they danced overhead. And almost unheard, a subliminal thunder ran on and on … The wild beauty of it twisted Dow’s heart. He did not want to give this up; nor any of the amazing things he had seen. But tomorrow they would turn and retreat, and he might never behold such sights again.
His breath crackling in the frigid air, and his feet crunching softly on the frost of the deck, Dow crossed to the railing that faced the dead end of the gulf, and the great rift in the Wall. It was an hour at least
since any wave had issued from its mouth, and the chasm was visible through the mists only as a darker line on the cliff face, where no ice glinted.
If only …
If only the voyage could have gone on, if only the gulf had remained open, or if only the captain had dared to launch the cutters into the rift. If only there was still something that Dow could do, some decisive action he could take, some claim he could put forth, and so gain control over his own fate.
A shadow moved on the high deck.
Dow turned to see who it might be. There were few enough crewmen about even on the main deck, due to the cold, and Dow had not noticed any officers at all on the high deck. But now a figure was descending the stairs, heavily muffled in arctic gear.
He knew anyway that it was Nell, and in the dreamlike atmosphere of the fog and the darkness he was unsurprised when she came directly to him. Only her eyes were visible within her furred hood – the scars about them faint webs – as she assessed him with a curious intensity.
‘How strange,’ she said. ‘I was about to send a midshipman to summon you from below – and yet here you are.’
Dow stared in puzzlement. She wanted to see him?
‘Or perhaps it’s not so strange. Perhaps it means that I was right to think of you now. And it’s better this way, if no one knows …’ Better? What was she talking about?
Her abstracted air faded abruptly. She straightened, and then – with a forced effort it seemed – she nodded her head to him in a formal bow. ‘I want to apologise for throwing that glass at you.’
He blinked at her.
‘I mean it, I really do,’ she hurried to insist. ‘I was angry that night, that was all. I considered you a lucky fool who’d happened to survive the great whirlpool by accident, and who was being given undeserved acclaim. That was unfair, I know that now. Whatever you are, Dow Amber, you aren’t a fool, and you aren’t merely lucky.’
The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice Page 19
