The Last Outpost

by Hannah Ross

  "I think beer is enough for now," Scott said. "We still have almost half a work day to pull through."

  "Whatever you do, Buck, old man," Jerry said with an air of great wisdom, "make sure McMurdo has a nice stash of liquor for the winter, or there will be riots. People will want to decompress."

  "It seems to me you are decompressed enough as it is. Pull yourself together, Jerry."

  Jerry drained the last of his beer. "I'm scared, Buck. I'm just goddamn scared. It seems to me the party is just starting, you know what I mean?"

  Scott couldn't very well pretend not to know. He voiced his innermost thought, which has begged to escape for the last couple of days. "I wish Brianna agreed to come here for the winter," he said, staring gloomily into the jungle of vibrant green beans and passionfruit vines.

  Chapter 9

  Though Scott wouldn't explicitly say so even to himself, his feverish activity of the next days had as much to do with his desire to free himself up to go and visit the Anai again, as with his legitimate wish to put everything in proper order by the end of his first summer season in the position of General Overseer.

  How to conduct this trip was something he went back and forth on for several days. The research team was going to Camp AN-85, and they would go into the Anai Valley to take some samples of the local plants and bacteria, and observe the birds and mammals. As fascinating as Scott found all this, his only real interest lay in the village and its people. The anthropologist of the team struck him as cold and technical, incapable of the fascination and wonder the Anai deserved. He wanted to be by himself, separately from the team, and he also recalled Ri Omrek's talking of a possible hunting trip. Much like the resident workers of McMurdo, the Anai people utilized every moment of sunlight and growth to prepare for the long and frozen season when there would be none. They were strengthening their buildings, gathering supplies, drying, curing and storing food and skins, and taking in their crops.

  Thanks to the geysers, the Anai Valley was many degrees warmer than any other part of Antarctica, even in the dead of winter, but it was dark all the same. Grasses and crops stopped growing, animals and birds went into long hibernation periods, and no hunting or fishing could take place. People were kept confined to the village, and often to their very homes, depending entirely on their supplies of food and lighting oil. Despite the warmth of the valley, temperatures would sometimes drop rapidly and the village would be snowed in. The snow would then turn to sleet, slush, mud and ice, swelling the river and its little rivulets, and getting outside to feed animals in the outbuildings, or throw away contents of chamber pots, inevitably involved in dragging one's feet through deep, sticky mud.

  As before, the AN-85 researchers frowned upon Scott joining them, but proceeded with their business as usual, resolving to ignore him and only reminding him once about safety and secrecy regulations. While they hunted for revolutionary specimens of the invertebrate department, Scott went on in the direction of the village, where he was received with pleasure, and with more trusting warmth than before. Egan, Ki Tahan's little boy, ran to him with sparkling eyes and uttered excited phrases in Anai, and his mother walked over and smiled. She had been busy with outdoor chores, and displayed her muddy hands to Scott in a gesture that explained she could not grasp his arm in the customary greeting.

  "You come, Scott. We glad. You join my brother and other men for hunt?"

  "Yes, if they take me," Scott said, but without excessive enthusiasm. The village attracted him more than the bay, and he would have been content to stay and observe the Anai utensils, watch how Ki Tahan makes her clay pots and works on her loom and weaving-frame, and learn more of the Anai intricate writing system.

  "Sure, we take you," Ri Omrek said. "But you change your clothes," he said, observing Scott's flamboyant orange attire with a critical eye.

  "Why?" Scott didn't understand.

  "Animals see you from afar, run away," Ri Omrek explained. "I give you my own clothes," and he would have proceeded behind the partition to the corner he occupied in his sister's house, but Ki Tahan stopped him and said a few words.

  "Wait, Scott," she said. "I have better clothes. And you wider than Omrek, they fit you well."

  She went to one of the storage baskets and rummaged in it, retrieving a set of breeches, long tunic, parka and cap, and knee-high moccasins. It was all made of sealskins and furs, sewn together with narrow, tough strings of sinew. Each seam was made twice over, and the entire outfit was a marvel of sturdiness and pliability combined. Scott looked at the clothes and ran his hand over them. The skins were thick, smooth and velvety, the fur of the parka downy and soft to the touch. He didn't have to ask to whom these had belonged, for there was but one possible answer – Ki Daygan, Tahan's deceased husband.

  "I would be afraid to spoil these," he said feebly.

  Ki Tahan offered a small smile. "Spoil would be a pity," she said. "I make these myself. Daygan bring me furs, I cure, make into skins and parka. Sew together - long, long winter, I like the work. Next summer, Daygan wear clothes, he proud of me. But clothes, they need to breathe. I not take these out since Daygan..." she shook her head and trailed off. "No one uses them. Egan, he may one day, but he still little. I be glad for you to wear them."

  There was nothing more to say. Scott went behind the partition to change. He wished he had a mirror. For a few minutes, he fumbled awkwardly with the leather thong holding the breeches up. The tunic was easier, and fit him well enough, though Daygan had obviously been a little wider at the shoulders. His moccasins were slightly too large, but not by much, and their pliability made them a pretty good fit. Overall, Scott was surprised at how comfortable he felt. The skins were soft, and the outfit well-cut. Ki Tahan had skilled hands, and it was obvious this was meticulous work. He left his orange suit on Ri Omrek's bed, fitted the pouch with the portable radio on his waist, and went out into the main space of the hut, carrying the fur parka.

  Omrek laughed delightedly and clapped him on the shoulder, and Ki Tahan smiled.

  "Turn around," she asked, and tugged slightly at the hem of the tunic. "Yes, it fits you well. It is too hot for parka here, but you will be glad of it on bay."

  Scott had no doubt of that. As soon as the geysers of the Anai Valley were left behind, the icy breath of Antarctica would hit him in the face in full force.

  "Thank you," he told Ki Tahan solemnly, "it is an honor to wear these."

  Ri Omrek also gave him something else - a short harpoon, with a handle made of the twisted little trees that grew in the valley, and a head of ivory. Scott gripped it uncertainly, weighing it in his hand. The weapon was lightweight and, in skillful hands, probably very efficient. He could not imagine actually using it himself to strike a living creature, but he realized that declining to carry a weapon would crush his dignity in the eyes of the Anai men, and probably in the eyes of Ki Tahan as well. She looked at the harpoon approvingly.

  "Good hunting," she said, embracing her brother and pressing Scott's arm. "And... be careful," she added, with the fleeting haunted look of someone who had already sustained an unexpected and heavy loss.

  Ri Omrek said a few soft, reassuring words in Anai, and bent to kiss his sister on the cheek. He then tickled his nephew, pried him away from his leg, as little Egan was clinging to him and evidently begging to be included in the party, and motioned for Scott to head out.

  "They ready, I think," he said. "Waiting for us. You come in good time. A day later, and you miss the hunt. Now we set off. You hungry? We have something to eat on the way."

  The hunting party assembled at the edge of the village consisted of about twenty men, from young to old. All were dressed in a similar fashion, and all were carrying leather sacks on their backs, harpoons, throw-spears and larger, heavier spears for close hits, coils of rope made of sinew or grass. There were also two curious-looking, lightweight leather boats, which six men were supporting between them. One of them, Scott noticed with a jolt of foreboding, was Ne Tarveg. The latter
looked none too pleased to see him either; he scowled and glared, but said nothing. Several of the other men made laughing, approving comments on Scott's attire.

  "You now look like Anai huntsman," Ri Omrek said. Scott had to take him at his word.

  To his surprise, three young women were also included in the party. He did not immediately notice their sex, for they were dressed like men, and their hair was tightly braided and pulled back.

  "I didn't know women hunt as well," said Scott.

  "They do sometimes, if their blood is not upon them, and they are not with child, or have baby," Ri Omrek said. "Most choose to stay home, though. Hunt is a thing for men."

  Observing the three women with a quick and furtive glance, Scott came to the unfortunate conclusion that these were clearly not the village beauties. He saw broad figures and coarse features, and though he would not go so far as to call these women mannish or ugly, they lacked something of the regular beauty of the Anai.

  More than the men or the women, however, he was arrested by the sight of himself in a still, deep puddle they passed after crossing the stepping-stones of the river (on which, by the way, the moccasins made him surer-footed than his terrain boots ever could have). He saw a man in fur and leather, holding a primitive-looking weapon and sporting a three-day old stubble - failing to shave was so common at McMurdo that it was hardly seen as an omission. He looked quite different from what he had ever seen himself, but it was a good kind of different - and he felt like another man, too, more agile and light-footed and more in harmony with his surroundings than he ever felt in his Antarctic gear.

  Ri Omrek nudged him on the shoulder with a laugh, prompting him to go on. "No need to look so much," he said with a grin. "You look fine. Come, let's go, or we'll be last."

  Scott was somewhat apprehensive as to how the Anai clothes would hold up to the freezing cold outside the geyser domain, but he was pleasantly surprised. The sealskins, less bulky and more pliable, insulated just as well as his outer gear. He put on his parka and lowered its fur cap against the dry, freezing wind, and tightened the leather tong that was meant to hold together its upper part. He didn't fail to notice that each hole the tong was designed to go through was painstakingly trimmed with tiny filaments of leather or sinew, so that it would never fray or stretch.

  The bay, which was a couple of hours' of vigorous walking away, was the ideal hunting spot – sheltered and snug, it served as a good nursery for both seals and penguins. An ice-shelf formed a sort of slide into the ocean waters, convenient for both to use. And the Anai hunting trips, Scott knew, were sparse enough to keep the animal population of the bay largely intact. Had the local seal and penguin colonies dwindled, it would have posed a problem for the Anai, for going on foot to more distant places, and setting camp in the freezing cold for a few days, would hardly be practical.

  He saw a flock of emperor penguins on some outcroppings of rock up above, but these birds, though prized by the Anai for their high fat content, were not the current target. The hunters focused on some rocks at a greater distance, where a pack of Weddell seals stretched lazily in the sun. "Good," Ri Omrek said quietly. "We can get close, I think."

  The rest of the party evidently appeared to think the same way. Leaving their boats and equipment neatly packed and sheltered behind some rocks, they began slowly creeping towards the pack. It was obvious they had hunted together many times, for their moves appeared pre-arranged, but hardly a word was exchanged. Stepping soundlessly, they got nearer to the pack from three sides. The vigorous wind blowing from the sea prevented the seals from smelling the danger. Scott, aware of his clumsiness compared to the Anai hunters, stayed close on Ri Omrek's heels, clutching his harpoon with nervous force. He felt his palms begin to sweat inside the fur-lined gloves that were tied to his parka by leather strings. He was afraid he would make a noise and ruin the hunt for everyone, but his moccasins allowed him to move quietly and efficiently, nearly as much as the Anai people.

  Finally, one of the older male seals, fat and mighty and with deep battle scars on his neck, appeared to sense danger, and made a loud, warning cry which caused the pack to stir. The animals began to move towards the ice slide, desperate to get into the water where their speed and agility would make them nearly impossible to reach. It was too late for a small group of seals on the fringes of the pack, however – they were cut off and surrounded by the hunters, and the desperate frightened cries of the animals were nearly human. Scott, anxious not to make himself look like a ninny in the eyes of these nature-chiseled men, advanced with his harpoon, though he hardly knew what to do with it, but was shoved aside by Ne Tarveg - not, it seemed, without certain satisfaction on part of the latter. With one mighty strike, he crushed the skull of the nearest seal, and the animal fell upon the rocks limp and lifeless. The rest of the animals were promptly dispatched as well, and their last cries were like pleas for help to their brethren, who were far and safe in the water.

  Scott looked upon the scene of carnage, and his heart was heavy and somber. Rationally, he knew that the seals were plentiful, and that whatever slight reduction in their population over the recent decades was to be attributed to the pollution and climate change prompted by modern humans, not to the sustainable and sparse harvest of the Anai which had gone on for thousands of years, leaving the colonies as vigorous as before. He also knew that the Anai depended on the seals, and that the animals would be taken to the village in their entirety, to use up ever bit - meat, skin, blubber and bone, not leaving anything to waste. But still, something in him shied away from the slaughter, and he suddenly wished he had his synthetic outer gear back on.

  None of the Anai appeared to share his sentiments. They inspected their kill with exclamations of delight, and several already knelt by the carcasses and began the laborious process of skinning. Ri Omrek came over to him, flushed with excitement. "Good, very good hunt," he said. "You see that one? Big male?" and he pointed below, where the pack of seals found another shelf of rock and huddled together, still looking around nervously. The old male with the scarred neck was more alert than all the rest, issuing calls that appeared to be prompting the others to be on their guard. "I see him since my first hunt, every year," he went on. "He lead the pack, while the seals breed, as long as I remember. Never caught, never lets hunter get close. He the elder of the pack. I wish me like him," Ri Omrek concluded with a grin, respectfully glancing down at the enormous male.

  This attitude of respect, almost of reverence, served to reconcile Scott somewhat to the brutality of the hunt. The Anai, after all, did not wear skins and furs as a fashion statement or a status symbol. Without seals, they would have nothing to put on their backs, and they appreciated this animal, which gave them warmth and life. As he stood, he heard one of the elders begin a chant, slow and mystical, and a quick, low explanation by Ri Omrek let him understand that this was a song of praise for the Spirits of the Sea, who had given the Anai this gift of clothing and food to sustain them throughout the long harsh winter.

  "It looks like the boats had been brought for nothing," Scott observed, but Ri Omrek shook his head.

  "We here, and the boats here, so might go out to sea for some fishing. You want to go?"

  Each boat held about five men, so while half of the party went out to sea, the others were left behind to skin and butcher the seals. To his unease, Scott found himself beside Ne Tarveg again, climbing into a rickety little vessel he wouldn't normally trust with his life even in a swimming pool.

  The Anai boats were little canoes of ingenious make. Their carcass was whalebone, with the body made of sturdy, waterproof sealskins cured in a special way for this purpose. The paddles, too, were made of whalebone, with the sealskins stretched across their bottoms in the shape of flippers. Scarcity of wood made the Anai use it very sparingly, with bone and stone being the core of their buildings and utensils.

  The boats were light and easy to maneuver, but their flimsiness made Scott wonder once more at the origins of the Anai.
If this was the peak of their seamanship, how could they have ventured from New Zealand, or from any other land, to the frozen seas of Antarctica?

  For a while, it seemed the boat wandered aimlessly, with no fish in sight, but then someone shouted, "Mulluvik!" and Scott saw, at a short distance, the back of something large and grey. It took him a few seconds to determine that the something was probably a minke whale. Small as this kind of whale was, he still questioned the wisdom of attempting to take it on with two boats that hardly came up to its overall length. He had no desire to reenact The Old Man and the Sea near the shores of Antarctica, but the Anai appeared to have no qualms, and he found himself carried onward, among the men who were uncoiling their leather ropes and tying them quickly and securely around their harpoons.

  The swiftness of the boats gave the Anai a great advantage here. In a minute or two, they were within range on both sides of the whale, and Ne Tarveg was the first to throw his harpoon and hit the target, followed by the others. With a sickened feeling, unable to avert his eyes, Scott watched how the sea waters around them became bloody as the whale thrashed in agony, desperate to escape but dragged mercilessly to the shore by the harpoon lines. Once the deed was done, the stone hatchets of the Anai hunters promptly ended the animal's agony, and once again the mournful and thankful chant of the elder sounded in the air.

  Scott felt queasy. As with the seals, he knew that the whale meat would sustain the Anai through the winter, and the blubber was their primary source of fuel throughout the many dark days, but he could not get over the feeling of shame at the death of such a magnificent mammal. He stepped along the side of the whale, taking measured strides. He estimated this specimen was at least fifteen feet long.