Authors: John Christopher
‘Behind,’ he cried, ‘– crevasse!’
Some of them looked back; they all, automatically, slackened in the effort they had been making to push the sledge. It tilted farther, crashed on its side and, scattering some of its load as the ropes gave under the strain, slid back down the slope. There was a confusion of cries, and a single frightening shriek of pain. As he bumped to a halt on the ice, Mouritzen heard Mama Simanyi’s voice:
‘Oh, my God, she is trapped beneath it!’
He flung off the harness and, without waiting to help Jones to get clear, raced round to the other side of the sledge. He looked for Mary and Annabel, and saw them standing clear. The trapped woman was Sheila Jones.
She lay with the rear of the sledge pinning her across the middle. Her head pointed down the slope; her hood had fallen back and her hair lay free against the ice, not more than a foot from the dyke which had opened up. It was three or four feet wide, brimming with grey-green water.
‘Quickly,’ Mouritzen said, ‘we all lift together.’
He got his hands under the edge of the runner and heaved. Mama Simanyi tugged beside him, and he saw Stefan pulling as well. There was a moment’s strain, and then the runner lifted clear of the figure pinned under it. She was dragged away, and they let the sledge down and went to tend her.
Jones had her head cradled in his lap. She was silent, apart from an occasional sobbing intake of breath.
Jones bent towards her. ‘Are you all right? Darling, are you all right?’
From the top of the slope, Olsen cried something, and Mouritzen looked up. Olsen began to run down towards them.
‘The sledge!’ he shouted.
As he whirled, Mouritzen heard the slithering of wood on ice. The sledge, still on its side, had begun to slide again. He jumped for it and got a hand to a trailing rope; it pulled through his fingers but he held on. The sledge was still sliding, but he thought everything would be all right until, with an unexpected lurch, it tipped over the edge of the ice into the water. The pull on the rope multiplied as the water took it, and this time he lost it. He saw the front of the sledge rear up, and then the water closed over it. A few bubbles floated up from the cold, dark depths.
Mouritzen stood staring at the water. Olsen, scrambling down the ice, stood beside him.
‘You’re a fool,’ Olsen said. His voice was controlled, coldly bitter. ‘And one never fathoms a fool; however often you sound him, there is always more folly on which you may ground.’
Mouritzen assumed Olsen had not seen all that had taken place. He said:
‘It was Mrs Jones. She was trapped under it.’
He pointed to where she lay with Jones holding her.
‘Two people pulled her clear,’ Olsen said. ‘They could see to her. The sledge was your responsibility.’
Mouritzen realized the truth of this. He said:
‘Yes. I’m sorry. But I could only think of the woman.’
‘Even if there was no one to get her out, the sledge still came first. You should have left her there until I came.’
‘She might have been dying.’
Olsen turned away from him. ‘And through your stupidity, we might all die.’
Josef and Mama Simanyi came to them. Josef said:
‘She is all right, I think. The sledge – can we get it back from the water?’
‘Get your rod,’ Olsen said, ‘and fish for it.’
Josef stared down into the depths; the water was like black crystal. It was possible to see several feet down, but there was no sign of the bottom, or the sledge.
Mama Simanyi said: ‘The food.’
Olsen turned to her, his face intent. ‘What was on that sledge?’
‘Before, I packed things equally. But today you said not to waste time with that. There is some food on the other sledge – not much.’
‘The tents!’ Olsen said. ‘How were they packed?’
She nodded towards the dyke. ‘One on that.’
‘Which?’
‘Ours, I think. Yes, I am sure.’
‘The smaller one lost,’ Olsen said. ‘Better than the other – or both. And the Primus stoves?’
‘There was one on each sledge. But …’
She hesitated. Olsen asked sharply: ‘What?’
‘The paraffin is all on the one which sank. There was a confusion over that.’
Olsen stayed silent, and his silence seemed to bind them all with it. He walked across to the Joneses.
‘How is she now? Can she walk?’
Jones said: ‘She can’t walk. It hurts when she moves at all.’
‘Then we change our plans,’ Olsen said. ‘She must ride on the other sledge. It will not be very comfortable, because the sledge is loaded already, but it is the only thing possible.’ He turned briefly to Mary. ‘We will take it in turns to carry the little one on our shoulders.’
Annabel said: ‘I can walk. I don’t mind walking.’
Olsen smiled slightly. ‘But piggy-back is better, is it not?’ There was a shifting of the ice again; they all felt it. ‘First we get to land,’ Olsen went on, ‘before worse happens. You and I will carry your wife up to the other sledge.’ He called to the others: ‘Pick up what is fallen. Not much, I guess, but everything is of value.’
‘I’ll carry her,’ Jones said.
She gave a little cry of pain as he picked her up, and then was silent, her arms round his neck. Olsen went with him up the slope to the remaining sledge. The others salvaged the items that had been scattered on the ice. Mouritzen picked up a shovel and an emergency chocolate ration.
Olsen said: ‘We repack this sledge so Mrs Jones can ride on it. But quickly. We must get clear of the ice.’
They began stripping the sledge. Jones lowered Sheila gently and knelt by her, supporting her. Looking at her, he did not see Thorsen who, last of the party, now appeared over the brow of the slope. He was carrying the typewriter case.
‘Good news for you,’ Thorsen said. Jones looked up, and Thorsen tapped the case. ‘This was thrown clear, too. Battered a little, but it is safe.’ He smiled. ‘You will still be able to write your book, Mr Jones.’
Immediately offshore the ice was badly broken, and Sheila had to be taken off and carried over the obstacles. They ceased quite suddenly. Instead of the hummocks and ridges and jagged pinnacles, untroubled snow curved up in a long, gentle slope to an escarpment with hills behind it.
‘Land,’ Olsen said. ‘We have walked across the Arctic Ocean – some of it. Now we are in Greenland.’
‘I have known greener,’ Josef said.
Jones said: ‘Can we camp here for the night?’
The sky was very dark grey, but still held a fair amount of light. Olsen looked at his watch. ‘Not yet. It is not yet three.’
Jones said: ‘My wife – she’s in pain. She must have a rest from the jolting.’
‘There will be less jolting now. The sledge will travel easier over snow.’
‘She needs complete rest.’
Olsen looked at him. ‘I will give her such rest, if I can. But I must think of all. We have lost much of our food, one of the tents, the paraffin. We are on land but a long way from help. And I think snow may come.’
He turned to the others. ‘We continue. Now we will make better speed, eh?’
Mouritzen walked beside him. The snow surface was soft in places and Olsen, with his short legs, had difficulty in floundering through these patches.
‘Where do you think we are?’ he asked him. ‘Greenland – that is a lot of territory.’
‘There is a fjord system north of Scoresby. A lot of islands – I think we are on one of them.’
‘We have to cross water again?’
‘They will be frozen – frozen enough to cross, anyway.’
‘How far are we from Scoresby?’
‘A hundred and fifty kilometres. Maybe a little more.’
‘Six days?’
‘If we find the way through the hills.’ Olsen looked up at the sky. ‘And if the weather holds.’
‘How much food is left?’
‘We will discover that when we make camp tonight.’ His face was grim. ‘That will be soon enough to think about it.’
The foreshore ran straight for a time, and then began to curve to the west. Olsen called a halt, and peered through the field-glasses into the deepening shadows of the southern sky.
He pointed. ‘Our course lies that way.’
Josef shook his head. ‘Across the ice again? I think it will be better to stay on land now we are here.’
‘There are hills there,’ Olsen said, ‘and Scoresby is beyond the hills. This is not open sea, but a fjord. But I think we will not cross it today. Tonight we stay here.’
Stefan’s voice, itself startled, startled the others.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘over there! There are men on the ice.’
They stared where he was pointing. In the distance, dark figures moved. Half a dozen; perhaps more.
Puzzled, Mama Simanyi asked: ‘Are they lying down?’
Olsen laughed. ‘Lying down,’ he said. ‘Diving in the water, catching fish. They do not feel the cold and wet because they wear seal skins.’
The disappointment brought home to them still more strongly their isolation in this barren land. They stood staring across at the seals until Olsen rallied them.
‘We will make camp,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we cross the fjord. In a few days we will eat
biksemad
in Scoresby.’
There had not been much spare room in the tent for six men; with the addition of the four women and Annabel there was none at all. A little space was made by having them all, except Sheila, huddle together at one end, while Mama Simanyi and Olsen made an inventory of the remaining stock of food.
The result was discouraging. Olsen announced the details in a dry, even tone.
‘Oats, four kilos. Chocolate, nine hundred grams. Biscuits, about two and a half kilos. Butter, nil. Cocoa, maybe five hundred grams. Dried milk, three cans. Sugar, three and a half kilos. Two cans of beef, a few onions, a can of potato powder, a can of pineapple in syrup. That is everything.’
Josef said: ‘And we cannot cook it either.’
‘By the previous standard of ration,’ Olsen said, ‘there is six day’s supply of oats, and no butter or margarine at all. Of other foods, varying quantities, but not much biscuit or chocolate, and very little meat.’
‘Two cans,’ Stefan said. ‘I could eat them myself, right away.’
‘Mama,’ Olsen said, ‘tonight we will open one of the cans, but half you will save for tomorrow. The other half you can divide into eleven pieces. It is not so much, but something. Six biscuits each – they are not very big, I am sorry. And if you melt some snow, you can put a little water with cocoa and sugar and make a paste to go on the biscuits. And some more water can be mixed with the oats and sugar and dried milk. Perhaps not so tasty, but it will nourish.’
‘How do we melt the snow?’ she inquired.
‘I grow stupid,’ Olsen said. ‘If we bring some in, the heat from our bodies will melt it by morning. But morning is not now. How much water have we?’
She held a flask up and shook it. ‘Maybe half a litre here; and as much in the other, I guess.’
‘We need that for drinking.’ Olsen rubbed his chin. ‘And if there is any to spare, I will shave myself. So no paste tonight. We must eat the oats dry, with a little sugar. And you can mix up cocoa, milk and sugar, and we will have two spoonfuls each.’
Stefan said dolefully: ‘We will not grow fat on this diet.’
‘There will be time to grow fat,’ Olsen said. ‘Just now it is enough to keep alive.’
Thorsen gestured towards the pile of provisions.
He said: ‘There is some more food than you have counted there.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In the haversack that the bear carried.’
Nadya said angrily: ‘That is Katerina’s food. She carried it. It is hers, and there is little enough.’
Olsen stretched his hand out. ‘Give it to me, Nadya. Jorgen is right.’
She shook her head. ‘It is Katerina’s.’
His voice deepened slightly. ‘Give it to me.’ She stared at him in sullen refusal. ‘You fool!’ he said. ‘Do you think this is a game? Do you not understand that, unless the food lasts till we can get help, we must eat the bear itself?’
She had put the haversack just outside the tent. She nodded slowly.
‘All right. I will get it.’
She put her boots on and went outside. Already, in so short a time, the tent had become stuffy, and she breathed the fresh night air with relief. A brown hump showed where Katerina had curled up in the snow. Nadya made a whistling sound through her teeth, and the bear sat up, shaking herself. Nadya had given her supper before retiring to the tent; now, tearing open the haversack, she reached inside. She grabbed in haste, and threw an assortment of things across the snow: some carrots, a couple of apples, and a handful of biscuits.
‘Eat while you can,’ she said. ‘The rest they steal.’
Katerina moved in a leisurely fashion to retrieve the items that had been tossed to her. Nadya picked up the haversack and stooped down to get into the tent. She hesitated, straightened up again, and fished once more inside the bag. She took out a can of syrup, prised off the lid, and walked with it to Katerina. She put the open can down on the snow.
‘You are a faithful bear,’ she said. ‘Perhaps too faithful. I think you should not stay longer – they talk of eating you.’
Going back to the tent she saw a face looking out: Thorsen’s. She pushed him aside to get in, and threw the haversack to Olsen.
‘There you are.’
‘She has taken some out,’ Thorsen said, ‘and given it to the bear. A full can of syrup.’
Nadya smiled mockingly. ‘I fatten her for the feast. She will taste better for that can of syrup.’
Olsen emptied out the haversack. ‘Carrots, apples, three oranges, biscuits, more oats, a little chocolate,’ he said. He held a packet up curiously. ‘And these?’
‘Dried bananas,’ Nadya said.
‘I did not find them in the ship’s pantry,’ Mama Simanyi said.
‘I looked first.’ Nadya shrugged. ‘But Katerina did not like them much.’
Most of the blankets had been on the sledge they still had; crowded into the one tent as they were, they did not, after a time, miss the heat the Primus stoves would have given. Mouritzen, Mary and Annabel were at one end, with Nadya next to them. Mama Simanyi and Jones were on either side of Sheila; beyond Jones lay Thorsen, and then Stefan and Josef. Olsen had the end position on that side.