by Emily Butler
“You will miss me when I’m gone,” Marguerite said. “But I will not miss you. I have Aarne. I have always had Aarne.” She pierced the still, cold air with three whistles. Soon the immense bulk of the narwhal appeared, and without another word she leapt onto his head. They swam away. She never looked back.
Freya and Zoose stood there for a very long time, watching as the fox and whale became smaller and smaller against the horizon. “I don’t think we’ll see them again,” said Freya.
“Not if we’re lucky,” said Zoose. “Hustlers are bad business, especially the pretty ones. She would have found a way to get rid of us, and then made herself right at home.”
“She would have wreaked havoc on the humans too,” said Freya. “I gave her our last tins of smoked kippers. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Ah, well, smoking’s bad for you,” Zoose said. “By the way, she made off with your purple scarf.”
“What? The thief!” cried Freya. It was a trivial offense in the grand scheme of things, but she had liked that scarf very much. The ferment of emotions she had endured over the last few days dwindled away until one thing was left: indignation. Freya was in a snit. “I’ve never taken anything that didn’t belong to me in my entire life! Not so much as a pin or a penny! Nary a nail head! How many can make that claim, I wonder?”
“I sure can’t. At least not with a straight face.” Zoose smiled. It made him very happy to see Freya in top form again. “Oh, I got you something,” he added, and reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the scarf he’d stolen back from the fox.
Over the next several weeks, Freya and Zoose achieved a level of domestic tranquility that neither of them had ever known. They fell into all sorts of routines, the kind that help someone overlook the fact that he or she is floating on ice in the middle of the Arctic Sea. There was a regularity to their days that gave them comfort, and it started with breakfast.
Certainly it was not the sort of meal that would have satisfied them in their former lives, but Freya had learned a thing or two in her year on the island, which now came in very handy. From tin canteens that she kept close to her body day and night, she poured water into a collapsible cup (hers) and a discarded mustard pot (his). To this they added some dried, crumbled algae and, after swirling it around two or three times, sipped it very slowly. Then Zoose harvested ice crystals to replenish the canteens, which Freya tucked back underneath her vest. The warmth of her body melted the ice into fresh water for their afternoon tea (which very much resembled breakfast).
Next, they tidied their tent. Freya turned her sleeping bag inside out to air it properly, and Zoose plumped up their pillows with many thumpings. They unpacked every bag and bundle, taking inventory of their supplies of handkerchiefs and quinine tablets (hers) and cheese rinds and bread crusts (his), and what they called the larder (tinned meats and cocoa powder and the like). Then they repacked everything very neatly.
Freya made observations in the waterproof notebook that hung around her neck, itemizing all reductions to the inventory. She also documented the weather as scientifically as she could. With no thermostat, her measurements ran the gamut from “tolerably cold” to “unreasonable” to “barbaric.” Then she noted their moods, which ranged from “amiable” to “plagued with self-doubt, must get over it.”
Then they attended to their personal grooming. Zoose dipped into their ample supply of bear grease and combed his whiskers until they glistened. He wrapped his head with strips of balloon silk, constructing a magnificent turban as big as a cabbage, almost. It kept his brains warm, was how he justified it to Freya. Finally, he buffed his buttons and his shoes with more grease until he looked absurdly prosperous.
For her part, Freya inspected her scarf for holes, mending them as they appeared and looping it back around her neck. Having come so close to losing it to Marguerite, the scarf was now her most treasured accessory. (Moreover, it had proved instrumental when Freya and Zoose returned Captain Andrée’s telescope. The device was too heavy for either of them to convey on their own, and the difference in their heights made sharing the load difficult. They waited until the men left camp in pursuit of a walrus and then maneuvered the telescope onto the scarf. After that, it was so easy for Freya to drag it over the ice that Zoose straddled the thing like a cowboy and rode along. “Crikey, this is fun!” he whooped. “Shhh,” said Freya affably. Then she towed the telescope—and its subdued passenger—to the entrance of the men’s tent, where they left it.)
Freya was no stranger to bear grease either, using it to polish her orange beak, which she had always felt was her one fine feature. She fluffed the feathers on her head with pride, for she had looked at her own reflection in a pool of meltwater and counted her yellows. She had dozens of them—an embarrassment of riches. It was almost ridiculous how thickly they had grown in, as if to make up for lost time. Freya cherished every single one of them.
When their morning rituals were complete, they indulged in their daily recreation, which consisted mainly of watching the humans. This they did from behind a large, pockmarked embankment of ice, which screened them from view while providing many peepholes.
“What are they up to now?” asked Zoose, his face pressed against one such opening.
Freya gazed through another chink, wondering the same thing. Nils and Knut were unusually active, striding across the ice field surrounding their tent with real purpose. Close to camp was a thicket of frozen slabs of ice, some set almost perpendicular to the ground and resembling oblong stalagmites. When one of the men found one they liked, they took a hatchet to it, hewing its sides straight and smooth until it resembled a large brick.
“Ah-ha,” said Freya after some time. “Very sensible indeed.”
“What’s sensible?” asked Zoose.
“They’re settling in for the winter,” answered Freya. “They’re making a house. Look how they shape the ice into building blocks.”
As soon as she said it, Zoose saw that she was right. Nils and Knut made brick after brick, lugging each one to a flattish area by their tent and setting it into a wall. Over the days this wall grew larger and rounded. Then it became two, and finally four curved walls.
Every so often they would stop making bricks and stir up a slurry of snow and water. “And now the mortar,” said Freya approvingly as they poured the mixture over the walls and waited for it to turn to solid ice. They even constructed a secondary room, dragging the carcass of a walrus inside as soon as the walls were shoulder high, protecting the meat from marauding polar bears.
Before moving crates and photographic equipment into the house, they took pains to contour a vaulted ceiling out of ice. It was surprisingly elegant for something made of little more than frozen water and cunning. The entire structure was luminous, glowing from within as if lit by candles. Of course this was just the sun shining through the roof and refracting off the snow and ice, but it was a thing of uncommon beauty. Nils took a picture of their handiwork, with Knut striking a jaunty pose by the front opening. Freya could not resist the urge to clap her wings against her body, a penguin’s salute of honor.
“Steady on,” said Zoose, grinning at her sincerity.
“I’m just so proud of them,” she replied. “See how they never give up?” She saluted them again.
The captain did not contribute to the ice house enterprise. His efforts were focused mainly on taking astronomical measurements to determine how far the floe had “sailed” and in what direction. He also hunted. “Yesterday we sailed two miles southwest!” he announced to Nils and Knut before picking up his rifle and striding away from camp.
“Never mind that we need to sail southeast,” muttered Nils as soon as the captain was out of earshot. But Freya and Zoose heard him.
There was much excitement two days later when, incredibly, Captain Andrée sighted land. He called for Nils and Knut to join him on the edge of the floe. They passed his telescope (the
very one filched by Marguerite) back and forth as they studied the hazy formation through its lens.
“It is almost certainly White Island,” decided the captain, unrolling one of his maps and tracing the line of a coast with his finger. “I make it at six miles away.”
“That’s all? We can row there before the sun goes down!” said Nils. “I’ll pack the boat!”
The captain shook his head. “Let’s not be hasty. Look at those cliffs—it’s a glacier! There’s no place for us to put ashore. And we’re actually warmer on the ice, surrounded as we are by water. Plus, at the rate we’re sailing south, we’ll soon encounter fish and other food from the ocean.”
Knut sank down on a crate and put his wind-blistered face into his hands. Nils stared at the captain in disbelief. “This is madness! We must at least make the attempt.”
Captain Andrée shook his head again. “No, no. We stand to gain little and might possibly lose everything. We shall continue to sail south.”
“I beg you to stop calling it sailing!” said Nils with resentment. “We’re doing nothing of the sort. Mollusks pilot these waters better than we do!”
That night the humans were silent as they ate their dinner and withdrew into the ice house. A gloomy spirit pervaded the camp, reaching its wretched fingers all the way into the silk tent, where Freya and Zoose shivered.
“What baffles me is why they stick with him,” said Zoose from underneath a pile of pillows. “If the captain figures to stay behind, let him. But if the young ones want to chance it, why shouldn’t they take the boat to the island?”
Freya’s mind was just as troubled as Zoose’s. “Well, they’re obligated to each other, aren’t they? They did agree to be a team when they set off together. And now to abandon the captain because of a conflict over strategy…” Her voice trailed off.
“But say he’s wrong and they’re right,” argued Zoose. “Every mouse for himself, is what I think. Beast or bird, everyone is on his own at the end of the day.”
“I don’t know about that,” whispered Freya, pulling her sleeping bag over her head.
The next day the ice floe moved closer to the island, and the next, and the next. It also moved eastward, and through the telescope the humans could see a stretch of rocky beach where a boat might land. When they were just two miles away, Nils became consumed with the desire to leave the ice pack and pleaded with Captain Andrée to reconsider. The captain was unpersuaded and remained firm in his resolve to stay put. Knut said nothing, but stood on the edge of the ice and looked over the water for hours.
That night, sleep was slow to come to Freya and brought her no rest when it did. She dreamed she sat at a table with the parish priest, who, between massive bites of rice pudding, pronounced a verse of Scripture. “Stay on the path the Lord your God has commanded you, that you may live and that it may be well with you,” he droned, lowering his immense face to Freya’s until they almost touched. “Be a good little chick and pass the cream,” he said into her ear. Next to him sat Aunt Agatha, nodding piously. No, that wasn’t it at all. Aunt Agatha sat on top of Freya, and they were in the ocean, and Freya was sinking beneath the salty waves. She could not liberate herself, no matter how she twisted and bucked. Down she went, farther and farther, until she hit the bottom with a shuddering crack that jolted her wide awake.
And not just her. Zoose, too, was awake and on his feet, breathing hard. Then came another crack so loud it felt as if it came from within the tent. They scrambled outside just as a third crack ripped through the air. The ice pack seemed to be shivering.
“We’re breaking apart!” cried Zoose. “The ice is splitting!”
That’s exactly what’s happening, thought Freya. She’d seen pieces of ice splinter off packs before, crashing into other floes and buckling with prodigious force. She raced toward the humans’ camp, Zoose close behind her, and together they watched in horror as a rift opened up right underneath the ice house. With a fourth deafening crack, the floe shattered and half of what had been the ice house floor floated away, spilling precious supplies and equipment into the water.
The humans, who had also been wakened by the terrible noises, watched the disaster unfold from a short distance away. Now they went into a sort of frenzy. Nils used oars and hooks to drag things back onto the floe. Knut emptied the half of the house that was still standing over solid ice. Captain Andrée righted the boat, which, tilted on its side, had served as a windbreak.
“Men, it seems we must make for the island or perish!” he said.
“Agreed!” replied Nils.
Knut picked up a bundle of canvas and stashed it in the bottom of the boat. Together the men filled the craft with as much material as they could, leaving just enough room for themselves. Then they climbed in and pushed off the side of the floe, paddling for all they were worth.
Freya turned to Zoose. “We’ll follow them, of course.”
“Nothing doing,” said Zoose. “I’m not getting in that water, no way, no how.” His voice trembled with fear.
“We’re going to that island,” she insisted. “How long do you think we’ll last on this ice pack? It’s disintegrating. You’ll wind up in the water one way or another.”
Zoose shook his head and wrapped his arms around himself, clamping his eyes shut.
“Look, I’ll swim us there. All you need to do is keep hold of my jacket and kick your legs. It won’t be pleasant, but I assure you the alternative is…” Freya broke off and squinted at what seemed like an extremely vast expanse of ocean. She could barely make out the edge of the island in the thin light of the rising sun. As a matter of fact, she had no idea if she could swim that far. But she would never, never, never let fear bully her into staying behind again. “We have no choice, Zoose. Jump in, or I’ll push you.”
“I won’t go, I say!” shrieked Zoose. “Who died and made you queen of England? Leave me alone, or you’ll regret it!”
Freya looked at Zoose, stunned. “What is wrong with you?” she said, blinking back the tears that stung her eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Freya. Sorry! Sorry!” babbled Zoose, instantly remorseful. “I didn’t mean that, not one bit. But I can’t do it. Never could. I’ll drag us both down. No, Freya, you go. I’ll stay here and take my chances.”
“Chances? Your chances are zero, as well you know!” said Freya. She was beside herself with desperation. How could she persuade him to get in the water when he was so far beyond reason? Then she spied a crate marked Gingersnaps that the humans had left behind, and she had her answer.
“Help me empty this thing,” she said. “You’re not going in the water—you’re going over it!”
As the words left her beak, another electrifying crack reverberated like a pistol shot, and Zoose sprang into action. He spilled tins of gingersnap cookies onto the snow while Freya tossed their things out of the tent and rolled it up. Then they packed the crate to the brim and pushed it to the edge of the ice. Uncoiling a piece of rope the humans had left behind, Freya and Zoose wrapped it around the sides of the crate and knotted it fast. From the foot or so left over, they rigged a sort of harness.
“Think it’ll float?” asked Zoose, climbing to the top and facing forward. He clutched the edge of the crate so tightly his knuckles popped.
“It’s at least as seaworthy as I am,” said Freya. She had already removed her boots, scarf, jacket, and dress, knowing how little they would serve her in the coming test. Putting her head and shoulders through the harness, she pulled the crate into the water, where it wobbled from side to side while Zoose rearranged its contents. Finally, it felt steady, and then Freya was off, swimming as she had never swum before.
If once Freya had yearned to be a fearless and fashionable bird, that dream lost its hold upon her irrevocably. She had not gone far before she realized that failure was a genuine possibility, that a desire to give up would attend each and every stroke.
Rank fear suffused her, as real as the salt in the water. She could taste it. She could even see it, and she squeezed her eyes shut and swam on. No elegant torpedo now—she advanced in jerking, uneven fits and starts. This is not possible, she told herself when the drag of the crate seemed too much and she could no longer hear Zoose’s shouts of encouragement over the pounding of her own heart. This is not possible, her mind repeated as she grew weaker and weaker. At last only the word possible remained, echoing over and over in her ears: possible, possible, possible…and then her feet touched rock.
She gave one mighty heave forward and collapsed into the surf. She barely had the strength to look behind her and see Zoose leap off the crate and slog through the water. He yanked at the rope that now cut into her shoulder and chest, slapping her face with his paws and roaring at her to get up. Dimly Freya understood that if she didn’t do as he said, the waves would pull her and her cargo back from the beach, where the ocean would claim her once and for all. And so, summoning her last ounce of will, she rose to her feet and hauled the crate ashore.
Never stay longer in the water than common sense dictates! Fatigue or chilliness should be a signal for coming out at once! chided Mrs. Davidson. This intelligence (which likewise appeared in the chapter on Sea-Bathing, after Sandwich Boxes and before Soiled Linen Bags) recommended itself to Freya quite audibly. She opened her eyes. Had Mrs. Davidson descended from on high to scold Freya in person? Yes, there she stood, short yet formidable in a gray serge bathing dress.
“How right you are, Mrs. Davidson. I don’t know what I was thinking,” said Freya from where she had crumpled to the ground. “Next time I’ll try to be sensible.”