Everland

by Rebecca Hunt

  Lying on his stomach, with his head at the open entrance, Dinners could see a long stretch of shoreline. He’d scanned the ocean for any sign of the Kismet, and been distracted by the wildlife. The abundance of creatures still on Everland so late in the season was testament to the numbers which would amass here during the breeding months.

  ‘The island will heave from shore to shore,’ Dinners said, reciting the list of bird species he’d spotted. ‘Gulls, skuas, terns—’

  Napps’s uninterested expression was purposefully hurtful.

  ‘A range of petrels,’ Dinners finished meekly. ‘And for a while I thought I was being watched by some large animal in the shadows over there.’ He pointed to a collection of large rocks several yards from the camp. Because that was the problem, Dinners told Millet-Bass. The mammals were tricky to identify if you couldn’t leave the tent. They tended to remain further away and the light was so jarring and deceptive. ‘I probably spent a couple of hours trying to work out what the animal was. It was only when the sun repositioned and changed the shadows that I realized I’d been unable to recognize a boulder.’

  Millet-Bass smiled. ‘You’re a quirky one.’

  ‘I wish I could say I’ve learnt my lesson!’ Dinners said, pleased to be amusing him. ‘I can still see it, but it’s over there now.’ He pointed to another clutter of rocks and described a body crouched on its heels. It had a horned head or something.

  Napps exhaled. It was the sound of mildly inconvenienced resignation.

  ‘I’d prefer it if the invisible bodies hiding around the place were female,’ Millet-Bass said. He’d be delighted just to imagine they might be here, he added cheerfully, even if he didn’t have mad enough eyes to see them for himself.

  ‘I’ll try my hardest to see womanly visions on your behalf,’ Dinners said, so grateful for the kindness Millet-Bass showed him, he almost didn’t mind that Napps was sneering.

  ‘Great,’ Millet-Bass said. ‘And I wonder if you could knock off the chat about horned heads.’

  ‘What I’m wondering, Dinners, is why a scientist would entertain himself with daydreams,’ Napps said, making Dinners’s face redden again. ‘I’d rather hoped you’d be above such childish games.’

  Millet-Bass stopped smiling. ‘The meal’s ready,’ he said abruptly.

  Millet-Bass didn’t like this cruelty to Dinners. Dinners had been categorized as a sort of genderless fluffy creature in Millet-Bass’s mind, and should consequently be treated with the same thoughtful politeness he extended to his sisters. It didn’t matter that the four Millet-Bass sisters were every bit as tough as their brother, and therefore a thousand times more robust than Dinners. If Napps tried talking to one of the sisters as he did to Dinners he’d have his throat grabbed and his knees kicked from under him.

  Once given his pannikin of hoosh, Dinners worked hard not to make any mistakes while he ate. If his incapacitated hands blundered with the spoon, or he let the dish slope to drip food, it was noticed. Every error was logged and begrudged. But when Millet-Bass asked if he needed assistance, Dinners shook his head.

  ‘No, thank you. My hands are much better today,’ he lied, glancing at Napps. ‘I’m enjoying my meal.’

  ‘Best enjoy it,’ Napps said between mouthfuls. ‘Rationing starts tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, about the rationing,’ Millet-Bass said. ‘How long are you expecting us to stay here?’

  ‘Not a minute longer than we have to.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ Millet-Bass said. ‘So why ration?’

  Napps reacted to stupidity by speaking in an offensively patient manner. ‘Let’s be reasonable,’ he said slowly. ‘We do not know how long we will be here.’

  ‘Well, we can decide that, can’t we?’ Millet-Bass said.

  It took a moment for Napps to understand what Millet-Bass was suggesting. He suffered the first twinges of indigestion. ‘You want to get back in the dinghy?’

  ‘You want to stay on the island?’ replied Millet-Bass.

  ‘No, but I will stay until the ship comes to rescue us.’

  ‘How can you be sure it will? They might presume us drowned.’

  Napps hadn’t considered that Millet-Bass might have a different opinion. This wasn’t only due to arrogance but to habit. There’d been nothing to debate or speculate about during the hurricane-pounded Joseph Evelyn days. He’d forgotten that men like Millet-Bass could be stubborn freethinkers.

  ‘Which is why I propose we rescue ourselves,’ Millet-Bass continued. ‘We can’t rely on the Kismet to come looking for us when it’s doubtful that anyone believes we survived the storm. But we know the ship was going to dock for a while at Cape Athena, and I suggest we intercept them. We’ll wait a few days for Dinners to recover, and then sail for the Cape.’

  ‘Really. You believe Dinners to be strong enough to withstand a journey of that kind in a few days,’ Napps said. ‘Millet-Bass, have you looked at him?’

  And have you looked at yourself, Napps demanded next. Neither Millet-Bass nor Napps was in a much better state. They were thin, drained, and not far from physical collapse. But no matter! Napps raised his fists in sarcastic enthusiasm. Because what’s stopping us? He pretended to reflect on it.

  ‘Can’t think of a single reason,’ Napps said. ‘So, yes, let’s rescue ourselves. We’ll load the dinghy with supplies we can’t lift, and row with strength we don’t have, and Dinners will be dead within hours, and you and I will die in the night.’

  ‘Then we’ll wait longer—’ Millet-Bass said.

  ‘Has it genuinely not occurred to you that exposure is our worst threat?’

  ‘I’ve been at sea since I was fourteen. I don’t know if you’d call it geographical, but you develop an instinct about places,’ Millet-Bass said. ‘And I’m telling you, I sense it here. Everland is bad luck. We should go as soon as we can.’

  Napps’s mouth twisted. Millet-Bass believed this rot because he was a typical sailor. In his entire career as a naval officer, Napps had never met a sailor who wasn’t full of phobias and superstitions. They all feared harmless things and saw signs everywhere and behaved in illogical ways to appease whatever ridiculous fish or cloud was judged to have mystic powers. The reality was that open water would kill them faster than any supposedly haunted island ever could.

  Millet-Bass spoke to Dinners directly. ‘What do you make of it?’

  Although Dinners wanted to make Millet-Bass happy, he was mortally afraid of being back out at sea. ‘I don’t know . . . ’

  Napps’s loud snort of derision chastened Millet-Bass, as it was intended to do. Napps had a family and reputation to consider. He had a career as prospective Captain to nurture. He exercised logic and moderation while Millet-Bass lived an irresponsible life and could afford to be daring. It was no surprise to Napps that Millet-Bass had come up with an outrageously heroic plan which he was then forced to disqualify. Assuming they did somehow miraculously survive the crossing, there was no guarantee the Kismet would be at the Cape. And if the ship did come to find them, arriving at a deserted Everland would only confirm all suspicions that they were dead. Even viewed through the mindset of rabid optimism, Napps couldn’t believe the crew would fathom where they’d gone and route back to Athena. If they left Everland, he reasoned that they would probably end up stranded at the Cape, living alone in that infernal hut until the Kismet’s planned return next spring.

  The hut was a rectangular wooden shack, large enough to house the Kismet’s crew of thirty-five men, which Millet-Bass and a few other sailors had built during the expedition’s first summer. There were a galley kitchen and large stove, a larder stocked with a year’s worth of supplies, and a year’s worth of fuel. On the bookcase was a decent yet bizarrely eclectic collection of reading material. Napps would never agree to Millet-Bass’s mad proposal, but there was still a tiny part of him attracted by its promise of glory. He pictured
Lawrence’s expression when the Joseph Evelyn dramatically appeared at the Cape. He foresaw the gratifying astonishment of every crew member as they listened to his story. So we rescued ourselves, Napps would conclude with devastating humility. Although he wasn’t really tempted to try it, the fact that the utterly foreseen millstone of Dinners made the option impossible was just one more reason for Napps to resent him.

  ‘Look, indulging in the realms of fantasy for a moment,’ Napps said to them, ‘and imagining the Kismet doesn’t rescue us, I made sure the Joseph Evelyn was overstocked with supplies. We can therefore ration to preserve a month’s worth of food. As a very last resort, we would remain on Everland until the sea ice forms and then march across the frozen bay and winter at the Cape.’ Napps shrugged at the simplicity of his reserve plan, explaining that even a month’s worth of rations was unnecessarily generous, since the bay march could be done in a couple of weeks. ‘However, it’s a purely theoretical safeguard,’ he finished. ‘The Kismet will arrive any day now.’

  ‘So we wait and hope, or we go and hope,’ Millet-Bass said. ‘Excuse my ignorance, but it seems to me that your way relies on luck just as much as mine does.’

  13

  November 2012

  The homemade card was taped to a bundled-up towel which contained a present inside. Andre shrugged and said, ‘No wrapping paper,’ as Jess unfolded the towel and saw he was giving her his Metallica T-shirt. It had been the morning of the Everland departure and he’d caught Jess in Aegeus’s big peach-coloured lobby as she went out to load her bag of clothes on to the Twin Otter. On the front of the card was a drawing of a hand with its middle finger raised.

  ‘Because screw you! You’re leaving me for two months,’ Andre explained. ‘People will think we’ve broken up.’

  This was a long-running joke, invented after Scottish David had remarked that they were like a married couple, the way they were always together. Jess and Andre both made horrified noises at the idea of their relationship being anything but platonic. ‘Don’t be weird, David,’ Andre had said. ‘Yeah, David, gross,’ Jess said, her face heating up as it always did whenever anyone suggested that non-platonic feelings could possibly exist between her and the burly, shaven-headed Andre.

  ‘Didn’t see you at breakfast,’ Jess said to him, more accusingly than she’d meant to. She had wanted her leaving to produce a more obvious display of sorrow from Andre. Ideally a hint about suppressed attraction.

  ‘Yeah.’ Andre’s accent became more pronounced as he lowered the volume of his voice. ‘Something sort of happened.’

  With huge effort, Jess managed to smile. She knew what he was going to say. In preparation for the gruelling day-long transfer to Everland, she’d gone to bed as soon as last night’s screening of Everland was over. She had left Andre talking at the bar.

  ‘Kimiko, man. The Japanese chick? Turns out she can speak a bit of Dutch. Then, uh.’ Andre rubbed his stubbly head. ‘I’m really sorry. I meant to get up earlier.’

  Kimiko. Of course. Andre obviously liked her, although he always denied it. In an act of incredible self-delusion, Jess had chosen to believe him despite the poorly disguised interest in where Kimiko was, in what Kimiko was doing, in whether Kimiko would be there at the meal, the film, the party, the meeting.

  Jess’s great talent was for appearing indifferent when upset. It was a skill she’d honed over a lifetime of practice. The problem, as far as she could deduce, was that she was too boyish for girls and for boys. So she cast herself into the role of a thick-skinned, hardworking loudmouth. Since friendships with women seemed to elude her, Jess hung out with the guys as one of the guys. She was your buddy, not your girlfriend. She was never anyone’s girlfriend, but Jess made the best of her beer-drinking buddy status. Yet it hurt her deeply when people like Kimiko didn’t have to try at all for the things Jess wanted so much and couldn’t ever get in the end. In the same way that people like Brix were just given the rewards Jess had to work for years to achieve.

  Wearing her Metallica T-shirt, Jess stirred a pan of beef stroganoff and thought about how wonderful Everland would be if Andre was here, and about how useless Brix was. It mystified her that Brix had got through the selection process, considering the competitiveness of the other candidates. What could Brix do, exactly, apart from discuss microbes and egg incubation periods? Because she certainly couldn’t refuel a quad, or stop frostbite from covering her face, or get through a day without crying, or pack a sledge, or fasten a harness, or recharge the laptop. Or do anything worth anything.

  ‘And that’s what got me,’ Brix said to Decker, who was riveted by every word she said, as usual. ‘Although the hair was dirty, it was completely unchanged.’

  Their conversation had drifted round to visiting an exhibition of Egyptian mummies at the British Museum. A few had been unwrapped to display blurry forearm tattoos, desiccated child-sized feet, and frayed leather faces. Among this wealth of morbidity, Brix hadn’t been able to stop staring at the hair. It was so brown and normal-looking. If you washed it, if there was some way of doing that, and then brushed it, it would be restored.

  ‘Frayed leather faces.’ Decker rubbed his hands together, disgusted. ‘Thanks!’

  ‘I mean perfectly restored,’ Brix said. ‘The rest of the mummy was disintegrated enough to be comfortably non-human. But then you looked at the hair and all you could think about was your own mortality.’

  ‘Sounds like a fun day,’ Jess said in the driest possible voice. It was the first thing she’d said in over half an hour.

  ‘And how old were those mummies?’ Brix said, avoiding eye contact with her. ‘Thousands of years. So think about Dinners if they hadn’t saved him. After spending a hundred years in the dinghy, he’d have appeared much the same.’

  ‘In better shape than this pineapple can at any rate,’ Decker said. The ancient tin found by Brix was now used as a container for their toothbrushes and penknives. Decker had been fascinated by the can, he and Brix jabbering on about how it blew their minds. Out of sheer belligerent spite, Jess said the can had bad vibes and she didn’t want it in the tent. When Brix and Decker couldn’t care less about vibes, she said it was unhygienic. When Decker said that hygiene in the tent wasn’t a battle they were likely to win, she’d argued that dirty socks couldn’t give you tetanus. But the tin stayed, balanced on the pots box.

  ‘Everyone loves Dinners,’ Brix said, peeling the Band-Aid from a finger to examine the blackened nail she’d hit while hammering in the fencing posts. It would probably come off. ‘He’s the one everybody imagines as a younger brother. Yikes.’

  ‘Or as a man-version of Bambi,’ Decker said. ‘And who doesn’t love Bambi? Here, let me see.’

  The following scene repulsed Jess as she watched him study Brix’s nail attentively, and then put on a new plaster. The discussion, however, was interesting.

  ‘In Napps’s situation, though,’ Jess said with new enthusiasm. ‘Could you honestly say that it wouldn’t cross your mind?’

  They were on the same island, in a similar three-person population. It was a delicate subject with massive gaffe potential. Jess saw Brix raise her eyebrows.

  Whatever. Jess wasn’t bothered. ‘Seriously, you wouldn’t consider it?’

  ‘No, I absolutely wouldn’t have done it,’ Decker said.

  ‘Even if I did, I hope I wouldn’t have gone through with it,’ Brix said.

  ‘Deck, that’s a pretty decisive stance,’ Jess said, ignoring Brix. ‘Realistic?’

  ‘Yep, I know myself and I wouldn’t have.’

  Brix was left as a spectator now that Jess had roused from her melancholy silence to dictate the conversation, sparring with Decker over an unwinnable debate.

  Jess maintained that you couldn’t judge what you were capable of and Decker categorically thought you could. Why pretend otherwise, he said. He wasn’t going to go from being one type of guy to be
ing this other completely different type of guy. Jess insisted that there was no way to be certain without being driven to those limits. So could you surprise yourself? Maybe, and that’s the thing. Maybe you could.

  ‘No,’ Decker countered. ‘As I said before, I know myself. It doesn’t depend on the context. I’m not suddenly going to make some wildly uncharacteristic decision.’

  ‘My argument is that you haven’t been in a bad enough situation to know for definite,’ Jess said. ‘And you’ve got to admit that Napps and Millet-Bass were on the island in exceptional circumstances.’

  ‘Sure,’ Decker said. ‘But I still don’t believe it means they can be absolved of responsibility, specifically Napps. He led the expedition, and I think what he did to Dinners tells you a lot about what kind of man he was.’

  And evidence of what a bully Napps had been wasn’t exactly hard to find. They only had to watch the Everland film or read Lawrence’s book, or any of the hundreds of other books. He clearly didn’t deserve much in the way of sympathy.

  ‘Well, considering how wrong it all went,’ Jess said, ‘he certainly received his due punishment. In karmic terms, it was meted out to him several times over.’

  ‘No kidding,’ Brix said, the brief pause allowing her to get a word in. ‘If what goes around comes around, for Napps it came swinging back like the biggest, baddest bastard.’

  Even Jess couldn’t disagree with this. ‘His whole life reduced to one action,’ she said. ‘Imagine if he could have known how he’d be demonized.’

  ‘Ah,’ Decker said. ‘That’s the peril of being a world-famous explorer. It writes your epitaph. Doesn’t matter what else you do or have ever done, the expedition will come to define you. You’ll be lionized if it’s successful, condemned if it’s not.’

  ‘Well, whichever way you dice it, Napps was catastrophically unlucky,’ Brix said, making a millimetre space between her finger and thumb. ‘He was this close to getting away with it.’