The Ice Maiden

by Sara Sheridan

  At first, she thought that she was dreaming and that someone was whispering in her ear. She turned over and then in the thick, hard silence she heard it again. An indistinct voice. It said, Amen. In shock, she rolled into a long crevice filled with ice and stretched along it for half a mile. She was gone too far for sound to plummet and yet this whisper found her. Where are you? it said, insistent, the vowels strangely long. It was an eerie, distorted sound. Uneasily, she sat up. Was it possible there was someone else here? Had somebody died? Above her, on the surface the ice shifted and creaked and she wondered if one of the men had set foot over her grave. Could that really reach her here, now, all these years later?

  Then there was a rustle and she felt a stroke on her arm. An affectionate touch, skin on skin. But there is no one, she thought. ‘What do you want?’ she shouted and the rock around her trembled.

  She had lived and died. She had travelled the world and beyond. She was not a woman who feared a sound in the thick of night. Yet this jolted her. It called her back to the world and once again, she had no choice.

  On the glacier, the light had dawned and the azure sky stretched from Cape Evans all the way to the pole. It was summer. At first, the sun was almost blinding as she returned to the biting air. Then she saw them. Far off, Scott’s expedition had set off. The captain had been busy – final supplies were being laid and a route had been settled upon. What have I missed?

  She flew overhead, curious to assess what was going on. The men were scattered across the course the skipper had set, like salt over a cooking pot. There were too many of them to make the attempt. Some would be sent back. Some were accompanied by dogs and one party had a motor, which of course had failed. They worked together to supply the storage depots, caches of oil and food along the way half-buried already by the snow. They moved like tin soldiers on a child’s battlefield, a strange clockwork toy moving in concert. He is keeping them with him on the chance that he’ll choose them for the final attempt, she thought. And indeed, the men were on tenterhooks, hope flurrying around them. Swooping low, she could see it. Every one was trying to please the skipper for he had not decided yet who would be chosen to make the final attempt. The path to glory lay open.

  Thebo used to study maps in his father’s workshop near the old observatory tower, in a passageway off Strogert. He had missed those afternoons, she had realized, once they left Copenhagen. He had spent hours in that office with its dark, wooden cubbyholes, sitting on a green, leather-bound clerk’s stool, like a little god surveying his domain. When they had first met she’d sneak in and he’d show her the maps, talk her through the geography and explain which areas were uncharted. They had kissed, secretly when the office boy was sent out to fetch beer. New maps arrived intermittently – a man who had conducted a survey inside Africa sent a section of the Niger. Another submitted an outline of the coast of China. Thebo’s father paid well. He had endowed his son with the sense that the world was a jigsaw to be pieced together. It had made Thebo long to see it.

  Now, rising above the plains, Karina recalled the feeling of overlooking the curves of the landscape. Scott’s party was following the curve of the earth from one direction and, far off, from another, Amundsen’s men were flying across the ice with their dogs. The emotion hit her in waves. Scott’s crew were anxious, desperate to prove themselves, and Amundsen and his men were wheeling with pleasure, laughing as they made their way. It was like the day Shackleton first set off – the same sense of freedom and of joy. The Norwegians had no qualms about using dogs or skis. They were enjoying themselves.

  To the west, Scott was honed upon the point, the furthest south, where Shackleton and his men had planted their flag. The skipper would take immense pleasure as he passed it, the farthest south a man had ever made. He’d take even more pleasure because that man was his rival. Step by step, he relished overtaking Shackle far more than reaching his final destination and 88˚ 23' was suddenly more riveting than even the pole. He took measurements obsessively. He wanted to be sure when he had won. Not yet. Not quite. But it was coming.

  In his sleeping bag, Cherry comforted himself that it was almost Christmas. Karina recalled him on the journey to Cape Crozier, a bundle of insecurities, and she measured him carefully. All the men were in discomfort but Cherry had not fully recovered from the earlier trip. Inside he was trembling not only from the cold but at the memory of what had happened. His spirit was bruised, far more than his body and he had done well to get this far. Scott saw it too and on the night of midsummer he told Cherry that he was sending him back with three of the other men.

  The skipper issued orders to ensure supplies were replaced at each depot. Such was the endless nature of mortal need. Men hauled food with them to store, they ate it on the return and then they were sent again to resupply. Such little ants. Wilson had calculated the stockpiles required. The cold ate the men’s flesh and they defended themselves with double rations. Triple rations. A soupcon of oil for the lamp might save a fellow’s life. Wilson had agonized over it. Now the party was thinning out, he added up again and again. Summer rations – less than winter. Less per day than they had needed for the worst journey, though this trip was longer.

  Cherry scarcely slept that last night. In part, he was relieved that he was going back. In part, he was disappointed. There is no pleasing me, he thought and he hoped that come Hogmanay he’d be settled.

  In the morning it was bright as the party took down the tents. Cherry and Birdie shook hands and Cherry shoved Birdie’s green woollen hat affectionately, pushing his head to one side.

  ‘I hope he chooses you,’ Cherry whispered, low so that no one else could hear.

  The decision was still to be made in the matter of the final party. Birdie smiled and did not say that he hoped so too. He never thought he’d get so close.

  ‘I wish we had Christmas together,’ he posited instead.

  Birdie had secreted extra supplies for Christmas Day, though it was not quite the feast to which they would settle down if they were back in Blighty.

  The four men returning watched as the eight men going on, turned away. Oates only nodded – no fond farewell as he moved off with the distinctive limp he arrived with – an old war wound. Then as the returning party finally set off back in the direction of the glacier Cherry felt his stomach turn. It was a strange sense of foreboding. I am with them, Karina murmured As far as I can go. But he did not hear her. She never seemed to reach Cherry. His mind was muddled by his nanny and his dread of not being up to snuff. He was already haunted. She patted him on the back to say goodbye and then she rose and floated with the clouds that were riding southwards with the others.

  The whiteness felt endless but it was not. She knew there would come a point soon she could go no further. She realized quite suddenly that when the dark curtain fell, she did not want Scott’s party simply to pull it aside and go on without her. She chastised herself. All the years she had despised their ambition– the need to push to the pole – and here she was full of ambition herself. Perhaps it was the men. They were beguiling. Perhaps she simply did not want to be left behind. Not again.

  Scott never fell asleep as quickly as the others. He had to decide on the party for the pole and however tired his body became, his mind kept him awake, mulling it over. His muscles ached when he moved, so he stayed still and reasoned it through. He had always reckoned on four men, but of the eight left, there were no shirkers or dilly-dalliers. There was not one who did not deserve a shot at glory. Even dear Teddy Evans, who Scott swore he’d keep at bay, was nothing short of marvellous. What was it that happened in this place, that there was no other obsession but the hard white silence? When he finally drifted off there was a staircase made of ice and snow and he was carrying his wife up it.

  At the turn of the year Bowers produced a bottle of brandy for the men to share after their hoosh. This was against the captain’s orders. It was hard enough to haul everything they needed on the sledges, never mind bringing luxuries, Hog
manay or not. Scott forgave Birdie his contraband and they toasted together. ‘Good health,’ they joked. ‘To the pole.’ ‘To his majesty.’ ‘Happy New Year.’ And that night they slept better than ever, the brandy settling their nerves.

  If I had had children, I would want it to be with men such as these. Not a liar like Thebo. Not a cheat like Hooker. But an honest man.

  The next morning, the going was tough as ever. Scott was not only narrowing down the party, bit by bit, but also the equipment. As the going got harder, the skis were tougher to use. He’d never liked them anyway. A man should make his way to the destination under his own steam. All weakness was to be despised. That old obsession. Karina remembered the Norwegians. They were still there, far off, making good progress on their sledges and their skis. Amundsen did not carry the same burden – he’d get there any way he could. The Scandic crew were warmer, she realized. She heard their voices chiming across the mountains – the guttural sound of Norwegian interspersed with English here and there – a more international language. With words as well as equipment, they used whatever served them.

  ‘Lashly, Evans, Bowers – stow the skis,’ Scott ordered. ‘Leave them at the depot and we can pick them up on the return.’

  The men took a moment to take this in. The word but hovered on Birdie’s lips. The going had been rough but it could ease at any time and the skis were a boon. He hadn’t used them before and he’d come to enjoy the thrill of sliding across the ice plain.

  ‘Sir?’ Lashly, who was normally a stoker in the engine room, managed to ask the question, or as close as he could get.

  ‘We’ll do it ourselves,’ Scott snapped.

  Evans led the way and the men handed in their skis, which were secured along with some of the supplies.

  Birdie, for the first time in the expedition, if not his naval career, resented an order. Scott was wrong. He could feel it. The skis were hardly heavy kit. It felt as if he was leaving behind a part of himself – a foot, maybe. However, so deeply ingrained was the legend of Scott’s fight with Shackleton, that even as a senior officer, he did not raise an objection. But he wanted to. He did not have much of a temper but what there was had been set alight at the captain’s foolishness. He thought of Shackleton beside the fire in the club in London, warning him only a few months ago about the risk. When he caught Wilson’s eye, the surgeon would not meet his. The skis were stowed and as the party moved off, Bowers felt the shadow of foreboding across him. He waved it off.

  Karina watched eagerly. Ahead she knew there was terrain that they’d best cross using skis. Now they’d have to walk across it, slipping and tripping as they went when they could have flown. It was as if Birdie could feel the land as it rose to meet them. Karina caught a flash of his childhood home, a spectacular view from a high hill over a firth peppered with ships, and in the distance islands covered with fir trees. Just like Ven, it was green. He’d swum it once – out to Rothsay – and caught the ferry home again. He’d spent his life sailing, she realized.

  How long was this taking? How long? She wondered at this, as she was pulled back towards them when they made camp for the night. Lashly boiled up Bovril and made hoosh. As they settled to sleep, she realized that Birdie had not written his journal since he was forced to abandon the skis because he did not want to betray the skipper by putting his feelings on paper. His anger had since heightened because having left the damned things behind there had been nothing but fine skiing weather since. Now, in petty rebellion, he pulled another bottle of brandy from his kit bag. It was greeted with enthusiasm.

  The alcohol warmed the men. It was cold for summer, even here. There was some chit-chat – foolish talk of New Year’s resolutions and what might be happening at home. Wilson knew Oriana would be staying with her parents. Lashly generally shared New Year with his cousin, a Scotsman who considered the festival more important than Christmas and insisted upon a twenty-four-hour celebration that appeared mostly to consist of drinking beer. His cousin, he thought, would only now be recovering. Birdie wondered for the umpteenth time how much the lack of skis was slowing them down but instead he told a story about a Hogmanay he spent in Burma when he was stationed there – a frenzy of curried goat and whisky.

  As if he could sense the dissent of a sentiment unvoiced, Scott went back to his chart. In a couple of days by his reckoning he’d have outdone Shackleton’s record. Only a couple of days.

  The seamen were bluff – Crean and Lashly and Evans, all ordinary men, were amazed that they had come so far on this extraordinary adventure which surely should be the preserve of officers. ‘We ain’t seen no sign of the Norwegian, then, sir,’ Lashly ventured.

  Wilson’s gaze flickered as he checked to see if Scott had heard the comment. There had been little mention of Amundsen’s party since the telegram arrived almost a year ago, as if by mentioning the fellow’s name they might give him some kind of legitimacy. The English simply assumed that they were leading the race. After all, they were used to winning. Karina, reminded, rose high above, the midnight sun lighting the sparkling snow as if it was studded with diamonds. Amundsen was making good ground on the other side. She imagined Thebo, the snake, measuring this progress with a pair of compasses. He was ahead, she realized, and the English had no idea. Wilson shook his head and Lashly said no more about it.

  Scott was still to make the decision about the final party. The next day, as he walked, forcing his burning limbs on, he mumbled the men’s names, so no one could hear him. His sense of fair play was hampering his decision as much as the distraction of his searing muscles. In fact, if anything, it took his mind off the pain. Four would go on and four return, but all the men who had come this far were worthy of the assault on the pole. Lashly, Evans, Evans, Crean, Wilson, Bowers and Oates, he thought over and over. Crean, Lashly, Oates, Bowers, Wilson, Evans and Evans. Then he grouped his favourites. Evans, Bowers, Wilson and Oates. Yes, those were the fellows, he thought, before realizing he had left out himself. Scott. Scott. Scott. How uncharacteristic, Karina thought. But it was difficult to keep going, never mind making vital decisions about skis and crew. Perhaps it would be five, Scott decided. Perhaps five brave explorers was best.

  Two days later Scott sent Teddy Evans, Lashly and Crean back to basecamp. He embraced the returning men on the ice, slapping each on the back, wishing them luck.

  Karina shook her head and her hair shifted in the breeze. It was a fine summer day but there was snow coming. It was not long past midsummer and yet there was a chill on the air that was unaccustomed for the time of year. Karina, a voice called, tailing off as if it was being pulled away, unwillingly.

  ‘Who is it?’ she shouted. ‘What do you want?’ though she left what she meant unsaid. I am the ghost here. I will not be haunted. The world was usually so clear – what did these voices mean, coming so suddenly out of nowhere? ‘Who are you?’ she shouted again, but there was no reply. The air was heavy with silence. Karina watched the parties proceed. The Norwegians were still moving more quickly, making good ground. She tipped her head to one side and tried to figure out in which direction they were heading. There or back?

  Karina, the voice called again. Suddenly there was a flash so bright that it made her reel, as if the sun had beamed too intensely and the slate of the world had been wiped clean. The men were whited out, their worries about rations, skis and minor injuries obliterated. The voice fell to silence and she was not held by any will other than her own as below her a void opened. She clenched her fists as though she might have to fight. Then she cast around wildly, hoping to somehow make them out. Which party would make the pole? Would they arrive there together?

  But that was not what was in store. Gradually, into the whiteness stepped an old man so ancient that it seemed he might melt into the brightness. He was so frail she thought she might be able to see right through him. Then she made him out.

  ‘Joseph?’ she breathed.

  He looked confused. Has he lost his mind? she wondered. Can he even reme
mber?

  ‘You left me,’ she managed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Hooker peered in her direction.

  ‘You died,’ he put it baldly. It had been his voice that spoke in whispers, she realized. It was he who had woken her from the mountain. It was he who had stroked her skin. The last person alive to whom she had had a connection in life.

  ‘You were always going to leave me,’ she said, thinking she might as well admit what she knew, now he was here.

  Joseph allowed only a tiny nod. ‘Frances,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ And then his eyes widened as he recollected those days, on the Terror – more than sixty years or was it seventy. ‘The custard tart,’ he said. ‘It was delicious.’

  It surprised her that she was beyond anger. Not so long ago she would have struck him for dismissing her. Not much after that she would have been on her knees, sobbing. But today, in this bright, white place, she was not perturbed that what came into his mind was pastry and sweetened cream.

  ‘You missed a very great love. One you would not have deserved,’ she said. ‘You betrayed me.’

  His eyes were still recognizable. They were the only part of his wrinkled, faded body that had not changed so very much since he was the handsomest of men – the love of her life. Now they softened into clear pools of bluey green. She realized that he had his Frances and his children and his grandchildren, but he had not had her. And the fact he had materialized meant perhaps that he had wanted to. She was his unfinished business as much as he was hers.

  ‘What happens now?’ he asked.

  She shrugged as the bright light faded slowly like a cloud on a breeze and Joseph peered at her spectre.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ he managed. ‘You always were.’

  And it came to her that she would rather face eternity as she was than as an old woman. It seems I am still vain.

  ‘Where were you happiest?’ she asked.

  Joseph paused, considering.

  ‘Happiest?’ he repeated as if it was an impossible notion.