The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  When they had managed to clamber off the ship, which was slightly tilted to her starboard side, MacReady ordered one of his men to climb to the top of the nearest iceberg and report what he saw. After hacking out a few steps in the ice with a pickax, the lookout peered through his brass spyglass and confirmed Reynolds’s fears: for them, the world was now no more than a vast frozen desert spreading in all directions, dotted with mountain peaks and icebergs. A white expanse without shelter or refuge, it rendered them instantly insignificant. Whether they lived or died was of no consequence in the face of that immensity, cut adrift from the world.

  Two weeks later their situation was no better. The stubborn ice holding the Annawan prisoner had not yielded an inch. On the contrary, they could only deduce from the alarming groaning sounds the ship’s hull made that the ice was wrapping itself even more tightly around it. It would be eight or nine months, perhaps even longer, before the return of summer, when the ice would begin to melt, and then only if they were lucky, for Reynolds had heard many similar stories in which the long-awaited thaw never came. In fact, once Man ventured into those icy domains, however experienced he was, everything became unpredictable. The expedition Sir John Franklin had led in 1819 to map the north coast of Canada, for example, had not been able to rely on a kind fate. The wretched explorers had spent so long in the ice that Franklin had been forced to eat his own boots as the only way of staving off extreme hunger. Although, unlike some of the others, he at least had made it home. Reynolds looked down uneasily at his frost-covered boots and wondered whether their names would also be added to the already lengthy list, carefully kept by the Admiralty, of doomed expeditions, ships that had vanished, dreams swallowed up by the unknown. He cast a mournful eye over the Annawan, which despite all her reinforcements had been taken hostage quickly. The enormous whaler had formerly been used to hunt sperm and yubarta whales in the South Atlantic Ocean. All that remained of those glory days were half a dozen harpoons and spears that were kept in the armory as terrifying souvenirs of those brave harpooners, who would skewer the huge whales during epic duels. And now the Annawan lay absurdly tilted on what looked like a marble pedestal, her prow sticking up in the air. To reduce the likelihood of her capsizing, MacReady had ordered the crew to strip her two topsails and rigging and to shore up her starboard side with a mound of ice that would act as a ramp. The sun hovered just above the horizon, where it would remain for a few more weeks, spinning out the dusk, until April came and it vanished completely, heralding the endless southern winter night. For the moment it still cast a dim light over the Annawan. Like it or not, the explorer thought to himself, that phantom-like vessel would be his home for the foreseeable future. Perhaps his very last home.

  Tired of being confined to the ship’s narrow hold, of banging their heads on the utensils hanging like vines from the ceiling, and of being hemmed in by bunk beds and piles of provisions, a few of the men had huddled in a group at the foot of the Annawan, braving the fierce cold that played at forming crystals from their vaporous breath. Besides Reynolds himself, who was the titular leader of that reckless expedition, the ship’s company under Captain MacReady consisted of two officers, a quartermaster, two gunners, a surgeon, a cook, two kitchen boys, two carpenters, two electricians, and a dozen sailors. One of these was Peters, a huge, silent Indian, the offspring of an Absaroka woman and a white man, who was responsible for looking after the sled dogs. As far as Reynolds could tell, none of the men seemed overly concerned about their fate, instead showing a kind of hardened resignation. Still, the explorer hoped that however long the coal and victuals lasted, the store of rum would never run out: Reynolds had heard that in such situations there was nothing to worry about so long as there was plenty to drink. But once the rum was finished, things would change drastically: insanity, which had been content thus far to hover in the wings like a timid lover, would begin to tempt the crew, luring the weakest of them, and it would not be long before one placed a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. Then, like some macabre ritual, the sound of gunshots from different parts of the ship would become their only form of entertainment throughout the long polar winter. Reynolds wondered how many gallons of rum remained. MacReady—who, judging from the smell of his breath, had his own reserves of brandy—had ordered Simmons, one of the kitchen boys, to dilute the daily grog rations with water to make it last as long as possible. Thus far none of the sailors had complained, as if they also knew that so long as they had their rum they would be safe from themselves.

  Reynolds contemplated Captain MacReady, who seemed to have been infected by the same air of indifference as the others. At that moment, the officer was also off the ship, sitting on a bundle next to the iron dog cage that Peters had installed on the ice. Like the other men, MacReady was wearing several layers of wool under his oilskin, and one of those woolly hats with earflaps jokingly known as a Welsh wig. As he studied the burly captain, so motionless he might have been posing for a photograph, Reynolds realized he had to shake the men out of their stupor at once, before the whole ship’s company fell into a state of hopeless lethargy. Yes, they had become icebound, but that did not mean nothing mattered anymore. It was time for him to ask MacReady to organize teams of men to explore the area, with the aim of continuing the mission that had brought them there, the mission that would shower them with more glory and riches than they could ever imagine: the discovery of the entrance to the center of the Earth.

  And yet, despite his intention, Reynolds did not move a muscle. He stayed where he was, watching the captain from a distance, still hesitating to approach him. He disliked the captain. He considered him coarse, cynical, and hotheaded, the kind of fellow you could sooner imagine comforting a hound caught in a trap than a man suffering from a broken heart. Anyone could see that MacReady harbored mutual feelings, and, owing to the onboard hierarchy, his loathing had spread to the other men, so that Reynolds soon found himself leading an expedition in which he had no allies, except for Allan, the gunner who dreamed of being a poet. The two men were the youngest in the crew. Perhaps because the sergeant was the only one who did not see Reynolds as an impulsive young fop, something resembling a friendship had grown up between them. However, Allan was doubtless in his cabin, scattering words onto paper as he so often did, his quill scarcely touching the page, like a cloud skimming the surface of a river. And so Reynolds began scuffing the snow with the tip of his boot, trying to pluck up the courage to challenge MacReady alone, for that was what their recent conversations had seemed like to him, swordless duels in which the captain attempted, metaphorically speaking, to pierce him through the heart. Ten more minutes passed before he thrust his fists into the pockets of his oilskin and strode resolutely toward the captain. After all the effort it had taken him to get there, he had no intention of letting some arrogant numbskull stop him from finishing what he had begun, no matter that the man was a head higher than he and looked strong enough to tear him limb from limb with his bare hands.

  “Captain MacReady,” the explorer ventured.

  “What is it, Reynolds?” the captain asked, annoyed at being interrupted in the middle of an important task, which appeared to be none other than feeling the cold in his bones and making sure the snow was still white.

  “I would like us to begin exploring the area today,” Reynolds replied, undeterred. “I don’t think we should just sit around waiting for the ice to thaw.”

  The captain smiled to himself for a few moments. Then, with calculated slowness, he got up from where he was sitting, his imposing bulk rising before the young explorer.

  “So that’s what you think we’re doing, is it, waiting for the ice to thaw?” he asked.

  “If you are engaged in some other activity, then you could have fooled me,” Reynolds replied sarcastically.

  MacReady gave a disdainful laugh.

  “I don’t think you’ve quite understood the situation, Reynolds. Let me explain it to you. Being stuck in the ice in this godforsaken place isn�
��t our only problem. Do you know what those sporadic groans are that wake us up at night? That’s the ice, Reynolds. The accursed ice, slowly crushing our poor ship so that when it finally releases her, assuming it does, her hull will be so damaged she’ll probably no longer be seaworthy. That’s the exact situation. I haven’t told my men because I don’t want to alarm them, although I imagine most of them suspect that those groans don’t bode well. But since you are in charge of this expedition, I thought you ought to know. And what can we do about it? I’ll tell you before you ask: we can abandon ship and cross the frozen sea until we reach the coast, taking with us the team of dogs, the provisions, the lifeboats, and at least two iron stoves with enough coal to keep us from freezing along the way. Tell me, does that strike you as a plan that could succeed?”

  Reynolds made no reply. Naturally, this suggestion struck him as crazy. No one knew for certain how far the coast was or in what direction, and traipsing blindly across that landscape bristling with icy peaks, which they would have to circumnavigate with their loaded sleds, would only exhaust them. Except for that crazy plan, the only one Reynolds could think of was crazier still. He had heard that, in similar situations, some captains had ordered their men to build makeshift camps on a block of ice and then let those improvised vessels be pushed by the currents, although the number of times a far-fetched plan of this sort had actually worked could be counted on the fingers of one hand. The storm-wracked waves and winds had drowned the rest, without the slightest sympathy for those amusing examples of human ingenuity. Reynolds did not dare even mention this option to MacReady. Perhaps it was preferable to stay in the shelter of the ship and just drink rum while they waited for something—anything—to happen. But he did not intend to simply do nothing while awaiting a miracle. It was preposterous to come all that way and not explore the area.

  “What about the mission?” Reynolds asked, at the risk of angering the captain. “I see no reason why we cannot proceed with it. It might be the best way to cope with the boredom, which I am sure you know can quickly turn to madness.”

  “Oh, yes . . . your mission,” MacReady responded sardonically. “Your attempt to find the opening that leads to the center of the Earth, which you believe is inhabited and illuminated by a sun smaller than our own, or is it two suns?”

  Hearing MacReady scoff at his ideas, Reynolds could not help being reminded of his partner Symmes and the laughter they had endured during their exhausting lecture tour concerning the Hollow Earth.

  “Believe it or not, Captain, that is the aim of this expedition,” Reynolds replied, undeterred.

  MacReady let out a guffaw that echoed across the white desert.

  “Your naïveté is touching, Reynolds. Do you really believe the aim of this expedition is that altruistic? Mr. Watson of the Scientific Corps doesn’t give a fig about finding your entrance to the Earth’s core.”

  “What are you implying?” the explorer demanded.

  The captain smiled contemptuously.

  “We didn’t organize all this to prove or disprove your ludicrous theory, Reynolds. Our sponsor wants what all the world powers want: to determine the strategic importance of the last unconquered territory.”

  The explorer looked at the captain with feigned disbelief, while smiling to himself contentedly. With these last words, MacReady had confirmed that he had taken the bait. Reynolds knew that John Frampton Watson believed wholeheartedly in his Hollow Earth theory, as did the politicians, the government institutions secretly supporting them, and the handful of private backers who preferred to remain anonymous. But they had all decided to be cautious and to conceal their true aims, at least for the time being. If the expedition turned out to be a disaster, Reynolds would be the only one publicly disgraced, mocked, and humiliated. Those who remained in the shadows, on the other hand, stood to lose only a few dollars: they could wash their hands of the matter, claiming they had quite different aims, that they had never given that poor lunatic much credit and had simply used him for their own ends. As things stood, it was preferable not to let the public think they were wasting money on such reckless ventures. And Reynolds had accepted the role of scapegoat in exchange for a confidential agreement. If he succeeded in finding that other world, which he was convinced he would, his dreams of wealth and glory would be amply fulfilled, for tucked away in his lawyers’ safe was a document, inspired by the Capitulations of Santa Fe between Christopher Columbus and the Catholic monarchs, stating that Reynolds would be named admiral viceroy and governor general of all the land discovered beneath the Earth’s crust, as well as receive a tenth of any riches found in the conquered territories. So MacReady could carry on thinking Reynolds was a puppet manipulated by obscure masters. Actually, it was preferable: the less the captain knew the better. Reynolds did not trust MacReady. In fact, he did not trust anyone: the world was full of men who had usurped the discoveries of others, stealing all the glory for themselves and dooming the true pioneers to obscurity. Reynolds did not want to run that risk. Thus the more stupid MacReady thought he was, the greater the advantage Reynolds had over him.

  The captain observed Reynolds’s silence with a mocking smile, awaiting a response. Having confirmed his role as naïve idealist, Reynolds was about to say something else about the businessman when a huge noise from the sky shook the earth beneath them. Reynolds and MacReady looked up, stunned. The other members of the crew also gazed at the sky, convinced the thunderous roar could only mean that it was falling in on them.

  If the flying saucer had managed to impress a man like Wells, with his vast scientific knowledge and an imagination capable of dreaming up similar artifacts, imagine the fright it must have given that handful of rough sailors as it suddenly appeared on the horizon. It hurtled toward them, passing above their horrified heads and deafening them before disappearing toward the distant mountains, leaving behind a thin slash of light on the dark stain of the sky. They had only been able to see it clearly when it flew over them, but evidently none of them understood what the huge, flat, circular object was that seemed to spin on its own axis as it thundered through the air. Shortly after it disappeared behind the frozen peaks, they heard a tremendous bang, as though a tenton object, possibly made of iron or some equally heavy material, had crashed into the ice. It was a couple of minutes before the echo from the collision died away. When it did, the ensuing silence felt intolerable, as if they were all submerged at the bottom of the ocean. Only then did MacReady dare to speak.

  “What the d-devil was that . . . ?” he stammered, not bothering to hide his bewilderment.

  “My God, I’ve no idea . . . A meteorite, I imagine,” Reynolds replied, his mystified gaze fixed on the distant ridge.

  “I don’t think so,” someone disagreed.

  It was a skinny sailor by the name of Griffin. Reynolds wheeled round and looked at him curiously, surprised by the conviction with which the man had contradicted him.

  “Its path was too . . . erratic,” the sailor explained, somewhat uncomfortable at feeling all eyes suddenly upon him. “When it reached the mountains it turned sharply and tried to gain height, as though wishing to avoid the fatal collision.”

  “What are you trying to say?” asked MacReady, who was not one for riddles.

  Griffin turned to the captain and answered his question, a little hesitantly. “Well, it looked as though someone was trying to guide it in a particular direction, Captain. As though it was being . . . steered.”

  “Steered?” MacReady exclaimed.

  Griffin nodded.

  “He’s right, Captain. That’s what it looked like to me, too,” agreed Wallace, one of the other sailors.

  MacReady looked at Griffin without saying anything, trying to digest what he had just heard. Alarmed by the noise, the rest of the men still aboard the Annawan had descended the ramp and were gathering round their fellow crew members, asking what had happened.

  “Perhaps it is some kind of . . . flying object,” Griffin ventured, ignoring the ot
hers and addressing the captain, who was deep in thought.

  The sailor’s assertion surprised Reynolds. A flying object? But what sort of object might that be? he wondered. Not a balloon, clearly. It had crossed the sky at a devilish rate, as though something was propelling it, although he had seen no steam engine attached to it. Looking more like the statue of an explorer, Captain MacReady surveyed the distant mountains as if he were planning to build a house there.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out,” he declared at last. “We shall go to where it fell.”

  With a rush of energy, as though he had suddenly remembered he was the captain of the ship, he studied his men, called out a list of names, and within seconds had organized a search party. He left Lieutenant Blair in command of the Annawan and of the remaining sailors. Then he gave the explorer another of his condescending smiles.

  “You’re welcome to join us if you wish, Reynolds. Perhaps we’ll come across your hole on the way.”

  Reynolds did not deign to respond to the gibe. He bobbed his head as if to say yes, then followed the other men aboard to kit himself out with everything needed for a journey across the ice. Reynolds attempted to ignore the wave of heat from the stoves and kitchen that hit him as he descended to the lower deck. He dodged the confusion of beds and hammocks and, guided by the faint light of the lanterns, managed to reach the narrow passageway leading to the officers’ quarters. Once inside his cramped dwelling, dimly lit by the pale rays filtering through the porthole, Reynolds cast a melancholy eye over the uncomfortable room where he now spent his days: the built-in bunk with its lumpy horsehair mattress, the tiny desk, the table and two stools, the armchair he had insisted on bringing from home, the small larder, containing mainly bottles of brandy and a couple of cheeses, the washbasin in the corner, its water now frozen, and a few shelves lined with books, which he scarcely dared displace, for he had discovered a new use for the great classics that had never occurred to him before: as insulation from the cold on the other side of the wall. As soon as he was properly outfitted, Reynolds went back on deck.