The Terror

by Dan Simmons

  “Very well,” said Sir John at last. “How long was it after you were reunited with Second Mate Des Voeux and the others at this sea camp when Lieutenant Gore was attacked?”

  “No more than thirty minutes, Sir John. Probably less.”

  “And what provoked the attack?”

  “Provoked it?” repeated Best. His eyes no longer seemed focused. “You mean, like shooting them white bears?”

  “I mean, what were the exact circumstances of the attack, Seaman Best?” said Sir John.

  Best rubbed his forehead. His mouth was open for a long moment before he spoke.

  “Nothing provoked it. I was talking to Tommy Hartnell — he was in the tent with his head all bandaged, but awake again — he couldn’t remember nothing from until sometime before the first lightning storm — and Mr. Des Voeux was supervising Morfin and Ferrier getting two of the spirit stoves working so we could heat some of that bear meat, and Dr. Goodsir had the old Esquimaux’s parka off and was probing a nasty hole in the old man’s chest. The woman had been standing there watching, but I didn’t see where she was right then because the fog had gotten thicker, and Private Pilkington was standing guard with the musket, when suddenly Lieutenant Gore, he shouts — ‘Quiet, everyone! Quiet!’ — and we all hushed up and quit what we were saying and doing. The only sound was the hiss of the two spirit stoves and the bubbling of the snow we’d melted to water in the big pans — we were going to make some sort of white bear stew, I guess — and then Lieutenant Gore took out his pistol and primed it and cocked it and took a few steps away from the tent and… .”

  Best stopped. His eyes were completely unfocused, mouth still open, a glisten of saliva on his chin. He was looking at something not in Sir John’s cabin.

  “Go on,” said Sir John.

  Best’s mouth worked but no sound came out.

  “Continue, seaman,” said Captain Crozier in a kinder voice.

  Best turned his head in Crozier’s direction but his eyes were still focused on something far away.

  “Then … ,” began Best. “Then … the ice just rose up, Captain. It just rose up and surrounded Lieutenant Gore.”

  “What are you talking about?” snapped Sir John after another interval of silence. “The ice can’t just rise up. What did you see?”

  Best did not turn his head in Sir John’s direction. “The ice just rose up. Like when you can see the pressure ridges building all of a sudden. Only this was no ridge — no ice — it just rose up and took on a … shape. A white shape. A form. I remember there were … claws. No arms, not at first, but claws. Very large. And teeth. I remember the teeth.”

  “A bear,” Sir John said. “An arctic white bear.”

  Best only shook his head. “Tall. The thing just seemed to rise up under Lieutenant Gore … around Lieutenant Gore. It was … too tall. Over twice as tall as Lieutenant Gore, and you know that he was a tall man. It was at least twelve feet tall, taller than that, I think, and too large. Much too large. And then Lieutenant Gore sort of disappeared as the thing … surrounded him … and all we could see was the lieutenant’s head and shoulders and boots, and his pistol went off — he didn’t aim, I think he fired into the ice — and then we were all screaming, and Morfin was scrambling for the shotgun and Private Pilkington was running and aiming the musket but was afraid to fire because the thing and the lieutenant were all one thing now, and then … then we heard the crunching and snapping.”

  “The bear was biting the lieutenant?” asked Commander Fitzjames.

  Best blinked and looked at the ruddy commander. “Biting him? No, sir. The thing didn’t bite. I couldn’t even see its head … not really. Just two black spots floating twelve, thirteen feet in the air … black but also red, you know, like when a wolf turns toward you and the sun catches its eyes? The snapping and crunching was from Lieutenant Gore’s ribs and chest and arms and bones breaking.”

  “Did Lieutenant Gore cry out?” asked Sir John.

  “No, sir. He didn’t make a noise.”

  “Did Morfin and Pilkington fire their weapons?” asked Crozier.

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  Best — strangely — smiled. “Why, there was nothing to shoot at, Captain. One second the thing was there, rising up over Lieutenant Gore and crushing him like you or me would crush a rat in our palm, and the next second it was gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?” demanded Sir John. “Couldn’t Morfin and the Marine private have fired at it while it was retreating into the fog?”

  “Retreating?” repeated Best, and his absurd and disturbing smile grew broader. “The shape didn’t retreat. It just went back down into the ice — like a shadow going away when the sun goes behind a cloud — and by the time we got to Lieutenant Gore he was dead. Mouth wide open. Didn’t even have time to scream. The fog lifted then. There were no holes in the ice. No cracks. Not even a little breathing hole like the harp seals use. Just Lieutenant Gore lying there broken — his chest was all caved in, both arms was broke, and he was bleeding from his ears, eyes, and mouth. Dr. Goodsir pushed us away, but there was nothing that he could do. Gore was dead and already growing as cold as the ice under him.”

  Best’s insane and irritating grin wavered — the man’s torn lips were quivering but still drawn back over his teeth — and his eyes became less focused than ever.

  “Did … ,” began Sir John, but stopped as Charles Best collapsed in a heap to the deck.

  14

  GOODSIR

  Lat. 70°-05′ N., Long. 98°-23′ W.

  June, 1847

  From the private diary of Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir:

  4 June, 1847 —

  When Stanley and I stripped the wounded Esquimaux man naked, I was reminded that he was wearing an Amulet made up of a flat, smooth Stone, smaller than my fist, in the shape of a White Bear — the stone did not seem to have been carved but in its natural, thumb-smoothed state perfectly captured the long neck, small head, and powerful extended legs and forward motion of the living animal. I had seen the Amulet when I’d inspected the man’s wound on the ice but thought nothing of it.

  The ball from Private Pilkington’s musket had entered the native man’s Chest not an inch below that amulet, pierced flesh and muscle between the third and fourth ribs (deflected slightly by the higher of the two), passed through his Left Lung, and lodged in his Spine, severing numerous Nerves there.

  There was no way that I could save him — I knew from earlier inspection that any Attempt to Remove the musket ball would have caused instant death, and I could not stem the internal Bleeding from Within the Lung — but I did my best, having the Esquimaux carried to the part of the Sick Bay which Surgeon Stanley and I have set up as a surgery. For Half an Hour yesterday after my return to the Ship, Stanley and I probed the wound front and back with our Cruelest Instruments and Cut with Energy until we found the location of the Ball in his Spine, and generally confirmed our prognosis of Imminent Death.

  But the unusually tall, powerfully built grey-haired Savage had not yet agreed with our Prognosis. He continued to exist as a man. He continued to force breaths through his torn and bloodied lung, coughing blood repeatedly. He continued to stare at us through his disturbingly light-coloured — for an Esquimaux — eyes, watching our Every Movement.

  Dr. McDonald arrived from Terror and, at Stanley’s suggestion, took the second Esquimaux — the girl — into the rear alcove of the Sick Bay, separated from us by a blanket serving as a curtain, for an Examination. I believe that Surgeon Stanley was less interested in having the girl examined than he was in getting her out of the sick bay during our bloody probing of her husband’s or father’s wounds … although neither the Subject nor the Girl appeared disturbed by either the Blood or Wound which would have made any London Lady — and no few surgeons in training — faint dead away.

  And speaking of fainting, Stanley and I had just finished our examination of the dying Esquimaux when Captain Sir John Franklin came in
with two crewmen half-carrying Charles Best, who, they informed us, had passed out in Sir John’s cabin. We had the men put Best on the nearest cot and it took only a minute’s Cursory examination for me to list the reasons why the man had fainted: the same extreme Exhaustion which all of us on Lieutenant Gore’s party were suffering after ten days of Constant Toil, hunger (we had had virtually nothing to eat except raw Bear Meat for our last two days and nights on the ice), a drying up of all moisture in our bodies (we could not afford the time to stop and melt snow on the spirit stoves, so we resorted to the Bad Idea of chewing on snow and ice — a process which depletes the body’s water rather than adds to it), and, a reason most Obvious to me but strangely Obscure to the officers who had been Interviewing him — poor Best had been made to stand and report to the Captains while still wearing seven of his eight Layers of Wool, allowed time only to remove his bloodied Greatcoat. After ten days and nights on the ice at an average temperature near zero degrees, the warmth of Erebus was almost too much for me, and I had shed all but two layers upon reaching the Sick Bay. It had quickly proved too much for Best.

  After being assured that Best would recover — a dose of Smelling Salts had already all but brought him around — Sir John looked with visible distaste at our Esquimaux patient, now lying on his bloodied chest and belly since Stanley and I had been probing his back for the ball, and our commander said, Is he going to live?

  Not for long, Sir John, reported Stephen Samuel Stanley.

  I winced at speaking such in front of the patient — we doctors usually deliver our direst prognoses to each other in neutral-toned Latin in the presence of our dying clients — but realized at once that it was most unlikely that the Esquimaux could understand English.

  Roll him over on his back, commanded Sir John.

  We did so, carefully, and while the pain must still have been beyond excruciating for the grey-haired native, who had remained conscious during all our probing and continued to do so now, he made no sound. His gaze was fixed on our expedition Leader’s face.

  Sir John leaned over him and, raising his Voice and speaking slowly as if to a Deaf Child or Idiot, cried, Who … ARE … you?

  The Esquimaux looked up at Sir John.

  What … your … name? shouted Sir John. What … your … tribe?

  The dying man made no response.

  Sir John shook his head and showed an expression of disgust, although whether because of the Gaping Wound in the Esquimaux’s chest or due to his aboriginal obdurance, I know not.

  Where is the other native? Sir John asked of Stanley.

  My chief surgeon, both hands busy pressing against the wound and applying the bloody bandages with which he hoped to slow, if not stem, the constant pulse of lifeblood from the savage’s lung, nodded in the direction of the alcove curtain. Dr. McDonald is with her, Sir John.

  Sir John brusquely passed through the blanket-curtain. I heard several stammers, a few disjointed words, and then the Leader of our Expedition reappeared, backing out, his face such a bright, solid red that I had fears that our sixty-one-year-old commander was having a stroke.

  Then Sir John’s red face went quite white with shock.

  I realized belatedly that the young woman must have been naked. A few minutes earlier I had glanced through the partially opened curtain and noticed that when McDonald gestured for her to take off her outer clothing — her bearskin parka — the girl nodded, removed the heavy outer garment, and was wearing nothing under it from the waist up. I’d been busy with the dying man on the table at the time, but I noted that this was a sensible way to stay warm under the loose layer of heavy fur — much better than the multiple layers of Wool which all of us in poor Lieutenant Gore’s sledge party had worn. Naked under fur or animal hair, the body can warm itself when chilled, adequately cool itself when needed, as during exertion, since perspiration would quickly wick away from the body into the hairs of the wolfskin or bearskin hide. The wool we Englishmen had worn had soaked through with Sweat almost immediately, never really dried, quickly froze when we quit marching or pulling the sledge and lost much of its Insulating Quality. By the time we had Returned to the ship, I had no doubt that we were carrying almost twice the Weight on our backs than that with which we had departed.

  I sh-shall return at a more suitable time, stammered Sir John, and backed past us.

  Captain Sir John Franklin looked shaken, but whether it was because of the young woman’s sensible Edenic Nakedness or something else he saw in the Sick Bay alcove, I could not say. He left the Surgery without another word.

  A moment later McDonald called me into the rear alcove. The girl — young woman, I had noticed, although it has been scientifically shown that females from savage tribes reach puberty long before young ladies in civilized societies — had put her bulky parka and sealskin pants back on. Dr. McDonald himself looked agitated, almost upset, and when I queried him as to the problem, he gestured for the Esquimaux wench to open her mouth. Then he raised a lantern and a convex mirror to focus the light and I saw for myself.

  Her tongue had been amputated near the roots. Enough was left, I saw — and McDonald concurred — to allow her to swallow and to eat most foods, after a fashion, but certainly the articulation of complex sounds, if one might call any Esquimaux language complex in any form, would be beyond her ability. The scars were old. This had not happened recently.

  I confess that I pulled away in Horror. Who would do this to a mere child — and why? But when I used the word “amputation,” Dr. McDonald softly corrected me.

  Look again, Dr. Goodsir, he all but whispered. It is not a neat surgical circular amputation, not even by so crude an instrument as a stone knife. The poor lass’s tongue was chewed off when she was very small — and so close to the root of the member that there is no possibility she did this to herself.

  I took a step away from the woman. Is she mutilated elsewhere? I asked, speaking in Latin out of old habit. I had read of barbaric customs in the Dark Continent and among the Mohammedan in which their women were cruelly circumcised in a parody of the Hebrew custom for males.

  Nowhere else, responded McDonald.

  Then I thought I understood the source of Sir John’s sudden paleness and obvious shock, but when I asked McDonald whether he had shared this information with our commander, the surgeon assured me that he had not. Sir John had entered the alcove, seen the Esquimaux girl without her clothes, and left in some agitation. McDonald then began to give me the results of his quick physical inspection of our captive, or guest, when we were interrupted by Surgeon Stanley.

  My first thought was that the Esquimaux man had died, but that did not turn out to be the Case. A crewman had come calling me to give my report before Sir John and the other Captains.

  I could tell that Sir John, Commander Fitzjames, and Captain Crozier were disappointed in my Report of what I had observed of Lieutenant Gore’s death, and while this ordinarily would have Distressed me, this day — perhaps due to my great Fatigue and to the Psychological Changes which may have taken place during my time with Lieutenant Gore’s Ice Party — the disappointment of my Superiors did not Affect me.

  I first reported again on the condition of our dying Esquimaux man and on the curious fact about the girl’s missing tongue. The three captains murmured among themselves about this fact, but the only questions came from Captain Crozier.

  Do you know why someone may have done this to her, Dr. Goodsir?

  I have no idea, sir.

  Could it have been done by an animal? he persisted.

  I paused. The idea had not occurred to me. It could have been, I said at last, although it was very hard to Picture some Arctic Carnivore chewing off a child’s tongue yet leaving her alive. Then again, it was well known that these Esquimaux tended to live with Savage Dogs. I had seen this myself at Disko Bay.

  There were no more questions about the two Esquimaux.

  They asked for the details of Lieutenant Gore’s death and about the Creature who
killed him, and I told the truth — that I had been working to save the life of the Esquimaux man who had come out of the fog and been shot by Private Pilkington and that I had looked up only in the final instant of Graham Gore’s death. I explained that between the shifting fog, the screams, the distracting blast of the musket, and the report of the lieutenant’s pistol going off, my limited vision from the side of the sledge where I knelt, the rapidly shifting movement of both men and light, I was not sure what I had seen: only that large white shape enveloping the hapless officer, the flash of his pistol, more shots, then the fog enfolding everything again.

  But you are certain it was a white bear? asked Commander Fitzjames.

  I hesitated. If it was, I said at last, it was an uncommonly large specimen of Ursus maritimus. I had the impression of a bearlike carnivore — a huge body, giant arms, small head, obsidian eyes — but the details were not as clear as that description makes them sound. Mostly what I remember is that the thing seemed to come out of nowhere — just rise up around the man — and that it towered twice as tall as Lieutenant Gore. That was very unnerving.

  I am sure it was, Sir John said drily, almost sarcastically, I thought. But what else could it have been, Mr. Goodsir, were it not a bear?

  It was not the first time that I had noticed that Sir John never complimented me with my proper Rank as Doctor. He used the “Mr.” as he might with any mate or untutored warrant officer. It had taken me two years to realize that the aging expedition commander whom I held in such high esteem had no degree of reciprocal esteem for any mere ship’s surgeon.

  I don’t know, Sir John, I said. I wanted to get back to my patient.

  I understand you’ve shown an interest in the white bears, Mr. Goodsir, continued Sir John. Why is that?

  I trained as an anatomist, Sir John. And before the expedition sailed, I had dreams of becoming a naturalist.

  No longer? asked Captain Crozier in that soft brogue of his.