The Voyage

by Douglas Falk

  He paused again and gazed outside the window, as the snows had started to fall again.

  “Most people are not like me, though. They are happy enough with having a job, a roof over their heads, and a family to love. And I think this current state of humanity…I think…I think that is why the true nature of our world is being concealed from us. The vast majority of Earth’s population is thriving—things are better than they ever have been, generally speaking. With this knowledge in mind, why would the powers that be lift the veil at this point, even if they felt morally obliged? They can’t do it at this point. It is way, way too late. They know that we would not cope with it. There would be riots in the street, blood, mayhem, and anarchy. If the world would change to the better one day in the future, it would come after a long stretch of hardship. Have you seen the comic book film called Watchmen?”

  “Yeah. Many years ago, don’t remember too much about it.”

  “Well if you would remember it, you would harken back to the memorable ending. What happens in the end is that the main characters decide to tell a lie in order to keep the world peace and prevent a nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union. And herein lies the conundrum. Is telling a lie so gargantuan ever justified, even if it assures stability and prosperity in the known world? That is the question, because while the motive might be understandable and commendable…a lie is still a lie. A lie is still a lie, even if it benefits society. A lie is still a lie, even if the whole world believes it. And something that is true is still the truth, even if the world denounces it. And just like Rorschach in Watchmen, I cannot accept the idea of living a lie. We don’t know where we are right now, for God’s sake! We don’t know where we are. Let that sink in.”

  John downed the very last drops of his ale and pondered.

  “What if you’re wrong, though? What if all of this is just a product of paranoia and a bunch of people banding together and overthinking things?”

  “Are you equating the flat Earth awakening with a cult?”

  “Not necessarily. Just saying that one should be careful with following a fringe hive mind. It’s hard to know that you are living inside a bubble until you burst it.”

  “Yeah, I see what you are saying. And like I said before—I do hope I am wrong. But I know better, and you should too. Come on, man. After what you just heard from her! Do you really think we are spinning and cruising around at these insane speeds they are telling us when we are sitting here drinking our beers without a care in the world? Do you really think that it is a mere happenstance that there are no real pictures of Earth? We both know that the heliononsensical model is an insult to the intelligence of any sceptic with an open mind.”

  “But even if you are right…or dare I say we, in this case…what could we possibly do about it? We are just two guys drinking our sorrows away in a depressing pub. How could we change the world, you and I?”

  William removed his glasses and placed them right in front of him on the table.

  “By launching the most daunting expedition in modern history, beyond all hope or reason. If successful, we will be remembered for years to come. But it is not glory or fame that should guide us through our lofty quest—it is the thirst of knowledge, the search for truth. And right here and now, this is what every fibre in my body is telling me is the right thing to do—to prove, unquestionably, that the Earth is created by intelligent design and that we are not a speck of dust on a road to nowhere, lost in the empty sea called infinite space.”

  John was dazzled by his grandiose way with words, and yet puzzled about what he really meant.

  “How? How in God’s name could we ever prove such a thing?”

  William now stared in his eyes as intensely as any man could.

  He’s dead serious about this. It’s as if he is trying to pierce through my soul, hoping that I will be on board with this.

  “I have decided to hire a crew, which will be the cream of the crop, handpicked for this expedition. I have yet to decide how exactly they will be selected or how many I want involved…later with that. And I will make use of the very best material and mechanics that I know of. I will bring them all down there, as we head south.”

  “Where’s south?”

  “As far south as south goes.”

  John suddenly understood, and it sent a cold shiver down his spine.

  Oh my God.

  “You want to head down to…Antarctica.”

  “Yes. The winter period down there starts in June, so we better hurry unless you fancy finding yourself in the midst of snowstorms at temperatures of minus sixty degrees Celsius, or worse. We are in mid-January now. I have something that most other likeminded folks lack—money, time, and fighting spirit. I offer you and the world all three. The expedition needs to be underway in a few weeks from now, or at the latest two or three months from this day onwards. So, John, the only thing I ask you is this…”

  I know what you will ask of me.

  “Will you accompany me on this journey of a lifetime? The potentially most important expedition ever taken, as well as the most treacherous one. Given the Satanic powers we are likely to face if this indeed is the deception of an age, which I predict it is, you can guess that it will be no easy task for us down there, not to mention the other devilry in store for us down there, like the treacherous weather.”

  John stuttered. He could not speak a word.

  “If your faith in the heliocentric model is as unwavering as it is for the average person, as absolute and unquestionable as it once was for me, then what do you have to lose? Come with me, and I promise you that we will find out if your devout belief system that you have cherished and lived by your entire life…matches reality.”

  6

  John reached for a rock in the road and tossed it down Lake Mälaren. The pebble bounced a couple of times on the frozen lake until it settled down in a plume of steam. It was early February, and the lake would melt soon enough.

  Time sure goes fast. It’s been three weeks already since William offered me a place by his side in the journey of a lifetime. If I partake in this event, the odds of us making it out alive would not be in our favour.

  But John had already accepted. There was little doubt in his mind any longer—he had decided, and nothing else mattered at this point. He had dropped everything going on in his life. University projects, his amateur football team…Alma Kronwall.

  I cannot deny it any longer. Everything, virtually everything I have researched the last couple of weeks points to one thing, and one thing alone. We are being lied to, and there is something going on.

  John had spent the time following William’s request with researching everything he thought would be linked to the idea of the mother of all conspiracy theories, the deception orchestrated to hide the true shape of the Earth.

  I have watched so many hours, days, weeks, and yet I know I have but scraped the surface of the belly of this beast. It’s like a drug. Not that I ever was into opiates or anything of the sort apart from the occasional puff of a sweet herb now and then…but this is more intoxicating than anything I have ever run into. It’s so obvious what they are doing! The Moon landings, the International Space Station, Skylab, the Gemini and Mercury programs decades past, the space shuttle, the Curiosity rover on Mars…or the ridiculous Tesla Roadster allegedly launched by Elon Musk’s SpaceX. Or the Challenger disaster. To label it as horse manure would be an affront to all horses in the world; it’s much worse than that. And last but not least…space itself. Space is fake; it’s all so clearly fake. It’s self-evident. It seems to be, anyway. When will the rest of the world wake up? Is anything real anymore? I’m going insane. Maybe I should scream my lungs out right here and act like a crazy person would, hoping that they put me in an asylum for my own sake and for the safety of my fellow man. Could be that I am suffering from scotoma, a scenario in which the person looking for something cherry-picks what he wants to see. Maybe because I have been tearing my heart out searching f
or concrete proof that this deception is true…maybe I have misinterpreted some things. I don’t know. I do not know.

  John knew that whatever lay in store for him and his companion down in Antarctica, heading down there would be a logistical nightmare.

  Reaching the shoreline of Antarctica will take weeks alone. And when we get there, then what? Are they really guarding the entire swath of that continent? One thing is certain—deception or no deception, misguided paranoia or well-founded suspicions—we are in for one hell of a beating. It literally is the end of the Earth, as far as civilised society goes…be it a sphere, or a plane. We would have to leave Sweden and disappear for months, most likely far longer than that. How does one explain one’s sudden disappearance to the near and dear ones without revealing the true nature of my exodus? Searching for the ends of the Earth would be a cool prospect in a Pirates of the Caribbean film or an Indiana Jones flick, but now we are talking about this as a real thing. We have to lie. There is no other way.

  John tried to quit worrying, but it was a hard task keeping the demons in his head at bay. He walked down the paved road on Skeppsholmen and looked across the water and was bedazzled at Stockholm Castle all lit up in the night. Skeppsholmen had always been one of John’s favourite leisure time walking destinations. A remote, quiet island in the middle of the city. Secluded, yet in the thick of it. A perfect location for contemplation and a place to draw a breath of fresh air in tranquillity. John decided to head over to the even smaller island, Kastellholmen, connected by a bridge at the end of Skeppsholmen. He took a detour and passed the Museum of Modern arts on the way and considered for a second if he wanted to go in and have a look at the exhibition. It was pitch black inside and not a soul to be seen.

  Ah. Monday. Closed. Museums, just like the opening hours of banks, work in mysterious ways.

  John spun around and walked slowly down the slope towards the bridge. The thin layer of ice crust on the ground crackled under the weight of his boots, an eerie winter’s sound that made him dream far away.

  Antarctica. I have never even been to the southern hemisphere. Or hemisplane. Whatever the case may be…what am I doing?

  John knew that he was pointed towards Antarctica, and he was not alone.

  Millions of eyes are now keeping a very close watch over Antarctica. Like the Eye of Sauron in The Lord of the Rings, the Eye is now fixed on Antarctica. The eyes of those who are woke.

  John did not doubt that William had pennies to spend, nor did he question his burning desire to mount this expedition.

  But how experienced in this field is he, really? How well will he handle the time pressure, the resources, the equipment, the treacherous area…assuming we will even get down there. It’s an area under quarantine, for crying out loud! The Antarctic Treaty clearly states that independent travel below the 60th South parallel is strictly forbidden. What if the “ominous they” really are patrolling the entire shoreline down there? Has the United Nations set up a perimeter around the shoreline of Antarctica and militarised the hell out of it with soldiers, tanks, fighter jets standing by, and the whole nine yards? Sounds ridiculous, but everything is possible. How will we evade the patrol? If what William told me of Jarle Andhöy is true, that an experienced mariner was caught red handed in Antarctica and turned away at gun point…why would we do any better, green as we are? And how well do I really know William Milton, when push comes to shove? What if he abandons me down there if something goes south. What if…what if…

  Despite all the questions surrounding this expedition, he did not want to bail. The decision was made, and John felt that one should stand his ground even when dark clouds gather. As he walked the bridge over to Kastellholmen, he laid eyes on a large beautiful medieval vessel anchored at the right-hand side of the water. A grand old galleon that John thought resembled the old Swedish Army war ship Vasa, which was on display across the other side of the water at the museum bearing the same name. John had a sudden inner vision of him, William, and crew sailing down to Antarctica under stormy seas, where he himself stood by the tiller, steering the ship to uncharted lands…as if he was Captain “Lucky” Jack Aubrey from Master and Commander himself.

  No, silly. It won’t be that romantic a voyage, but one can dream. We are heading down to the very ends of the known world. I have no idea what we will find down there—lands hidden from us? A physical electromagnetic barrier of some sorts? Perhaps at the end of the dome that some believe surrounds us. Are we inside a planetarium of sorts? So many questions, and so few answers…yet. But one thing is certain—I have never been more excited in my entire life than I am at this very moment.

  7

  William looked outside the window of his old family residence. He squinted and could glimpse Djursholm Golf Course from afar, although it would be impossible to tell that patch of land was a golf course without knowing so beforehand. A thick layer of snow seemed to cover everything outside—cars, houses, roads. He walked outside the house for a quick stroll and sighted a neighbour’s house with Christmas garlands encasing the house and Christmas lights still turned on at full effect.

  Sigh. In February, no less. Some people need to learn about etiquette.

  He barely made it down the road of Valkyriavägen until he heard a nasal-sounding cry from the porch of his house.

  “William! Come back here. Where are you walking off like that, practically naked? At least put on a jacket! Come inside now. Dinner’s served.”

  All right. Let’s get this over with.

  The voice at the porch belonged to his dear mother Clara, who had invited him and his sister over for the traditional February family dinner. Why his mother had sneakily launched the tradition of hosting bombastic dinners in February of all months, William did not know. He walked back into the house and gallivanted slowly through the halls of the not-so-humble abode. He strode into the dining room and laid his eyes on the glistering chandelier hanging over the table.

  Just as I remembered it. A mausoleum more than a house, this place always was.

  It was well over a year since last time he graced the mausoleum with his presence. He preferred staying in his one room apartment in central Stockholm, in the district of Östermalm.

  This place rekindles many a childhood memory, and not in a good way. Nostalgia won’t help me right now. I want to look forward, not backwards.

  They gathered around the large oval mahogany table in the dining room, and William looked around him. The walls surrounding them were adorned with all sorts of ornaments, beautiful nineteenth-century paintings depicting what appeared to look like a fox hunt in England, as well as more exotic drawings of elephants, tigers, and lions. Silvery trinkets from far and wide, and even taxidermized birds of prey hung from the walls.

  Falcons, those are. Might be hawks. Do stuffed birds always look this dour, or is it just the setting?

  William walked towards the fireplace at the far side of the hall and reached for a shiny rectangular object on the mantelpiece. A hip flask that looked familiar. William looked at the side of the bottle and found the words engraved on it.

  Theodor Milton, 1954. Oh boy. I forgot to bring this one with me when I moved away from here on my eighteenth birthday. Has it been collecting dust here on the mantelpiece for eight long years?

  The hip flask had been a gift from his grandfather many years ago, who had now passed on.

  Maybe keeping a hip flask around when I’m out and about wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. There will be a time to come when I might want to drown my sorrows away and there’s no drinks cabinet nearby.

  “William! Take a seat,” commanded Clara.

  William abided and pulled out a chair and sat down on the far end of the table. Vera, his sister, entered the room wearing an exquisitely beautiful white gown. Vera took a seat on the opposite end of William, and she nodded towards him playfully with a smile on her face.

  “We meet again, dear brother.”

  “So it would seem,” he said and look
ed her in the eyes. He grabbed a napkin in front of him and polished his glasses and placed them on the table.

  The catering staff brought the supper in—freshly caught lobster from the west coast of Sweden with homemade mayonnaise, sourdough bread from the local bakery, and other delicacies. Clara brought in a tall stool and climbed on top of it with a box of matches and lit the chandelier herself. As if by the flick of a spell wand, the whole room came alive.

  For one second, the house no longer has the aura of that of a desolate mausoleum. Imagine that. It’s almost a home now. With emphasis on almost.

  “Lobster, once again? I was in the mood for something a bit more…plain,” cried Vera.

  “If you want plain, you shouldn’t have bothered showing up,” sneered her mother.

  William and Vera had little in common, save for their rebellious nature…and their raven-black hair. While Vera was as light as a feather and naturally blessed with the body of a gymnast in her prime, William had always been a bit on the chunky side. Unlike William, Vera was not cursed by the poor eyesight that had befallen him.

  I remember when she used to tease me for my Harry Potter-like hair…those were the days. A carbon copy of the wizard apart from the weight anomaly. I was bothered then, but no longer. Words don’t get under my skin any longer. We tolerate one another these days.

  “So, how’s my nerdy brother doing? Still a bachelor, are we? You aren’t getting any younger, you know…”

  I retract that last part.

  “Yes, I am still single if you are asking,” he murmured.

  “Like you have been your whole life. Shucks. Mother, pass me the pepper mill, will you? This lobster lacks a bit of punch in the spice department.”

  “Who the hell wants to ruin a delicacy like lobster with black pepper? You’re weird.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Quit yapping, the both of you!” said Clara and raised a glass of Bordeaux claret to her lips. “Let’s just enjoy our family dinner.”