by Peter Tonkin
‘It’s the wind,’ called Henri reassuringly. ‘Blowing the ice crystals around. Pretty, huh?’
Ann found herself nodding, but she didn’t really agree. There was something unsettling suddenly about the alien way in which their surroundings were behaving and all at once she realised how dangerously at risk they might be up here. She opened her mouth to say something, but it was too late. Henri was in motion.
At least she could dispense with the duck walk and the herringbone placing of her skis. That fact, and the fact that, like her friend Robin Mariner, she had a habit of challenging fear head on, made her decide to go for it hard. She even pulled out to the side of his tramline tracks and pushed forward forcefully on her poles to make a bit of a race of it. Henri glanced across at her and crouched forward into a racing stance, meeting her challenge with a grin and a flash of teeth. Side by side, they shot across the top of the ice slope and onto the first part of the undulation. They were both experienced ski racers and used the slope perfectly, pushing hard off the crest and tucking their poles under their arms as they shot across the wrinkle in the terrain. It was not until the slope gathered up ahead of her again that Ann freed the poles and pushed really hard. Like Henri, she was moving very quickly now, and concentrating on clearing the slope first.
Then she was tumbling forward in a wild jumble of wood and steel and blocks of ice. Her ankles felt as though they had both been severely twisted and her right wrist felt broken. It was exactly as though the white slope ahead of her, so much like a wave in every other respect, had broken over her and inundated her in solid foam. The sound, too, brought a breaking wave to mind, for behind the overpowering roaring there was a sibilance as of a great slope of sand sliding away off the edge of a cliff.
She hit solid ground, face down, with stunning force. So hard was the impact, indeed, that it was a moment before she realised, horrifyingly, that she could feel nothing below her thighs. The impact, the confusion of what was happening to her was so overwhelming that for an instant she actually supposed that her legs might have come off at the knee somehow. But then reason began to reassert itself and, as it did so, a hand from heaven seemed to reach down and fasten on the scruff of her neck. With one unceremonious heave, like a kitten pulled up out of a dangerous stream, she was wrenched upwards and almost hurled onto level ground.
Suddenly, there was silence so absolute it echoed. Perhaps she had been struck deaf; it seemed as likely as anything else. Certainly, she seemed to have been struck blind. But she appeared to have got her legs back, at least. She began to move gingerly, checking her wrists and ankles, all of which hurt varyingly. This way she discovered that she still had both her skis and both her poles. She sat up, pulling her hands free of the wrist loops and reached up to lift her ice-clogged goggles up off her blinking eyes. In the overpowering glare of the early evening, Henri loomed over her, his face almost devilish with rage. She jerked back, dazzled eyes spilling tears down her cheeks. Because he was looking at her, she assumed the rage was directed at her. ‘What ...’ she began. His expression softened at once. He turned away, she felt him snap her skis free and her ankles felt better at once.
‘We have been a little unlucky, I think,’ he said quietly. ‘Though we are lucky still to be alive.’ As he spoke he turned back to wipe the tears off her cheeks and the ice off her goggles. ‘Look,’ he added when he had finished.
She replaced her goggles and looked down. Such was the magnitude of the shock that she was numbed by it. Coolly, distantly, far too calmly, she looked down at the slope they had just climbed. The top twenty yards of it was gone. The whole of that innocent-looking undulation had collapsed, and she realised that the slight valley in the rolling surface had in fact been a frozen crust covering a deep crevasse.
The top of the bluff of ice whose gently sloping side they had climbed did not join the cliff they were standing on at all. At her feet was a wall of ice which fell to untold depths away on either hand. Then, ten metres distant, as remote as another planet, stood another wall, the rear of the bluff that overlooked Atropos’s anchorage. The slope itself now ended in a tumble of snow blocks so steep that it would be death to jump down onto it. The path by which they had climbed up here so easily was gone. There wasn’t even any evidence that it had ever existed. They were trapped. There was absolutely no way back along the route they had followed to get up here. ‘It was an ice bridge,’ said Henri quietly. ‘I’ve heard of them but I’ve never come across one. I guess we broke it when we skied across it so hard.’
Ann tore her backpack off and ripped it open, reaching in for the walkie-talkie she had been so careful to bring. But it was no longer there. Her hand reached right through and out of a ragged hole in the bottom of the canvas. The walkie-talkie, the primus and the tins of food were gone. Derisively, only the silver thermal blanket was left. Ann looked down at it, stunned; the loss of the equipment brought home to her the full danger of their situation in a way even the sight of the collapsed ice bridge had failed to do.
‘What are we going to do?’ Her voice sounded remote in her own ears, like the voice of a stranger.
‘Look for another way down. I might risk throwing myself over the edge here and onto, the top of that slope way down there but it’d probably kill me. It would certainly kill you. Can you stand?’
‘I guess so.’ She began to pull herself together and climb to her feet. As soon as she was sure her joints were lightly sprained and nothing more, she put her skis back on. Henri switched his emergency beacon on and stuck it in the cliff top at the point where the ice bridge had collapsed. ‘Switch yours on too,’ he directed. ‘That way they’ll be able to find us more easily if we get lost.’
‘Won’t they get confused between the two of them? I mean it’ll be impossible to tell which beacon is us.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘One will be still and the other will be moving. They should be able to tell from that.’
‘As long as we are moving,’ she observed as she pulled the device out of her clothing.
‘Face it,’ he said. ‘If we aren’t moving then it probably won’t make all that much difference. Now, switch it on.’ She obeyed, and they were off.
They struck east to begin with, as this was the direction which should bring them nearer to the ship and their friends. As she moved forward behind Henri, following their long shadows along the cliff top, Ann had some leisure to look around. On their right, the cliff fell away after a safe distance of level ice wide enough to allow for the wandering of fatigued feet and the possibility of dangerous overhangs below them. Beyond the cliff was the lowering slope of the east side of the bluff, wide enough at this end to stand like another skyscraper wall parallel with their own, but plunging as though to a street between. On their left, observed only in nervous glances at first as she kept her attention focused on the untrustworthy ground at her feet, stretched the rest of the berg. They were on the rim of a vast plain which sloped away gently for what looked like many featureless miles before it gathered itself into what seemed to be a range of ice mountains on the far horizon. It was difficult to be absolutely sure, because the light was turning pink and this, combined with the polarisation in her light-sensitive goggle lenses, made it hard to distinguish ice from cloud or to judge distances at all.
The ice mountains, if that was what they were, seemed to come round towards them in a half-circle, the nearer slopes catching a dazzling rose light from the sun, startlingly emphasised by the smoky blue-grey shadows immediately behind them. The whole scene seemed quite unreal. Every time she looked at the mountains they danced like a mirage. Either there was a wind near them, or there was a strange kind of heat haze or the brightness was making her eyes water. The place was so contained, so unique that it seemed to dictate its own sense of scale and it was impossible to tell whether the nearest wavering slopes were one mile away or ten. They seemed to get closer but less real as the two walked on, following their increasingly monstrous shadows along the edge of the cliff.
Something more than the chill of the arctic night closed its fist round them then, for they began to realise that in this place where even colour seemed forbidden, life could not survive for long.
‘What are we going to do now?’ Ann had absolutely no idea of her own.
‘We’re going to find some shelter, then we’re going to become very good friends indeed,’ answered Henri. He avoided making it sound salacious or schoolboyish because the tone in which he said it was dead and very near defeat. ‘We have to get through the night without food and heat, and with nothing but these outfits to keep us warm.’ And even as he spoke, a wind came gusting past them which made the ice plain ripple as though it was melting and the ice mountains waver like clouds.
As they plodded doggedly northwards towards the mountains — the only promise of any shelter nearby — the last of the colour faded from the evening. Such was the reflective quality of the terrain around them, the last of the light lingered, seemingly multiplied by the glittering surfaces. They seemed to be walking through a magically luminous place even as the sky above them darkened relentlessly into a fathomless, velvet black. The effect was intensified by the wind which lifted the ice crystals into a series of stratified clouds which caught and held the light around them as though they were under glowing water.
It never really became dark. As the last reflected gleams of the long-vanished sun faded from the glassy slopes, so the first glitter of starlight shone out like the heart of a diamond. The nature of the liquid light carried in the deadly breath of the strengthening wind changed slightly. Ann was too weary, hungry and chilled to appreciate the beauty of what was happening around her, or to take even the briefest opportunity to estimate if what she had heard was true in fact — that one could read a newspaper by starlight in this place. Instead she forced her exhausted legs to push her skis forward one after the other, following Henri across the ice. There was no way for her to measure time. Certainly she had no wish to go through the complicated ritual of consulting the watch which was fastened round her wrist under the sleeve of her thermal vest, which was itself beneath her roll-necked pullover, her heavy woollen raglan, her Puffa and her elasticated parka cuff. Her timescale was reduced to the metronomic movement of her legs. Her eyes, fastened on the ground, soon became almost hypnotised by the whirling ice dust which concealed her feet and skis altogether.
This time when Henri stopped, he stepped to one side and reached out to her as she continued past him like a wind-up toy whose clockwork had not yet quite run down. She was so numb that his grip on her shoulder felt more like a force than a touch but it was enough to stop her and to call her back from whatever deep recess she had withdrawn into. She looked around herself with dazed wonder. As though by magic, just as her eyes tried to come to terms with the sharp hills immediately above her, the moon peeped over the horizon to the south-west.
She did not know it, but she shared a vivid childhood memory with her friend Robin Mariner: the story of the Ice Queen. Although her family had been Italian, she had been told a wide range of fairy stories as a child, like any youngster growing in the States at the time, and the works of Andersen and the brothers Grimm had featured largely in her childish imagination. Now she found herself looking up at the glacial ramparts of the Ice Queen’s frozen castle atop the mountain of ice whither she had so feared to be carried from her soft, warm cot. The sight of it chilled her heart until she felt like the Ice Queen herself.
The cold light of the rising moon made the ice bone-white. There was no hint of warmth or softness about the sheer slopes above her. The shadows were stark black and without the hint of velvet in the sky. It was as though they had stepped out of a modern world of warm colour into the steely, gleaming monochrome of a film noir. It was breathtakingly beautiful and utterly, numbingly terrifying at the same time. The slopes stepped up and back like a massive staircase, stark and sheer; and at the front edge of each step, a still cascade of icicles plunged down into great bunches of crystal daggers. It required a shift in her perception so profound that it actually made her head ache to realise that some of those glacial daggers must be twenty feet long.
But Henri was talking to her. She dragged her attention back to him. ‘... for some kind of shelter. A cave. A deep overhang. Anything.’ The wind battered across the level plain as he spoke, the renewed force of its blast driving home the urgency of his words. She nodded and then hissed as the simple movement tore at the frozen muscles of her neck.
Side by side, they began to follow the cliff foot, looking to the right, exhausted eyes probing the white walls bulging and receding behind the dangerous fringe of icicles. They resembled the flanks of monstrous animals caught behind the crystal bars of some huge cage. The wind boomed and snarled against the surfaces, making strange, disturbing noises as though the monsters were trying to break through to consume them. The ice crystals billowed out on the wind as though giving form to their breath and the wind itself gathered enough force to make the ice bars shiver as though the animals were battering against them. It was more than mere fear of falling ice that made them walk further and further out from the sinister cliff foot.
They were lucky to see the cave at all for it had a narrow opening and seemed to be little more than the moon-shadow of a particularly thick icicle. Ann’s eyes were fastened on the feline flank of the ice, watching fascinated as the combination of their movement and its slow rippling made it seem that the ice was breathing. Her mind was withdrawing from urgent, agonising reality again, but she was still concentrating hard enough to notice that the black band did not move like all the other shadows had done, and its stillness jerked her awake. She speeded up and grabbed Henri. He had pulled her the better part of five metres before he realised she was trying to attract his attention. ‘Oui?’
His face was fine-drawn. Masked as it was by goggles and framed with frozen spikes of fake fur from his hood, it looked other-worldly. In the dead-pale moonlight he looked ghastly, every bit as white as the ice slopes behind them; every bit as terrifying as the frozen-hearted characters from her fairy tale nightmares.
‘There’s an opening, I think ... something ...’
‘Alors! C’est vrais?’
‘Oui. Yes.’
‘Tu es certain?’
‘Yes!’
‘Bien! En avant.’
They turned, side by side, and began to work their way back. Henri was actually stumbling now, in spite of the fact that his skis were still on tight. Ann, uncertain that he had actually recognised her during their conversation, was suddenly struck with worry.
‘Henri!’ she called urgently to him, but her voice was lost beneath the thunder of the wind against the cliff. ‘HENRI!’
He slowed and looked down at her.
‘ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?’
she bellowed.
He shook his head and at first she thought he was saying no, but then she realised he was simply clearing his thoughts.
‘Sure,’ he bellowed back. And the one word, in English, put her mind at rest.
They found the cave with no difficulty and almost ran towards its fragile hope of salvation. The position of that huge icicle, standing like a stalactite outside the crack, firmly bedded in the overhang above, meant that they had to remove their skis to get close to the opening itself, and then they had to remove their backpacks to get in through it. Henri went first. Ann passed in the equipment, and then followed.
The opening was tiny, just large enough for her to squeeze through, and she wondered how on earth Henri had got in at all. The moon shone directly through the portal and, disturbingly, through the south-facing wall in which it stood, as though the whole wall was made of thick glass. Outlined against the white glow of it, the skis and poles stood above the black bulks of the backpacks. There was not much light in here, but when she took her goggles off, she could see.
Beyond the restricting portal the cave opened out into quite a substantial little room. There was just enough height for them to stand erect and more than enough floor space for them to lie down. The walls were a pale glimmer all around them and the whole aspect of the place was what Ann imagined the inside of a freezer must be like. But out of the wind, it was relatively warm and, for all that it was made of water, it was dry. The floor was covered in a thick drift of ice crystals and the first thing they did was to push them bodily across to the narrow opening and block it as far as they were able. Here the proximity of the icicle proved a blessing for it broke the force of the wind and gave their makeshift sand wall a solid backing which held it firmly until they were satisfied they had excluded all the draughts they could.