by Magnus Mills
“In so doing we’ll avoid the kind of restraint we witnessed at Modesty Bluff,” he explained. “I don’t want everybody holding back and saying ‘after you’ at this stage in our journey; otherwise, we’ll never get anywhere.”
In the event the winning lot belonged to Thegn, who mumbled his thanks but said little else when the flag was given him for safekeeping. Then camp was broken and the expedition pressed on. During the past hour the dust storm had worsened. This hampered progress considerably. With visibility little better than in the dark days of winter, frequent stops had to be made while Thorsson checked they weren’t straying from their correct course; and after every stop it became increasingly difficult to get the mules moving again. Snaebjorn had taken over from Thegn, but even he was having a struggle managing his charges (there were no sticks on hand with which to drive them). As the morning advanced, however, the gale occasionally subsided, allowing the dust to disperse and offering the travellers a brief glimpse of what lay ahead. It was always the same: a vast, desolate wilderness stretching away towards the horizon. With evident weariness, they covered yet another mile. Then Thorsson spoke to Tostig and a halt was called. It was almost midday. Beneath a leaden sky, Thorsson produced his compass and did some calculations in his notebook. He glanced to the north and to the east, before turning and giving Tostig a nod.
“This is it,” he said.
“The Agreed Furthest Point?”
“Yes.”
There followed a lengthy silence, during which Thegn thrust the flagpole disconsolately into the ground. Immediately the standard unfurled itself and began flogging violently in the wind. The men stood around gazing blankly at one another. Meanwhile, the mules raised their heads and set up a great, sorrowful wailing; swaying back and forth, they rolled their eyes to the heavens in an outpouring of abject despair. For a long time Tostig remained motionless, apparently lost in thought. He looked first at the mules, then at the land he had brought them to. Finally, he spoke.
“This is a terrible place,” he said. “They cannot possibly live here.”
∨ Explorers of the New Century ∧
Seven
“You know what I’d like?” said Sargent.
“No,” replied Seddon. “Do tell us.”
“I’d like a plate of freshly baked scones.”
“Oh yes?”
“Scones served piping hot with lashings of butter and jam. A bit of cream would be nice as well, just to finish the job; but the main thing is they’d have to be freshly baked.”
Sargent was reclining on his utility blanket with his hands behind his head. He watched as the tent billowed languidly in the wind, causing dappled lamplight to play along the walls.
“I’m afraid scones are off the menu for the time being,” remarked Seddon.
“No spare flour then?” said Sargent.
“No flour at all,” came the answer.
The tent had four occupants. Sargent was in his normal position by the door. Next to him was Summerfield, already fast asleep. Then came Seddon, and at the far end was Plover. The latter had adopted his usual pose. He was lying on his side, outstretched with his legs crossed and his head propped on one hand, facing the doorway.
He waited a moment and then said, “I think you’ll find that the correct pronunciation is ‘scones’.”
“‘Scones?’” repeated Sargent.
“‘Scones’,” repeated Plover.
“Well, I’ve never heard that before. We’ve always said ‘scones’ where I come from.”
“Same here,” agreed Seddon.
“I assure you the word is ‘scones’,” said Plover. “You should look it up when you get the opportunity.”
“Yes, I will,” rejoined Sargent. “When I get the opportunity.”
He reached over to the lamp and turned it off. In the neighbouring tent a muffled conversation could be heard, indicating that Johns, Scagg (and possibly Chase) were still awake. Sargent also seemed keen to continue talking.
“No flour, eh?” he said.
“Not an ounce.”
“Biscuits?”
“A few.”
“Beans?”
“Likewise.”
“I suppose there’s still plenty of the patent malt drink?”
“Yep,” confirmed Seddon. “The entire case was saved from the river.”
“Well, there’s a mercy.”
“Don’t you like it then?”
“I didn’t mind it at first, but to tell the truth I’ve had that much of the stuff it’s beginning to swill round inside me.”
“So you won’t mind when we start dishing it out to the mules.”
“What?!”
“We gave them the last of their mash this evening,” said Seddon. “The rest was washed away in the disaster.”
“Are you telling me they’re going to be sharing our rations?”
“According to Scagg, yes.”
“Blimey.”
“You should be quite pleased: it’ll give you something else to moan about.”
“Oh, I fully reserve the right to moan,” said Sargent. “It’s the only pleasure I get these days.”
A series of grunts and curses in the darkness signalled that he was finally getting ready to bed down for the night, and within a few minutes he was snoring. The other tent had now gone quiet.
“Tell me, Seddon,” said Plover. “What’s our exact position regarding the supplies?”
“Quite precarious,” Seddon answered.
“It’s going to be a close call, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“I thought as much,” Plover sighed. “What a damned fiasco this is.”
Not until several seconds had passed did Seddon respond.
“Pardon?” he said.
“Well, don’t you think so?” said Plover.
“Think what?”
“That this expedition has been a complete shambles from start to finish. Look at it: we’ve had one catastrophe after another: supplies running out; mules crushed or drowned; men strung out in one’s and two’s across half a continent; perfectly good tents abandoned; the list goes on and on.”
“And you could have organised it better, could you?”
“I’m just saying…”
“Look, Plover!” rasped Seddon. “I’ve told you before, I’m not interested in your weaselly sort of griping!”
“But Sargent complains morning, noon and night,” protested Plover.
“That’s different! Sargent is a time-served whinger of long-standing, and what’s more it’s a privilege he’s earned. In your case, if you’ve got anything to say you can say it directly to Mr Johns. Otherwise I suggest you keep your mouth well and truly shut!”
The snoring had ceased.
“Who?” said Sargent, drowsily.
“Nothing,” replied Seddon. “It was a disturbance over nothing.”
There was no further talk.
Outside, under the open sky, the five surviving mules were sleeping. Ever since the incident on the river, they had been allowed to shelter between the two tents at night, rather than being confined to the edge of the camp. The four males were tethered together in a group; the sole female, unrestrained, nestled amongst them. And so they remained for the long, cold hours before dawn, at which time Seddon emerged and started cooking breakfast. He was accompanied by Summerfield, whose usual duty was to prepare hot mash for the mules. This having run out the previous evening, however, he instead gave them a simplified version of the men’s rations. He then joined his comrades to eat. The morning was a dismal grey, and full daylight was very slow in coming. Consequently, it was not until the equipment was being packed up and loaded did anyone notice that the female had at some point slipped away. She was eventually spotted loitering some hundred yards to the west, and Summerfield was sent to fetch her back.
He advanced without hurry, setting off in a casual manner as if embarking on a country stroll. The mule appeared to ignore his approach, her
attention seemingly otherwise engaged; but when he drew near she moved out of reach again. Summerfield paused. He could now see what was occupying her. She was toying with a smooth blue pebble, the size and shape of a small egg. Sometimes she tossed it up and down, or weighed it in the palm of her hand; sometimes she rubbed it against her skin, carefully examining the blue stain it left behind. Still Summerfield did not stir, but continued to regard her in silence. Finally, curiosity got the better of her and she glanced across at him. With a faint smile on his face, Summerfield reached into his pocket and produced a similar pebble.
“Snap,” he said.
“Snap yourself,” said the mule.
He held his pebble towards her. “Would you like this?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Catch then.”
After catching the pebble and comparing it with her own, the mule then apparently lost interest in both and let the hand holding them fall idly to her side.
“Did you have enough to eat?” Summerfield enquired.
“Just about.”
“Good.” He smiled again. “Ready to go then?”
“Who?”
“You.”
The mule stared at Summerfield and said, “I do have a name, you know.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. What is it?”
“You didn’t think I had a name, did you? You just thought I was one of those ‘wretched mules’. The pretty female.”
“Well…”
“Gribble.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s my name. Nice, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Summerfield. “Gribble. Yes, it is very nice. Now we really should be thinking about moving.”
The mule ignored this comment. Instead she said quietly, “Your friend came and spoke to me last night.”
“What friend?”
“Peewit.”
“Ah,” said Summerfield. “You mean Plover.”
“We call him Peewit.”
“He’s not really a friend. Just a travelling companion.”
“He told me I should watch my step. He said I’d do well to remember which side my bread was buttered.”
“Yes, that sounds like Plover. Well, don’t worry about what he says. He has no authority.”
“I told him it wasn’t buttered either side.”
Summerfield laughed. “Very good, Gribble. Yes, that’s very good indeed.”
“I wouldn’t laugh too loudly,” she replied. “Grim the Collier is watching us.”
She nodded in the direction of the camp, and Summerfield turned to see Scagg standing some distance away, observing proceedings.
“Why do you call him Grim the Collier?”
“On account of his big black beard.”
“Oh, I see.”
“And we call your leader Dock.”
“What about me?” said Summerfield. “Have you given me a name too?”
“No,” answered the mule. “We haven’t.”
“Maybe you will after a while.”
“Maybe.”
Again Summerfield glanced towards the camp. Even from this distance it was evident that most of the gear had been packed and loaded. Soon it would be time to leave, yet he was making little headway with the mule.
“Your leader doesn’t allow us any buttered bread,” she said.
“No, he doesn’t,” acknowledged Summerfield. “Nevertheless, your welfare is of great concern to him.”
“But we live our lives dressed in sackcloth!”
“That is a simple matter of expedience; generally speaking you’re not treated badly at all. Mr Johns sees to it you’re sufficiently fed and watered; and as for the sackcloth, you should actually consider yourself fortunate: in some societies mules are made to wear bells around their necks.”
“And that makes me fortunate, does it?”
“Now listen, Gribble!” snapped Summerfield. “I’ve been patient with you so far, but I must tell you you’re seriously pushing your luck. You’ve already won a major concession in not being tethered at night, yet you continue to be troublesome. Now what’s brought this on exactly?”
“My burden is too great.”
“But you already carry less than the others.”
“It’s still too much.”
“Well, it can’t be helped. You must at least shoulder your fair share.”
“For what purpose?” said Gribble. “So that you can take us to the back of beyond and leave us there?”
“How on earth do you know about that?” demanded Summerfield.
“Because I’m not stupid!”
“Summerfield!” came a cry from the encampment. “What’s keeping you?!”
It was Scagg.
“Nothing of importance!” Summerfield called back. “Give me another minute, will you?!”
“All right, but we need to get going shortly!”
“You heard him,” said Summerfield to the mule. “Now do come on or you’ll get left behind.”
“What about my burden?” she asked.
“I’ll do everything I can to get it reduced. It may not be straight away but I promise I’ll try. Now, please, can we make a move?”
“I suppose so.”
“Follow me then.”
Without further debate, Summerfield turned and headed back towards the main group. Gribble trailed in his wake, still clasping her blue pebbles. She passed under the critical eye of Scagg, who shook his head but said nothing when Summerfield selected a few lightweight items for her to carry. Soon afterwards the signal to depart was given. United again, the five mules fell into line one behind the other, and the expedition resumed its northward course. Johns was keen to take advantage of the gradually improving light, which had been of great help recently despite the shortages and the ceaseless gales. The days were brief in length, and chiefly overcast, but compared to the weeks of perpetual darkness the situation had improved no end. In this respect, said Johns, they could commend themselves.
“Our original plan is at last approaching fruition,” he told Scagg that evening. “As you know, the idea of the winter journey was so we would reach our destination at the start of spring: the best time of year to establish any kind of settlement. Obviously the success of that remains in the balance, but at least it now appears likely we’ll arrive when we said we would, which is most gratifying.”
“‘The light at the end of the tunnel’,” offered Scagg.
“Indeed yes,” said Johns. “Day by day we’re getting a clearer picture of the type of landscape we’re set to encounter. A blank canvas, I suppose one might call it, on which we hope to make a mark.”
“I’m sure we will, sir.”
“Thank you, Scagg. Your support has been quite invaluable.”
“Have you come to any conclusions about the settlement itself?”
“Only dim ones, I’m afraid; but we must always live in hope. Now I wonder where Chase has got to. He said he was just going out to stretch his legs, but he’s been absent a good half hour.”
“This sounds like him now.”
Some boots scuffed outside; then the tent flaps parted and Chase entered.
“Sony about the delay,” he said, when Johns glanced at his pocket watch. “I detected a change in the atmosphere, a sort of heaviness, and I’ve been trying to define exactly what it is.”
“The possibility of rain?” enquired Johns.
“Sadly, no, sir,” replied Chase. “Rather a dry element, as a matter of fact.” He held out his sleeve to show them. “The air is laden with dust particles,” he explained. “This is a mere half hour’s worth.”
“Dust!” said Johns. “The last thing we need!”
“Blowing down from the north, too,” Chase added.
They listened as the canvas thudded laboriously in the wind.
“We seem to be under constant siege by harsh external forces,” remarked Johns. “Yet I wonder how we’d feel if we woke tomorrow and heard the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the roo
f? Homesick beyond measure, I don’t doubt.”
Carefully, Chase brushed his clothes and swept the dust outside; then he clambered into his own corner of the tent and got ready to go to sleep. “It’s the morning dew that I miss,” he said.
“Really, Chase?” said Johns. “So you’re a bit of a romantic at heart then?”
“Not really, sir,” came the reply. “But normally when it’s dewy in the morning it turns out nice later.”
“There’s not much chance of that happening round this place,” put in Scagg. “The weather’s always horrible.”
“I suppose it’s why no one’s bothered coming here before us,” said Johns. “Apart from our friend Tostig, of course.”
“Tostig?” said Chase. “Oh, yes: I’d forgotten all about him. I wonder how he’s getting on.”
“Same as we are, probably,” murmured Scagg.
Thereafter the discussion subsided. Chase and Scagg settled down quietly beneath their blankets, and within minutes the forlorn roar of the night had lulled them both into deep slumbers. Johns, though, stayed awake a little longer. For a while he sat motionless, his journal in his hand, gazing at the flickering lamplight. Along with the rest of his comrades, he had now grown a beard: not a grizzly one like Scagg’s, but, nonetheless, one that showed he’d been travelling for many weeks. It had been an arduous time. Behind him were stacked the depleted remains of his once vast range of equipment. His men were tired. The fabric of the tent was worn thin, and, outside, the flag was in tatters on its flimsy staff.
Johns’s reverie ceased when a sudden draught of air caused the lamp to flare up momentarily. He glanced down at his journal. Then, opening it on a new page, he took his pen and wrote:
Morale very good despite worsening conditions. Latest hazard has arrived in the form of flying dust. Most unwelcome.
Inadvertently mentioned Tostig this evening during talk with men. Hope it does not prove to be an unlucky slip. Feel we are nearing our goal and should hate for them to be disappointed.
At the close of the following day, just after supper, Johns asked for Summerfield to come and see him in the command tent. He arranged for Scagg and Chase to make themselves temporarily absent, then sat and awaited his visitor.