“Solomon?”
“Ull, the god of winter. You descended on Antarctica that day and brought your storm with you.” He gives me a smile. “Don’t let your father fool you. He knows everything I’ve told you is true.”
“You think that’s why they named me, Ull?”
“I have no doubt.”
“Why?”
He laughs at this. “Because I gave you the name.”
This has me stunned. Dr. Merrill Clark named me? Ull, the god of winter. It sounds unbelievable, but now that I’m thinking about it, it makes too much sense. My father has very little interest in ancient cultures, religions or history in general. He's more concerned with capturing the here and now on film. But Dr. Clark, he’s an anthropologist who has written extensively on the ancient religions of the world, including the Norse gods. He’s telling the truth.
The insanity of all this has me shaken. For a moment, I understand why Mom and Dad kept all this from me. It’s so...unbelievable. So strange, even for me. If not for my experience with the Antarctic stone in my father’s safe, I might have discounted everything Clark said. But if it’s true...
I shake my head. Though I have a thousand more questions, I feel overwhelmed and need to process what I've heard. So I whittle my queries down to one and ask, “My parents kept this from me my whole life. Why are you telling me now?”
“To prepare you.”
“For what?”
“In case it happens again.”
6
I spend the next two flights getting to know Merrill, Aimee and Mira in a kind of round robin rotation where everyone switches seats and either strikes up a new conversation or continues an unfinished one. I’m sitting with Mira now, and it's dark, so she’s sleeping, but I’m wide awake. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been more awake in my life.
Not only am I on a small plane over a very, very cold ocean between Peru and Antarctica, not only am I sitting next to a girl whose presence still has me feeling funny, not only am I going home to Antarctica, but I’m now also afraid that the whole continent will explode beneath my feet the moment I step down from the plane.
I’ve had sixteen conversations since my first with Dr. Clark and not one could distract me from his account of my birth. So much so that I can’t remember long portions of those conversations. Me, the kid with the perfect memory, can’t remember! I must have tuned them out entirely.
For a moment I worry if I made a bad impression somewhere along the way. Maybe I stared dumbfounded while someone spoke? Maybe I drooled like I was in some kind of vegetative state?
According to the kids at school, that’s what I look like all the time, so I decide not to worry about it.
A yawn grips my body. When it lets go, I’m exhausted. I look around the cabin. Mira isn’t the only one asleep. Aimee and my parents are too. The only one who’s not is Merrill. He’s staring out his window.
I wonder what he’s looking at. It’s dark outside, so there shouldn’t be much of a view, and he’s looking down, not up, so he can’t be looking at the moon. He’s suddenly aware of me. He motions toward my window. He wants me to look. But Mira has the shade drawn.
I look back to Merrill. He’s insistent so I know there’s something worth seeing, and I know he won’t mind that I have to lean over his daughter to look. I reach over and raise the shade. Darkness fills the window. Just like I thought.
I lean forward, trying not wake Mira, but her nappy hair has exploded into a blond pompom around her head that is impossible to avoid. I pause, expecting her to wake up, but she remains asleep. I press my face against the window and look toward the front of the plane. At first I see nothing, but then, with my eyes adjusted to the dark, a wall of white emerges. Antarctica is just ahead, glowing in the moonlight like a continent-sized ghost. Beyond the sheet of white, an arc of dark blue fills the sky. The day is coming.
I’m dazzled by the sight for a moment. Until my fears return. Then I feel like I’m going to puke. I feel the same way when I go to the dentist. I sit in the chair, eyeing the room for any signs of drills or needles. If I see them, well, the physical reaction is severe.
Thankfully, I’m distracted by Mira, who has just stretched herself awake and in doing so has wrapped her arms around me. She pulls me down, bringing my face just inches from hers. My heart is pounding. Is she going to kiss me? I’ve never kissed a girl! Dr. Clark is probably watching! But...her eyes are closed. Then they’re open, looking into mine, growing wide.
“Hello,” she says, sounding confused and embarrassed. Then she notices her arms around me. She lets go and looks positively panic stricken.
“Hi,” I say.
“What...happened?”
“I was looking out the window,” I say. I’ve managed to pull my face away from hers, but am still too frozen to move away. “I think you grabbed me when you stretched.”
“Mmm,” she says, looking at the window.
I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore so I change the subject. “We’re almost there. Look for yourself.”
She moves to the window and I force myself to sit back in my seat. As I’m sitting, I glance back at Dr. Clark expecting to see a father’s glare. Instead he’s still staring out his own window. This eases my anxiety some, but the adrenaline flowing through my body as a result of almost being kissed will take some time to dissipate. I look at Mira, noticing her very full lips. Perhaps a long time to dissipate.
The “Fasten Your Seatbelts” sign glows red and the captain’s voice booms from the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are making our final approach to Williams Field, Antarctica. Please return your seats to their upright position and fasten your seatbelts. If you were smart enough to unpack your winter gear, put it on now. You’re going to want it when we open the doors.”
Everyone is awake now. Putting up their seats. Buckling their seatbelts. Rubbing their eyes. But no one is putting on any snow gear. I wonder if the captain knew this and was trying to be funny.
I feel the plane bank and then descend. I look past Mira. Through the window I see flat, white ice. The stars are just barely visible in the now navy blue sky. Morning on Antarctica.
The landing is smooth despite the runway being nothing more than densely packed snow. I wonder if the whole runway will break free and float away when I step on it. Even if it did, that wouldn’t matter much. The whole runway sits atop a sheet of ice that moves inexorably over and into eighteen hundred feet of ocean. Just a few years ago, in 1985, they had to relocate the entire airfield to its current location. As long as the frozen conveyor belt continues to slide away from the continent, they’ll have to move the airfield every fifteen years or so.
The plane comes to a stop and the captain enters the cabin. He’s dressed in snow pants and a white parka. “Listen up folks. It’s cold out there. Colder than many of you will have felt in your entire lives. There’s a transport waiting for you outside. They’ll take you to Willy Town while we unload your equipment. Gear up at Willy Town and visit the galley for your first taste of Antarctican cuisine. Any questions?”
No one has any.
The captain turns to the outer hatch and looks back at us. “Just do me a favor and don’t stand around in the cold. No one likes cutting off fingers, but we have to do it occasionally.”
The door clanks open. A burst of air and snow slams into the cabin but then quickly abates. A lot of people make loud “brrr” sounds and start rubbing their arms. I head for the door.
The captain gives me a once over. I’m dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck. As I realize my hair is floating around my head thanks to a buildup of head-rest static, I expect the captain to make an Andy Warhol joke, but this man is sinister. He aims below the belt.
“This isn’t a beatnik poetry session,” he says. “Get in the heated cab and bring a coat next time.”
What he doesn’t know is that I have a coat. I’m sure my mother is fishing it out right now. But I can’t wait. And I
want to do this on my own. If something happens, I don’t want anyone to see it. I don’t want anyone to be in striking distance, either.
I nod to the captain and head outside. A burst of Antarctican air hits me before I’m halfway down the steps. I breathe it in. I let it out. My muscles relax. A smile creeps onto my face.
I stop at the last step, looking at the packed ice just ten inches away. I move to step on it slowly, as I would ice that was a half inch thick, but am bumped from behind by one of the other passengers I did not meet.
“Are you nuts?” the woman says as she rushes past me, headed for the Sno-Cat transport waiting ten feet away.
I lose my balance and fall forward, landing hard on my feet.
Nothing happens.
I wait.
Still nothing.
More people are rushing past now.
Relief floods my system, further relaxing me. Maybe Clark was wrong about me? Maybe my parents had nothing to hide?
Then I look up at the plane and see Dr. Clark. He’s looking out the window at me, a big grin on his face. Nothing happened, I think, so what’s he so excited about?
Another passenger rushes by, this one dressed in a thick coat, but just as chilled as the others.
That’s when I realize what Dr. Clark has already figured out.
I’m not cold. Not at all.
7
The next day is so rushed and chaotic I rarely have a chance to remember I’m on Antarctica. It’s more like a snow camp for adults. I spend the first half of the day in a distracted stupor, trying to figure out how I seem to be immune to temperature changes. I know I felt cold at home. I remember feeling hot on the plane. But here, where I should be shivering with everyone else, I feel nothing beyond a comfortable warmth I peg around seventy degrees. With no explanations forthcoming, and no chance to discuss the development with Dr. Clark, I set my mind to my surroundings, and I absorb what I can of Antarctica.
There are more people than I expected. A few hundred populate Willy Town. At the center of the town are a few large, but moveable, buildings. Surrounding the buildings are rows of large metal shipping containers that store supplies, serve as homes and utterly devastate the landscape. The rows of bright red, green, orange and yellow look like the Breakout video game I used to play on my Atari.
After everyone is dressed, we shuffle from building to building, suffering through hours of briefings on weather, safety and schedules. Even Dr. Clark, who has spent more hours on the continent than most, must endure the endless lectures. The one interesting bit of news I learn is that my family is an official part of the Clark expedition, at least temporarily. We’re not here as tourists. None of these people are. We’re here to work, or at least that’s what everyone has been told. By the time we’re done, most people have warmed up, but now everyone is hungry and night is beginning to fall.
When given the option to eat food from our supplies or visit Willy Field Tavern, both my parents vote emphatically for the tavern. This comes as a surprise to me. In my lifetime I’ve never seen either of them take a drink. And they certainly haven’t gone to any bars. But they seem eager to visit the tavern and become slightly jovial as we maneuver through the Jujubes-colored maze.
We arrive at the tavern five minutes later. The white building sports angled walls and looks like it could fall over with the slightest shift of the ice. Two metal supports on the side validate this concern. But my parents and the Clarks all enter without pause, so I follow.
The inside is like something out of a movie— Bob's Country Bunker from The Blues Brothers. A real cowboy establishment. Even has horns mounted on the wall. Fluorescent beer signs adorn the walls and a thick cloud of cigarette smoke hangs in the air. I try not to cough, but can’t stop it. Mira is coughing now too. She gives me a look of disgust, apparently as unimpressed as I am.
As our parents lead us to the back of the establishment, I scan the room. Most of the patrons are men—large hairy men wearing thick, brightly colored, full-body snow suits. The few women in the room are surrounded by men, many of whom are staring at my mother.
I suddenly feel hot. I had yet to feel any kind of temperature change since our arrival, but now my cheeks are burning up. It’s not the air, though, it’s my emotions. An uncommon rage has struck me. I glare at one of the men eyeing my mom and catch his attention. I’m not sure what my face looks like, but the man actually turns away.
That’s when I notice more than a few people are looking at me. You’d think Mira, with her dark skin and light hair would attract more attention. Even the bartender is glaring now. He’s just standing there, rubbing a glass clean like it’s covered in sap, staring at me. One man, sporting a long white beard, sits in what appears to be a barber shop chair. When he sees me, he starts spinning the chair. With every rotation he meets my eyes again.
My anger fades rapidly, replaced by fear. These people strike me as wild. Some seem positively unhinged. Then I remember that there are no real laws on Antarctica. This isn’t the United States. There is no sovereignty here. Well, some would say I have sovereignty here, but I don’t think that would go over well with this lot.
We sit in a booth at the back of the room where a vent in the ceiling holds the smoke cloud at bay. It’s a tight fit, but the six of us manage, with the Clarks on one side, my family on the other.
“Kinda creepy in here,” Mira says to me.
I look out at the room and several people look away. “Very,” I say.
“What’ll it be,” Dr. Clark says, “Penguin Club or Salisbury Seal?”
I glance down at the menu. Sure enough, normal meats have been replaced with the Antarctican equivalent. Penguin is no doubt chicken. Seal is beef. The fish, well, that’s probably fish. “Penguin,” I say without missing a beat.
“Attaboy,” Dr. Clark says with something sounding so close to pride that I second guess my assessment of the menu.
The waiter, who also happens to be the bartender, appears at my side. He looks down at me while he speaks to the group. “What can I git for ya?” His voice is deep and rough. His accent southern, maybe Louisianan.
Dr. Clark and my father place the orders. The man seems to be keeping one eye on the pad of paper he’s writing on and the other on me. He stabs his pen onto the pad as he finishes, takes one step away and then stops. He turns back to the table.
“You look familiar,” he says.
“We were here thirteen years ago,” my father says. “Several years in a row. Ate here more than a few times.”
“Wasn’t talkin’ a you,” the man says, then looks at Merrill, who is about to speak. “Or you.”
He’s talking about me. As I grow nervous my mind plays through several rapid-fire scenarios, most of them ending with this man and several customers beating me to a pulp. My body tenses. Beneath the table, I feel my fingers tightening like they did that day in the living room. Like I have claws.
What’s wrong with me?
“You been here before?” the man asks.
“No,” I answer quickly, wishing the man would leave so we can eat and leave the smoke filled tavern.
He grunts, still looking at me.
My father, who seems nonplussed by the situation, nudges me. He hasn’t said a word, but I quickly understand what he’s telling me. I have been here before. But I don’t feel like talking about that for some reason.
Mira, on the other hand, does. “He was born here.”
The man’s eyes widen, and when they do I can see that one of his eyes is glass. He hadn’t been looking at me while he wrote. This calms me some, despite the grossness of his lazy, fake eye. He stares down at me for a moment. “Over at Clark Station?”
“Yes,” Dr. Clark says with a big smile, clearly happy that the man remembers me after all this time. “I’m Dr. Clark.”
But the man pays him no attention. “You going to be here long?”
The question is directed at me. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the tavern, Willy Town o
r the continent. With a shaky voice, I answer, “We’re staying the night in town and heading out in the morning.” I don’t say where we’re going because I’m not sure.
The man grunts, heads back toward the bar and says over his shoulder, “Welcome home, Ull.”
Everyone at the table is stunned to silence. Then Mom is smiling and laughing. “I had no idea they’d remember you!”
“First and only child born on the continent,” Dad says. “Probably hard to forget.”
All four adults are talking now, but I don’t hear what they’re saying. I’m still rooted to my seat, gripping the edges with my fingers. The rest of the tavern has fallen silent, all eyes on me.
Mira has noticed as well. She surveys the room and turns back to me. She looks nervous. In her fear, I find strength. I meet the eyes of those looking at me and nod my head in acknowledgement. This seems to break the spell and everyone returns to their business—eating, drinking, carousing.
Mira has seen the change in my body language and shoots me a look. I’m not sure where the will to face down a tavern full of the world’s thickest, hairiest men, came from. I can’t stare down a golden retriever. But I did. I give her a smile and she returns it.
I pull out an imaginary notepad and start writing on it with an imaginary pen, “Note to self, girls like it when boys stare down freaky old drunk people.”
Mira laughs out loud. A moment later, I feel her foot touching mine. This would normally cause me to flinch away or excuse myself to the bathroom, but I don’t move it. I allow the connection to be made. It’s subtle and our skin is separated by multiple layers of socks and boots. But we both feel the pressure and for a thirteen year old boy and a twelve year old girl, this is a significant step. I think. I’ve actually never done this before.
I smile back at her. In a matter of minutes I’ve managed to speak to the freakiest man I’ve ever met, stare down a room of drunks who all seem to know who I am and initiate physical contact with a girl that I now suspect will kiss me before I leave this continent. I’m changing, I think. And while I’m not sure where my newfound confidence is coming from, I like it.
The Last Hunter - Descent (Book 1 of the Antarktos Saga) Page 5