I search for something to say about my father, but can’t think of anything. I try to imagine him so that I might describe his face. But all I see is a blur, as though the lens peering into my perfect memory has been smudged. I try to imagine my mother. The results are the same.
Ninnis is on his feet now, storming toward me. I tense for a beating, but he stops. In one hand he holds the roast meat, its juices dripping down over his hand and forearm. In the other hand, he holds a knife. I’ve seen the blade before. It’s very old. About five inches long and sporting an engraved wooden handle. I’ve only seen bits of the engraving, but I think it’s some kind of military insignia.
“Speak, boy!” Ninnis screams at me. “Can’t you remember your own father?”
“I—I can’t,” I say. “I’m trying to remember him, anything about him, but I can’t.”
Ninnis steps back, all hints of anger erased. “And your mother?”
“Nothing.”
“Stand,” he says.
I obey, casting my eyes to his feet like a subservient animal. He takes my hand and places his knife in it. When he lifts my hand, my eyes follow. The tip of the knife is placed over Ninnis’s heart. He lets go of my hand, leaving the blade in my control. “I want you to kill me,” he says.
I stare at the knife, which has already nicked his skin.
“Kill me,” he repeats.
It would be so easy. A quick thrust and I would be free. But like a lost dog, I would simply roam the underworld, unsure, hungry and longing for the one who keeps me safe and fed. I can’t kill Ninnis any more than I can kill myself.
“Ninnis, no!” I shout, dropping the knife and wrapping my arms around him.
He stands there with his arms out for a moment, then returns my embrace. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s smiling. After stepping back from me, Ninnis holds out the roast limb. “Your reward,” he says. “Come. Eat with me.”
A true smile creeps onto my face and I sit with him by the fire. The meat is tender and fatty. I eat with gusto, but do not fill my stomach. When I place the meat down and wrap it in skins as I’ve watched Ninnis do, he nods in approval. I have learned far more than obedience during my time here. Ninnis has modeled moderation and survival skills I will need. I know which stones will light a fire. I know which skins are best for water and which are best for meat. I know to keep clean and free of infection.
We live like subterranean Neanderthals for a time, getting to know each other—two men living off the land—like hunters. I enjoy this time of bonding, of camaraderie. Ninnis is as good a friend as I’ve ever had.
I sleep and dream of egg-monsters. They dance around me. They fall at my feet, worshiping me, chanting the name, “Nephil.”
The vision fades as I’m nudged awake. Ninnis stands above me, his belongings slung over his back in a bundle of skin. “Time to go,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you.”
I gather my things, bundling food, scooping water in a skin and donning my climbing claws (Ninnis was impressed by them, but only recently told me so). He leads me through a tight passage. It’s tall enough to stand in, but very narrow. On the other side, Ninnis says, “Keep track of the small spaces you see. Remember them and they will save your life.”
I nod, but am not sure what could threaten Ninnis’s life. He seems a King in this underground realm. The tunnel beyond the tight fissure is vast, carved out by the river that falls into what was our living space. Erosion has smoothed out the river bed, but a sea of boulders skirts the eight foot wide waterway. It’s over these giant stones that we travel. Crystals glitter from the cavern ceiling and from many of the boulders. Ninnis stays in the darkest parts of the tunnel. He’s following a path I think he has traveled many times in the past.
After several hours I realize that we have been heading steadily up, but it’s not until the first hint of daylight strikes me that I realize how far up we’re going. The distant light is really just a speck, but feels intense on my eyes.
“Here,” he says, holding something out to me. I take the strange thing and look at it for a moment. Then I remember what they are and what they’re for.
“Sunglasses,” I say.
“Got them from a gatherer.”
I stop. He hasn’t mentioned gatherers before. In fact, he has said very little of the world in which I now live. “A gatherer?”
“Later,” he says. “Put them on when the light becomes unbearable, but you will eventually have to operate in daylight without them.”
“We go outside?”
He nods. “Occasionally. If ordered.”
“Like when you got me?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
I follow him over a line of stones that looks like a ruined wall. “What are we called?”
He looks back at me, confused by the question. I explain. “If there are gatherers, then there must be names for everything else in this world.”
A smile stretches across his face. “You’re quick. I can see why they chose you, Ull.”
Ninnis has been calling me by my middle name all along. So much so that I’m not sure what my first or last name was. I know I had them, but like everything else down here, my memory of them is a fog. All that remains is Ull. And when Ninnis finally answers my question, I know why he chose to use that name.
“There are gatherers, warriors, seekers, feeders, breeders, thinkers, and us.”
I lean forward expectantly.
“The hunters.”
I smile wide. Ull, the Norse god of the hunt. This pleases me.
One hundred yards from the tunnel exit, I can no longer bear the light. I put on the sunglasses and find they only offer partial relief. Ninnis is squinting but requires no artificial aid. The exit is a small hole dug into a wall of blue ice. Through the tunnel is a circle of blue sky. The tunnel is horizontal, so I realize we must be high up. Inside a mountain perhaps.
Ninnis pauses by the exit and reaches into his pack. He pulls out a small device and holds it out to me. I take it and flip the copper cylinder in my hands. For a moment, I don’t recognize it. Then, in a flash, I do. I take hold of one end and pull. The telescope expands.
I think I’ve used one before. Maybe even had one of my own.
“You like it?” Ninnis asks.
“Very much.”
“Good.”
“It’s for me?”
Ninnis nods. “A gift.”
“For what?”
Ninnis chuckles like I’m silly for asking. “For your birthday, of course.”
Some part of my brain, perhaps the part in charge of numbers, isn’t totally blurred out and I think, I’ve been here for eleven months.
“How is that possible?” I ask.
He understands what I’m asking. To me, and possibly him, it feels like a month, two at the most, has passed.
“Time is different here,” he says. “Outside, time moves faster. For us, we only met weeks ago. In that time outside, several months have passed. If I were to tell you how long I have lived here, I might say ten years. But in the outside world, perhaps one hundred years have passed.
“You’re one hundred years old?” I ask, eyes wide.
Ninnis grins. “I was thirty-four when I arrived.”
“One hundred and thirty-four years old...How is that possible?”
“A gift that now belongs to you. Your body will age as though it were still in the outside world despite your perception of time being different. But your body will resist the deterioration of age with uncommon resilience.”
“And when I reach your age, I will train my replacement?”
Ninnis shakes his head. “From what I understand, you are to be the last hunter.”
“The last?”
“Destined for some greater purpose. You need not worry yourself with such things right now.” Ninnis takes my shoulder in his hand. He motions toward the tunnel. “Let’s go try out that spyglass, eh?”
20
It takes five mi
nutes for my eyes to adjust to the light enough to see, even with the sunglasses on. Of course, it doesn’t help that the sky is nearly cloudless and most of Antarctica is covered in a sheet of sun-reflective white. I’d like nothing more than to retreat into my subterranean home, but Ninnis insists that I try out my birthday present.
The fact that it’s my birthday hardly seems deserving of mention or gift. It’s a tradition of the outside world, and I doubt I ever considered it a day of any significance. But I cannot deny the gift from Ninnis. Rejecting it would be an insult to the man who has given me so much already.
So I follow him over the snow-covered mountain. My bare feet sink into the white powder, disappearing beneath a foot of the stuff. It slows our progress, but we make it to our destination—a bare ledge—in good time.
Ninnis lies down on the gray stone, which is magically free of snow, and I take the spot next to him. Below us, the mountain stretches down, a long slope of white ending in a mixture of stone and snow. And this leads to a mixture of bright colors. Reds. Blues. Yellows. The colors make me sneer. They’re revolting. Like a blemish on the pure landscape. Beyond them is a long stretch of white that ends in a sliver of blue ocean.
Ninnis points toward the sea of bright colors. “What do you think?” He motions to the telescope. “Give it a try.”
I pop open the telescope and place it to my eye. The bright colors pop out as large metal boxes. Even uglier up close. Between the boxes are people, bundled in thick clothing. I observe them for several minutes, watching the lazy way they walk, the grime covering their hands and the gray snow beneath their feet. “Disgusting,” I say.
“Quite,” Ninnis agrees. “How do you feel?”
“Angry.”
“Why?”
I put no thought into the answer, speaking quickly and honestly. “I hate them.”
“Good,” Ninnis says. “Very good.”
A strong wind rolls down the mountain behind and over us. It scrapes away the top layer of snow and pelts our backs. The fast moving flakes sting my skin, but I’ve learned to deal with pain far greater than this.
Ninnis taps my arm. “I’m impressed.”
I turn to him. “With what?”
“Your resistance to the cold.”
I look at my skin. It’s pale white and like Ninnis’s, partially translucent. I can see the blue of my veins below. I turn my attention to Ninnis. His skin looks similar, but is pocked with goose bumps. He feels the cold. I decide to keep the fact that I feel nothing to myself. I don’t want Ninnis to think I’m strange. I don’t know why I fear that, but I do. He might stop being my friend.
“There,” he says, pointing beyond the blocks of color. “Quickly.”
I look through the spyglass and focus beyond the ugly city. A large airplane is parked on the ice. An airport, I think. The word sounds foreign in my mind, but I know what it means. A treaded vehicle pulls up to the staircase hanging down from the side of the plane. A line of people file out of the vehicle and rush up the stairs into the airplane. Weaklings.
The stream of people is followed by a final pair. They’re moving slower than the others, not worrying about the cold. Halfway to the staircase one of them stops. It’s a woman. I can tell by her shape. Brick house, I think, but I’m not entirely certain what it means so I keep it to myself.
The woman falls to her knees and is caught by the man. He holds her for a moment, while her body shakes. Crybaby. Then the man has her up and moving again.
“What do you think of them?” Ninnis asks, peering through a set of binoculars I did not see him take out.
“The man and woman?”
“Yes.”
I watch as the woman turns her face to the mountains as though looking for something. Her face is twisted, like she’s in pain, and for a moment I think she is looking right at me. Her gaze makes me uncomfortable, so I look at the man instead. He just looks sad, but unlike the woman seems resigned to whatever tragedy is making the woman weep. “Crybaby,” I say as a second wind rolls down the mountainside.
“Indeed,” he says. “Anything else?”
“I hope they all leave. This isn’t their home.”
“Very intuitive.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
“They came here to look for something.”
“Did they find it?”
“No.”
“Will they ever?” I’m not sure why I care whether they do or not, but I can’t help wondering.
“Never,” Ninnis replies with conviction. “It is lost to them forever.”
I watch them take the steps slowly and enter the plane. When they’re finally out of sight I feel restless. The need to get back underground overwhelms me. When I turn to Ninnis to ask about leaving, I find his head turned toward the sky.
I follow his eyes up and find the blue sky above us blotted out by a roiling storm cloud. “Where did that come from?” I ask.
“I was wondering the same thing.” He looks at me and is about to speak again, but a rumble we can both feel distracts him. He looks up. His eyes widen. Then he has my arm clutched in his hand. “Run, boy, run!”
I glance up as we backtrack toward the cave entrance. A wall of white is rolling down the mountainside. Avalanche, I think.
Faster than I thought possible, we’re back at the cave entrance. Ninnis motions me through. “Go!”
I dive in, sliding through the slippery tunnel with ease. Before I’m through I feel a wave of pressure pushing behind me. When I reach the cave and turn around to pull Ninnis through, I find him missing. The tunnel is sealed with packed snow. I dive into the tunnel and crawl to its end. I pummel and scrape the fresh cork of snow. But it is packed tight. Not even the sharp tips of my climbing claws can break through.
Ninnis is gone.
My friend is gone.
I mourn his loss for only a moment—sadness results in death—Ninnis taught me that, and then I turn to the tunnel leading back down into the heart of the mountain, and beyond that perhaps, the heart of Antarctica itself. I take a tentative step forward, the first tingle of fear taking root. I have no idea what waits for me in the dark, nor how to reach my unknown master. I am lost without my guide but—no.
I am not afraid.
I have survived worse.
Ninnis told me I was a hunter. Like him.
I glance down at my claws. I feel the weight of my pack and the supplies it contains. I am ready.
It’s time to hunt.
21
There are twenty-one small fissures in the walls of the underground river tunnel. These are the nooks and crannies I think I can fit through, but just barely. Fifteen more are tunnels I can crawl through easily, though I don’t know whether or not they shrink or expand later on. I suppose that’s true with all of them. Each could taper off to nothing.
Have patience, I tell myself. Explore each tunnel. Become as familiar with this place as Ninnis.
Three tunnels are tall enough for me to walk through, perhaps eight feet tall. Only one really counts as a branching cavern. It’s a stone’s throw away from the bottom of the river tunnel, where Ninnis and I first entered from our waterfall hideaway. It’s close to thirty feet tall. What’s strangest about it is that it seems to be the most worn tunnel. Many stones are crushed flat. The floor in the center is worn smooth, as though well-traveled. This seems like the most likely avenue to reach the ones Ninnis spoke of. Also the most likely place to find something to hunt.
Walking alone in the sparse dark space of the new cavern, I find myself relaxing, feeling right at home. I have a sense of having been here before. An uncommon familiarity. But I know I’ve never been here before. While I can’t see my past clearly anymore, I sense it wasn’t here. Or was it? Some parts of my memory—very old images—remain less fogged. I suspect because they are memories of Antarctica, perhaps of some significant event.
I focus on recalling this memory. Something about it feels important. Before I can recall anything with clarity, I h
ear a sound. It’s a gentle scraping, amplified by the echoing tunnel.
Crouching low, I advance. Boulders on the side of the tunnel conceal my approach. I move in silence like Ninnis taught me, keeping three limbs in contact with the stone at all times. Stealth and balance are keys to a successful hunt.
A scent tickles my nose. I suck it in slowly, tasting it. I cannot recognize the specific origin of the odor, but I know it’s blood. A fresh kill. I move closer. The scraping is just on the other side of a tall, obelisk-like stone. I chance a look.
My head pokes into view for the briefest of moments. But in that time I’m able to take everything in. The fresh kill is a large albino centipede, perhaps the size of my arm. Ninnis cooked one once. I have come to enjoy a lot of questionable meals, but the centipede was one of the more revolting. Even Ninnis cringed at its flavor.
The creature atop the death-coiled centipede must lack taste buds entirely, because its head is buried beneath the white exoskeleton shaking back and forth feverishly, devouring the slick insides with abandon. As for the predator, I’m not sure what it is. It’s hunched over, so I can only guess its true height, but it appears to be five feet long with two feet of tail and another two of neck. Its torso is about the size of a cocker spaniel. Its hind legs smack of ostrich, but the claws on its three toes are infinitely sharper. Its forelimbs are short, but dexterous, tipped with tiny hands that grip the centipede carcass. Shiny green skin, perhaps scaled, covers most of the body except for the back, where it is patterned with splotches of maroon. Though I fight the conclusion—it’s beyond imagining—I can’t help thinking that this is a small dinosaur.
How can I see all this? I wonder. I know there is no light here, but I can make out details like this without problem. I’ll have to ask Ninnis. But Ninnis is dead. A question for another time, then.
Right now, it’s time to hunt.
The creature doesn’t see, hear or smell me coming. With its head buried inside the centipede’s gullet, its fate is sealed. Perhaps if the ground was less firm, a vibration from one of my footfalls might give me away. But the cave floor is solid rock.
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