The Rope Eater

by Ben Jones

  “We don’t even know if the islands are real,” burst out Reinhold. “That crazy beetle hunter’s book—he probably made the whole damn thing up. We don’t even know if he went.”

  “What if he did?” said Adney. “What if it’s right there—right over those ridges? Then we freeze to death or starve on broth when we could have saved ourselves. And besides, it’s not just the book—you saw the log for yourselves—how did that get there? The doctor’s got proof it’s there anyway—don’t you, Doctor?”

  Dr. Architeuthis sat smiling by the entrance. Without speaking, he reached into his bag and pulled out the map. He unrolled it carefully over Creely’s stomach. Adney lit a candle from the stove and held it high. The map looked black in the candlelight. The lines from the wall of the cabin had been traced and retraced until they looked like black gouges; I saw flashes of tiny figures— they might have been numbers—laid over each other in insectivorous clumps like angry wasps; these were crossed by slashing lines with antipodal lines cutting them. Architeuthis pointed into the maze of lines.

  “Here you can see the sharp drop in salinity—a sign of the meltwater from the volcanic vents. We found the log here”—he pointed—“and lost the boat here. The heat indices do not rise, because at this distance the water temperature is held down by the increase in iceberg mass created by the glaciers Strabo mentioned. Based on the mass of the icebergs and the patterns of their fracture, the glacial Barrier must be here”—he pointed again—“which means that we were only about fifty miles at best and around seventy or seventy-five at worst from the strait.”

  Men began shouting, Adney and Reinhold above all, and jabbing at the map. Creely called for his skeet rifle and ordered the dogs released, then rolled over, and the map fell off into Griffin’s lap.

  “The map is rubbish,” Griffin said. “Sending men north with our supplies is a death sentence for those who remain, and suicide for those who go—all for a place that exists only in the math of the good doctor. We are not so far from Lancaster Sound—perhaps two hundred miles. With some good hunting and prudent rationing, we can make it. Though we’ve missed the whalers, there are Eskimo there who can help us. We’ll overwinter and then be picked up in the spring.”

  “The only chance for the weak is to favor the strong,” said the doctor. “We will not all make a two-hundred-mile journey; we would be fortunate if any of us made it—and there is no more guarantee that we would find the Eskimo, or that they would be disposed to help us. We can make the fifty miles north in four days with good conditions. Look at the map—we are so very close.” The doctor pointed; it certainly looked awfully close.

  West looked at the map and pursed his lips.

  “We are here?” He pointed.

  “Yes,” the doctor replied, “more or less. If we got even thirty miles north, the air would be warmer and it is likely that we would find better hunting and fishing in the warmer waters.”

  “And if we make it,” said West, “how do we return to the south?”

  “We’ll have wood—we can build a larger boat, and get supplies. We’ll overwinter, and then sail back to Lancaster Sound on the pack.”

  “And this,” West asked, pointing again to a spot just to our east, “is this land also?”

  “Possibly,” replied Dr. Architeuthis, “though it is likely to be indistinguishable from the ice at this time of year.”

  West stared at the map for a long time, and then up at Griffin for a moment.

  “Once we complete our searches here, we will head for the land to the east, all of us,” West said. “It looks like about thirty miles. There we will establish a base for hunting and fishing. If we are able to secure game from the land or the sea, we will send a small group north with supplies while the others hunt and gather their strength. If we do not reach the islands, those who wish to continue north may do so, and those who do not, may go south.”

  “And if there is no game?” asked Reinhold.

  “Then we will take such measurements as will determine whether we are in the channel to the strait, and if there is clear evidence of the islands, we will send a team north to find them. If not, we will move south along the edge of the land. There is likely to be smooth ice there and we will make better time than over the pack.”

  “Did you order some smooth ice along the coast for us?” asked Reinhold.

  “The water along the coast is shallower; the icebergs become grounded there and hold off the worst of the pack. The water along the shore stays clear longer, and when it does freeze, it is smoother than the open pack. In addition, the animals tend to stay closer to the shore, so the likelihood we’ll find food is higher,” answered West evenly. “The shore ice forms a sort of Eskimo highway along the coast of Greenland; it should function the same way here.”

  Reinhold whistled softly. We were all relieved to hear West present such a sensible plan. It was the first time I had been hopeful since abandoning the ship. I even managed some sleep that night and woke up feeling nearly alive in the morning.

  We circled back through the mountainous bergs, camped at the edge on the flat floes, and ventured in again with the dinghy to look for Aziz or the ship, or the dogs, or floating supplies. Some bleary nights, I imagined the plump face of Hunt poking through the tarp with a steaming vat of beef stew, his nervous face beaming. We found some decking and four tins of oil washed up on the ledge of an iceberg. Once I thought I heard the dogs barking in the distance, but it could have easily been the ice.

  After four days of looking, we packed up and moved off onto the pack ice again. Over us, a half-moon offered a dim white light that did us little good in the ridged shadows. The pack was absolutely silent but for the echoing scrapes of our oars and muttered oaths. As we moved, our breath hung behind us in great clouds, as if it would remain there for a thousand years, as if nothing alive had passed in the thousand before us. We made our way down such channels as would take us—Griffin calling out when we had a choice, which was seldom. He seemed to avoid portages when he could, often steering in roundabout routes to avoid putting us back on the ice. In a few situations, we had no options; we dragged up, laid Creely carefully to the side, and hauled the loaded boat out. With both crews on the lines, the boats moved fairly easily, though they were in constant danger of toppling on the uneven surface of the ice. Dr. Architeuthis steered the dinghy in silence, content for now to let Griffin lead.

  The work, far from warming me, seemed only to awaken me from my numbness to feel the cold again. I feared for my hands, which I had bound tightly; the dark kept me from knowing what was water, what pus, and what blood. The others pulled in silence beside me, faces set, shoulders hunched to keep off the sharp and pouring cold. Creely began to call out—first for an oar, then a line, then a harness for the dogs. He thumped my shoulder and laughed out loud, his head bobbing on his shoulders. His voice swung from a gay laugh to a perplexed mutter and he lapsed into silence. After a moment he began again in a singsongy voice. When we pulled out onto a floe again, the captain nodded to the doctor, who took Creely’s head in his hands. He took a pulse and, with the help of a lantern, looked at his eyes. Creely jerked his head away from the lantern, then turned to squint at it. Architeuthis shrugged to Griffin, his face expressionless; Griffin called us to hoist away.

  And so we trudged on. The moon dropped and shadows rose. Creely’s voice rang out, stilled. We moved from slushy water to tracts of more solid ice, where we relayed the boats a half mile at a time. Reinhold and Architeuthis rigged a harness that ran across their shoulders that let them carry Creely and still pull the boats—that way we did not leave him when we relayed. We saw no flick or flutter of life, no splash of seals or jumping fish, no cry of bird or huff of bear, no click or hum of insect. Any moment we paused, the silence settled like the cold, poured over and stifled us; the crump of our boots seemed pitifully muted, and the rasp of our breathing amplified. My old and hated heart thumped on with just enough force to let me know it would not be releasing me
soon. Such a time passed as I know not—the stars too seemed frozen in their places. I looked at them and thought of the great patience of ancient astronomers to map them, to see shapes in their disparate points—animals, gods, histories—to see them wheeling, careening, tumbling overhead. They stood over me, refusing to resolve into shapes, into bears or dragons, compelling the darkness rather than diminishing it; stood, obdurate, reminding me only of the distance that lay to light and to heat.

  We did stop finally, on a floe like the others, heaved the boats up, and covered them with a tarpaulin. Ash chipped free hunks of drifted snow that we piled on the sides. Adney spread the bags inside as best he could before we passed Creely in, then we followed one by one. Ash came in last and pulled the tarp tight over the opening.

  We sat in silence as my mind churned for what to say—what to say that would not pain—how not to cry out. Beside me Reinhold began to sing again, softly, without defiance, and so did Adney and I and the rest, and in that song a wave of relief passed from us, of quiet gratitude. With the stove roaring, even Griffin joined his squeaky tenor softly to ours.

  Adney lowered four strips of pemmican into the water as it began to boil, and a handful of potato shavings. The smell made me ravenous. He spooned it into mugs and passed them to us. I shared with Preston. He took a sip and passed it. I had a warm swallow with the memory of a potato in it and my mug was empty; I passed it forlornly back. Griffin made cocoa. I started to gulp it, then held off, and passed it to Preston. He sipped twice, then licked the edge of the mug. It was just enough to make me hungrier. As soon as the last cocoa was served, Griffin doused the stove. We rerigged and pulled off across the ice.

  After an interminable time, Griffin called the halt and we assembled the shelter. Adney lit the stove and made tea. Now I was more careful, drawing out my share into three sips and pausing between each. In the cold, the hot tea tasted of nothing. The stove was doused and we sat in silence and stillness. From the end of the shelter, a roaring snort announced that Reinhold, at least, had fallen asleep.

  The next march was as the last, except that we saw no water. The ice was badly hummocked and we were often forced to pull the boats off one peak from the top of the next one, with two or three standing below to try to keep the boats from falling and getting wedged in. Creely felt impossibly heavy, but bore the knocking and tumbling remarkably well when he was lucid; much of the time he remained mercifully insensible.

  When we emerged after sleep, we found the wind was blowing steadily from the north and the outside of the boats was nearly drifted up. We struggled to get loaded in the wind, but once we started we fairly flew along. The wind was freezing—it felt like a lash driving us east. When we made camp again I was exhausted and shivering and the others were as bad as I. There was no singing.

  “Good progress, boys,” said Griffin, over the hoosh. “We must be nearly there.”

  I plotted the taking of my meal as I marched—first to the cocoa as some small chunks might still be floating undissolved, and second to the hoosh for sinking meat.

  That night my scheme was successful—I had a bite of stringy meat in the bottom of the cup that I sucked delicately. When the cocoa came, I pushed the meat with my tongue between my upper lip and my gum and held it there while I sipped. Then I pulled it back down and rolled it around biting on it and prodding it, swallowing it finally with great regret as I drew hostile stares from around me. We had another sing that night after dinner, running through some shanties and some psalms and retiring not so cold as the night before.

  The weather was steady, around thirty below, but the wind was light and the ice was not badly broken, so the hauling was not too bad. We spent that night planning the hunting and fishing parties. Lacking any real skills, I was put to helping make some nets for fish. Adney and Ash would hunt inland with one rifle. Preston and I would fish; the doctor and Reinhold were going to hunt along the ice for seal, using spear and line rigs and our other rifle. I could hardly sleep for drooling.

  At noon of the next day, West saw a ridge of hummocky ice and the low rise of land in the distance beyond it through his telescope. We whooped and shouted and our voices echoed across the ice. We reached the rough ice sometimes in the undifferentiated evening—I could tell only because my stomach was screaming out for my tea. Griffin called a halt and looked through the scope. The land was not far—we could all see it clearly—but the ice was heavily hummocked and several icebergs were locked in close together.

  “Come on, Captain,” called Reinhold. “It’s not far—let’s press on and make a proper camp on the shore.”

  “Very well,” said Griffin. “Let’s heave-ho, men. It’s not far now.”

  In point of fact it was far, and difficult. The icebergs jammed into high ridges, and drifting snow had covered some loose piles of splintered ice that gave way under us as we scrambled over. When we reached the shore ice it was just as West had predicted: a quarter mile of smooth ice leading up to a rocky landfall. And we were hanging almost thirty feet over it on a pressure ridge pushed out in front of an iceberg. Ash had to take apart the raddies and rig a harness for the boat to lower it down. It was a treacherous climb, but we made it finally, and then fairly ran across the ice to the shore.

  It was exhilarating to be on the land again after months on the ship and ice. We shouted and sang as we brought up the boats and set up camp. We were on a low gravelly beach, with a ridge of low hills rising behind it; we pitched the boats behind a row of rocks for protection from the wind; Griffin ordered a double portion of pemmican for all of us. We all sang heartily, and slept bundled tightly, our stomachs feeling marvelously full.

  In the morning, the hunting parties were dispatched. Preston and I pulled apart a section of rope. He wove a small net from the pieces and a section torn from his own undershirt, while I dug out our fishing hooks and line. We headed out into the darkness, moved south along the shoreline. We hacked holes in the ice and Preston mounted the net while I lowered the hook with a small piece of pemmican skewered on it. Preston explored south down the shore and I raised and lowered and raised and lowered the bait. I thought sluggishly about what the fish might be thinking—jerking the line to attract attention in some imitation of piscine distress. I thought about drawing it tauntingly, seductively, arrogantly through the water, provoking the fish into biting. I thought about simply eating the pemmican myself and to hell with fishing.

  With no reaction from the fish, I moored the line to the ice with a spike and followed Preston. The shoreline consisted of a long, low, gravelly beach with some boulders marking the rise into low hills. Even the fine gravel had frozen into a solid mass like concrete. We went about a mile down, discovered nothing of merit, and made our way back up. My line held nothing, though the pemmican was still on it. Preston’s net also held nothing. He moved a little farther offshore and hacked another hole in the ice. He lowered the net, anchored it, and headed off, inland this time.

  Our day of fishing and meandering yielded nothing, and the others’ the same; no game or any signs of it inland, and no seals or bears on the ice. The doctor argued that he was required to spend his time gathering measurements rather than hunting, and West agreed. Adney and Ash hunted inland, Reinhold and the captain out on the ice, and West himself would remain to care for Creely, who seemed neither better nor worse.

  Another day, two, seven, and the land yielded nothing. Griffin cut our rations in half again—the same meals, but less put into the hoosh and the cocoa. The doctor added the contents of small vials to each hoosh, measuring out thick drops, and then carefully stoppering each again. It was vile, but at least it tasted of something. Beyond the standard pemmican and water, men devised all sorts of creative touches, given their limited store of ingredients. Some added a pinch of tobacco, some even blackened stones; some carried a scrap of potato peels or a dab of grease; Reinhold used a “soup bone,” a fragment of shoe leather that he added to every cup, then carefully removed, wrapped, and stored for the next. Oth
ers swore by a scrap of glove or coat, the remains of a tattered page, or a sliver of wood from our log, for luck as much as flavor. There were fierce debates about exactly when to add the pemmican; some favored early, as the snow was melting, because it “blended the flavors more”; others argued that that process washed out the flavor of the meat, and that the pemmican should be added only when the water was warm, “to keep the taste from boiling away.”

  One evening during our medical examinations, Reinhold told the doctor to look at Griffin’s foot, which had been troubling him. Griffin dismissed it, and glared at Reinhold, but eventually showed his foot to the doctor. Returning over the steep hummocks one day, Griffin had fallen and wrenched it. The ankle had swollen up considerably, and there was an open but bloodless white gash running along the arch. The doctor bound it up and suggested that Griffin remain off the foot until it healed.

  Preston and I were the first to catch something. After dozens of holes, Preston pulled up a set of tiny shrimp in his net. There were fifteen of them, and they were each less than an inch long, but they still seemed miraculous. A cheer went up that evening as they were ceremoniously added to our water. Even on my finely tuned palate, they tasted of nothing, and crunching through the shells put me in mind of eating a mouthful of toenails. They scratched going in and scratched going out, but the doctor insisted on making us eat them, shells and all.

  Our meager rations soon began to tell on all of us. It was difficult to rouse, difficult to concentrate. Preston and I set the nets and lines and retreated to the boats. Ash spent some days tightening up the hut and rigging a doorway that helped to keep the inside warmer. Then he refused to go outside again, remaining huddled in his bags. If he was handed a full cup, he drained it, angering all of us. Preston remained his silent and uncomplaining self, but began staggering badly while out on the ice and nearly lost our net. Griffin relegated him to quarters, and cut rations again. I caught nothing on the lines, but the net yielded a few shrimp every few days. Creely got steadily weaker, yet somehow hung on; he lay in front of us all the time, so we could not help but notice as he shrank and withered. He awoke us all several times by bellowing out in the night—more in anger than in pain—and he slept on without waking.