by Don Wilcox
“Yes, I think I understand.”
“Can you imagine what that girl would be like after you had led her to the altar?”
“I’ve wondered about it,” I admitted.
“Chances are” said Steve “she wouldn’t be half so flighty as she seems.. I’ve read a poem somewhere about the quiet little woman who loved her home and all—”
Believe it or not, Steve actually tried to quote some poetry to me and his eyes got a very faraway look.
All and all we were the most uncertain lot of sailors you ever saw. We were dominated by these two conflicting emotions—fear and hope.
In our general discussions, the dominating note would be dangers that we all knew could strike upon us at any time—the certainty that our ship could be capped with a sphere of ice and instantly overturned and sunk. And in contrast were these individual hopes, half spoken, half secret, growing in the breast of each man—the hope that he might be the girl’s favorite.
The arctic winter came on us in earnest now. We came to a dead stop. All our prying and tugging at hooks and bars and anchors was to no avail. The shelf ice slipped down against us from the north. It crowded in under the bow of the ship and upended us. It crashed against the sides of the hull. Foot by foot we were elevated until we sat, high and dry, upon the thick, solid floor.
We were one with the distant land. We saw that we could walk toward the mountains, north, east, or south, without ever having to cross any waters. The waters were gone. Continents and islands were joined in one endless plain of ice.
You may have read of arctic expeditions in which such an imprisonment has brought on months of despair. Such was not the case with us. On the contrary. And the reason was Veeva. Everyone interested in her was secretly or openly elated over the plight of our ship. The ocean barrier between us and this glorious Viking beauty had been removed.
Days without apparent dangers had made for lax enforcement of the whispering rule. And now the captain yielded to pressure and sanctioned a few brief hunting expeditions.
Hunting suddenly became the popular sport—we called it polar bear hunting or seal hunting. Or, in the case of the captain, it was a scouting expedition to look for reindeers. But the important news from these expeditions became a matter of open interest—had anyone seen Veeva?
But once Steve Pound went hunting alone and didn’t come back.
A terrific blizzard set in and hung on for five days, and no rescue party dared go out more than three-quarters of a mile from the ship. The thermometer dropped to forty-seven below, and three sailors who had started off on the rescue mission were dragged home half dead.
When the storm’s fury was over, we made further efforts to comb the base of the mountain for signs of a lost man.
Finally we knew we were beaten. And still we waited, hour after hour, always expecting—
But Steve Pound did not return.
CHAPTER XIII
The Lady Borrows a Knife
My work kept me on board ship.
Lady Lucille was becoming more demanding. I had to work outside in some of that bitter weather. I could sketch for only a few minutes at a time.
Sometimes there was moonlight to highlight the contours of the icy mountains. Sometimes there were glorious northern lights and crackling electric storms that crept close to the surface. These were the features of the arctic night which Lady Lorruth wanted me to capture in my paintings.
In her commands to all of us, she was becoming exceedingly caustic and bitter. Her nerves were overwrought. Her eyes were forever shifting. She had lost the confidence of the crew long ago. Worse, she was losing that of Captain French.
She knew, too, that the men were talking about her.
“What are they saying?” she would ask me.
“How do I know, when they speak in whispers?” I would reply.
“They wonder why I’ve come up here, don’t they? They doubt my—my ideals.”
“I hope they have no reason to do that,” I said. “But you’re the only one who knows.”
Her lips would tighten and she would seem to be on the verge of a tantrum. But she would snatch for straws of comforting confidence, she often would plead with me.
“I’m going to make you a gift, Jim,” she said. “I’ll give you a valuable fur—one of the finest. But you must lie to the sailors for me. Tell them I’m pining for the love of my husband. Tell them I still have faith that he isn’t lost. Make them believe it, Jim. Don’t let them think I’ve only come to—to claim his treasures . . . But they’re mine—mine, Jim! Do you hear?”
“Of course they’re yours, Lady Lorruth—”
“Say it again, Jim. Say it again. Don’t look at me in that accusing way.”
It was pitiful to listen to her. This matter was burning into her soul. The more she talked the more she revealed that she was sure her husband was dead and that she was glad of it. Of course, I could say nothing to the crew for everyone knew by this time that one of her two highest hopes was to find the wealth of furs. And a perfectly natural and rightful want it was—except for the fact that she was glad her husband was dead.
Her other goal was to marry into Captain French’s fortune.
This truth became apparent to all of us.
But an awful fear was obstructing her plan. Her second goal was growing more remote. Captain French was losing interest in her.
Upon one pretext or another the captain had discontinued those comradely walks around the deck with her. And now the spark of truth was igniting her proud fury. The captain, along with the common deck hands, had become enamored of the Queen of the Ice.
This left to Lady Lorruth her first hope only. From day to day I could sense the intensifying of her passion to find the lost furs.
She would say to me, “I know Lord Lorruth has left them. We will find them. You can imagine how my people back in England will treat me when I return. I may be the wealthiest woman in the British Isles.”
“That will be wonderful,” I said to try to match her enthusiasm.
“And then Captain French will be very envious, won’t he?”
“I—I suppose so.”
“I’m sure he will. Men like Captain French aren’t easily swerved by trifles, are they?”
“Why, no—you know Captain French’s stout-hearted character as well as I.”
I was groping for these comments. Her arguments bore down upon me so insistently that I felt compelled to agree with her. When I dared controvert her observations she would fly into a rage and stalk into her room, slamming the door behind her.
Whether I should have pampered her or not I do not know.
“Yes, Captain French will see me in a very different light,” she smiled, with evil satisfaction. “He will be choked with jealousy, and then he will come to me and remind me of our old friendship. And do you think I will marry him then?”
This one I could not possibly answer. But she had her own answer.
“Not unless he comes to me on his knees. Not unless he apologizes for every moment of neglect. These are painful hours that I am enduring, Jim. For every hour of his infidelity through this winter night I will demand a hundred hours of apology when he comes to me on his knees.”
These fancies gave her a glow of sadistic delight.
Something Steve Pound had said to me kept humming through my brain. “Lady Lucille is going crazy.” That is what Steve Pound had thought.
I watched her intently as she stood there twisting a corner of paper on my drawing board into shreds.
“He’ll crawl, he’ll crawl. He’ll crawl on his hands and look up to me with eyes as jealous as green fire. He’ll sing his apologies in every key.”
“And then?”
“And then—ah!”
“You’ll—you’ll marry him?”
“Perhaps,” she said, “if it suits my pleasure. Or I may—yes, I may stab him through the heart.”
Her eyes were fixed upon a small putty knife which I used for cleaning
dried paint off the palette. The object fascinated her and her nervous fingers began to play upon the handle.
“Do you need this?” she said with a sudden change to a matter-of-fact mood.
“Frequently, yes.”
“I’d like to borrow it,” she said brightly. “My window keeps frosting over, and a case knife’s no good.”
“Very well.”
It was Professor Peterson who called my attention that evening to the fact that Lady Lorruth was sharpening this little putty knife on a soapstone.
“More idiosyncrasies,” I muttered. “She’ll bear watching,” he said.
Within twenty-four hours everyone was talking about her strange conduct. Professor Peterson thought I had better go to her and ask for my property. I was glad to obey. She met me at the door of her cabin and instantly I found myself on the defensive. Her manner was imperious.
“Tell Captain French to call an assembly,” she said.
Again I obeyed. We assembled on the east deck, which was partially roofed over by shelf ice that had crowded over the bulwarks and settled. There was considerable tension as we lined up. Shorty was perspiring in spite of the sub-zero temperature.
Lady Lucille Lorruth stated her demands with the minimum of words.
“I want my furs. I want every fur that Lord Lorruth had left for me. Somewhere there is a cache. You should have found it before this. I’m feeding you and paying you. There’s no more time to waste. I want you to go and get my furs.”
Captain French broke in with a blustering protest.
“How can we? We’re still fifteen miles from the place you said we’d find another cache.”
“So what do you intend to do?”
Captain French stammered. “We’ll wait till the ice breaks away, of course, and finish our voyage.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll set out on foot. Equip yourselves as necessary.”
“Fifteen miles in this temperature?”
“Those are my words. I can’t endure this agony of waiting. I’m the wealthiest woman in England and I won’t be cheated of another day of waiting for my riches.”
“I’m telling you, Lady Lucille,” the captain’s face was white. “We’re not working this right. If we want to find out what happened, we’ve got to contact these people.”
He made an indefinite gesture toward the eastern mountains.
“These people? What people?”
“You know—there are people out there somewhere. We’ve seen—”
“We’ve seen one,” said Lady Lucille bitterly. “That awful female. But she’s not a person. She’s a phantasm—an evil spirit—a curse!”
A curse! The word struck home. It caught us off guard.
“You know I’m right, Cedric Peterson,” she stormed. “You’ve read that book on the workings of maledictions!”
Professor Peterson faltered, “Yes, but I—”
Lady Lucille followed her advantage. “And you, Malonski, you’ll bear me out that these curses still work today.”
“Well, that one time I told you about—” Malonski began timidly.
“They do work. This female spirit is following us, haunting us. I forbid any of you to see her again.”
Captain French’s dark face trembled but he began muttering, and the next thing the two of them were arguing. Captain French insisted that the one sensible thing to do was to find the Ice Queen and have her tell what she knew of Lord Lorruth.
The meeting ended in a furious deadlock. It looked like Lady Lorruth and the captain had come to the ultimate clash. Lady Lucille hurled deadly threats. She was fairly screaming. We were awed, not so much by her threats as by her insane manner. Her language was as profane as any drunken sailor’s.
“I’ll cut the heart out of the first man who dares to speak with that diabolical siren. I don’t care which one of you it is. I tell you that woman has placed a curse upon my husband and upon us. Give heed to my words. It will be death for anyone of you who speaks to her—even you, Jim McClurg, or you, Cedric Peterson, or you—you—you—”
She was screaming at the top of her voice. With trembling fingers she was pointing at Captain French.
In that sickening moment, as he was backing away from her and we were all cringing at this terrible exhibition of madness, a flurry .of sleet and snow to the east of our ship caught our attention.
We turned and stared through our barricade of ice. Veeva the Queen was riding toward us.
CHAPTER XIV
A Party for Nobility
It was the strangest meeting that I’ve ever witnessed. The tiger stopped with his forepaws on the ship’s rail. Veeva the beautiful was before us, her eyes flashing boldness, her lips laughing. She was sitting side-saddle, and her bare legs were brown against the tiger’s coat of snowy white.
“Hello,” Veeva greeted.
None of us could speak without disobeying Lucille’s commands. But I smiled and nodded, and I noticed that several others did the same.
I expected Lady Lucille to burst into a fit of violence. Her hysteria was beyond the point of recovery. She was ready to fly into a torrent of irrational screaming.
No, she was past words. Instead, she drew from the inside pocket of her coat the little putty knife. It glittered like a new gem. It flashed up in her hands and she started forward.
Icy terror ran through my spine. Matching Veeva’s fierce beauty were her dazzling metal accoutrements. She wore on her side an ornamental sword and this she seized without an instant’s hesitation.
At the same time she emitted one of her boisterous laughs, gurgling and, irrepressible. It proved that this whole terrifying situation was no threat to make her heart quail. To her it was simply a ridiculous bluff.
“Come on, Lady, let’s play that we’re having a duel,” Veeva shouted with glee.
Then her rippling laughter ran up and down the scales. She slapped the tiger on the throat and it bounded down off the ship and out to a little plaza of ice. Veeva leaped nimbly to her feet.
“Come on,” she cried again. “We’ll let my tiger be the referee.”
The big pet gave a fierce growl.
Poor Lady Lorruth! Her upraised arm went stiff. She was mad enough to kill. But her helplessness was obvious. She turned and stomped into her cabin. The door went closed with a solid bang.
Would the captain dare to speak to Veeva?
Professor Peterson and I were the ones who chanced a violation of Lady Lucille’s stout restriction.
“Where’s Steve Pound?” I asked. “Have you seen him anywhere?”
“You could help us, Veeva,” the professor said. “You could tell us what we need to know. You saw that terrible demonstration. The woman is going mad. But if you could show us the way we might save her.”
“What do you want?” Veeva asked. “We want news of Lord Lorruth and his fur trading expedition. They came here five years ago. They were supposed to have reached a point fifty miles north of here. We’re sure that they came this far. We found a letter. We believe there’s a treasure cache—”
The captain interrupted with a challenging bark.
“And we want to know where you got those furs you are wearing.”
Professor Peterson tried to soften the tone of the conversation. “Your furs are your own business, of course. You needn’t answer personal questions unless you wish. But about Lord Lorruth—”
“And Steve Pound,” I put in.
The girl gave one of her amused laughs. “I needn’t answer any questions.”
Professor Peterson turned to the captain. “This lady is a queen. She deserves the finest hospitality that we can offer. Why do we allow her to stand out there on the ice? Can’t we persuade her to come and eat at our table? Isn’t it time for a party? We could serve a double ration of grog.”
The captain stammered and stumbled. The suggestion embarrassed him. His authority was being slowly consumed between two fires—the madness of Lady Lucille, and the cool rationality of Profe
ssor Peterson.
But the suggestion of an extra drink struck the captain at his weakest point.
The girl came aboard.
The tiger waited at a safe distance. We sat together at the table. Though it was a meager feast, the spirit was convivial, for we had no trouble persuading the captain that the occasion merited an extra measure of drink all around.
But the joviality was strained. Steve Pound was no longer with us. He had been one of Veeva’s foremost friends and champions. Now she cunningly evaded every question that any of us tried to ask about him.
And there were more immediate reasons for the nerve-strain that attended our party. I kept an eye on the dining room door fearing that Lady Lorruth might enter at any moment. Perhaps she had swooned in a fit of insanity. If so, this meeting might succeed in forming the confidence we needed.
But the captain was over-eager, and Gandl sat moodily silent. As often as Professor Peterson and I would be ready to pop an important question, something would be sure to break down the rapport we had established.
Finally Professor Peterson went out, dragging Shorty along with him. A little later Shorty came back and told me the professor wanted to see me.
Out of hearing of the others, Professor Peterson said, “We’ll call each of the men out one at a time. They’ve got to understand our tactics. Veeva is a queen. She may be the queen of some insignificant village of twenty-five natives, or she may be the ruling power over some world-wide secret society. You never can tell. At any rate, we’ve got to mobilize our efforts to bolster this reception. She’s a person of majesty. In her own eyes she may be far more important than Lady Lucille Lorruth. We’ll treat her accordingly.”
I said, “It sounds like insubordination.”
“It is,” said the professor, “but it is good sense.”