Lloyd listened, frowning. "That's good to know." The phone buzzed. Lloyd picked it up. "Yes?" he said impatiently. "I'm in a meeting."
There was a pause while Lloyd listened. McFarlane watched him, thinking that what Lloyd had said about Glinn was true. Secretiveness was a habit with Glinn—or, perhaps, an instinct.
"I'll call the senator back," Lloyd said after a moment. "And no more calls." He strode over to the window and stood, hands clasped behind his back. Although the worst of the storm had passed, the panoramic windows remained streaked with sleet. "Magnificent," Lloyd breathed, something like reverence in his voice. "To think we'll be at the island within the hour. Christ, Sam, we're almost there!"
He swiveled away from the window. The frown was gone, replaced by a look of elation. "I've made a decision. Eli needs to hear it, too, but I wanted you to know first." He paused, exhaled. "I'm going to plant the flag, Sam."
McFarlane looked at Lloyd. "You're going to what?"
"This afternoon, I'm taking the launch to Isla Desolación."
"Just you?" McFarlane felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach.
"Just me. And that crazy old Puppup, of course, to guide me to the meteorite."
"But the weather—"
"The weather couldn't be better!" Lloyd stepped away from the windows and paced restlessly between the wing chairs. This kind of moment, Sam, isn't given to many."
McFarlane sat in his chair, the strange feeling growing. "Just you?" he repeated. "You won't share the discovery?"
"No, I won't. Why the hell should I? Peary did the same thing on his last dash to the Pole. Glinn's got to understand. He may not like it, but it's my expedition. I'm going in alone."
"No," McFarlane said quietly. "No, you're not."
Lloyd stopped pacing.
"You're not leaving me behind."
Lloyd turned in surprise, his piercing eyes on McFarlane. "You?"
McFarlane said nothing, maintaining eye contact.
After a moment, Lloyd began to chuckle. "You know, Sam, you're not the man I first met hiding behind a bush in the Kalahari Desert. It never occurred to me you'd care about something like this." His smile suddenly vanished. "What would you do if I said no?"
McFarlane stood up. "I don't know. Something rash and ill-advised, probably."
Lloyd's whole frame seemed to swell. "Are you threatening me?"
McFarlane held his eyes. "Yeah. I guess I am."
Lloyd continued looking at him steadily. "Well, well."
"You sought me out. You knew what I'd dreamed of my entire life." McFarlane carefully watched Lloyd's expression. This was a man unused to being challenged. "I was out there trying to put the past behind me. And you arrived, dangling it, like a carrot on a stick. You knew I'd bite. And now I'm here, and you can't leave me out. I won't miss this." There was a tense silence in which McFarlane could hear the distant clatter of keys, the ringing of phones. Then, abruptly, Lloyd's hard features softened. He placed a hand on his bald head and smoothed his shiny pate. Then he ran his fingers down through his goatee. "If I bring you, then what about Glinn? Or Amira? Or Britton? Everyone's going to want a piece of this."
"No. It'll be just us two. I've earned it; you've earned it. That's all. You have the power to make it happen."
Lloyd continued to stare at him. "I think I like the new Sam McFarlane," he said at last. "I never fully bought that tough-guy cynic act anyway. But I have to tell you, Sam: this interest of yours had better be healthy. Do I have to speak more plainly? I don't want a repeat of that Tornarssuk business."
McFarlane felt a stab of anger. "I'll just pretend I didn't hear that."
"You heard it. Let's not play coy."
McFarlane waited.
Lloyd dropped his hand with a deprecating smile. "It's been years since someone stood up to me like that. It's bracing. God damn you, Sam, all right. We'll do it together. But you realize Glinn's going to try to scotch everything." He walked back toward the bank of windows, checking his watch as he did so. "He's going to be an old woman about this."
As if he had timed the moment—and later, McFarlane realized he probably had—Glinn came gliding into the office. Behind followed Puppup, silent and wraithlike, rapidly becoming a fixture in Glinn's shadow, his alert black eyes filled with some private amusement. Puppup covered his mouth, bowing and genuflecting in the strangest fashion.
"Right on time, as always," Lloyd boomed, turning toward Glinn and taking his hand. "Listen, Eli, there's something I've decided. I'd like your blessing, but I know I'm not going to get it. So I want to warn you in advance, there's no power on heaven or earth that's going to prevent me from carrying it out. Is that clear?"
"Very clear," said Glinn, settling comfortably into one of the wing chairs and crossing his legs.
"There's no use arguing with me about this. The decision's made."
"Wonderful. I wish I could go along."
For an instant, Lloyd appeared to be dumbfounded. Then his look turned into fury. "You son of a bitch, you've got the ship wired."
"Don't be ridiculous. I knew from the very beginning you would insist on making the first visit to the meteorite."
"But that's impossible. Even I didn't know—"
Glinn waved his hand. "Don't you think that, in analyzing every possible path of failure and success, we had to take your psychological profile into account? We knew what you were going to do even before you knew yourself." He glanced at McFarlane. "Did Sam here insist on going along, too?"
Lloyd simply nodded.
"I see. The port stern launch will be your best bet. It's the smallest and most maneuverable. I've arranged for Mr. Howell to take you in. I've also ordered haversacks with food, water, matches, fuel, flashlights, and so forth—and, of course, a GPS unit and two-way radios. I assume you'll want Puppup to guide you?"
"Delighted to be of assistance," sung out Puppup.
Lloyd glanced from Glinn to Puppup and back again. After a moment, he gave a rueful chuckle. "Nobody likes to be predictable. Does anything surprise you?"
"You didn't hire me to be surprised, Mr. Lloyd. You're only going to have a few hours of daylight, so you need to push off as soon as the ship arrives in the Franklin Channel. You might want to consider waiting until tomorrow morning."
Lloyd shook his head. "No. My time is short here."
Glinn nodded, as if he had expected as much. "Puppup tells me of a small half-moon beach on the lee end of the island. You can run the motor launch right up on the shingle.You'll need to be in and out of there fairly quickly."
Lloyd sighed. "You really know how to take the romance out of life."
"No," said Glinn, standing up. "I only take out the uncertainty." He nodded out the windows. "If you want romance, come take a look out there."
They stepped forward. McFarlane could see a small island, just coming into view, even darker than the black water around it.
"That, gentlemen, is Isla Desolación."
McFarlane looked at it, mingled curiosity and trepidation quickening within him. A single shaft of light moved across the brutal rocks, vanishing and reappearing at the caprice of the enshrouding fogs. Immense seas tore at its rocky shore. At its northern end, he made out a cloven volcanic plug: a double spire of rock. Snaking through the central valley was a deep snowfield, its icy center exposed and polished by the wind: a turquoise jewel in the monochromatic seascape.
After a moment, Lloyd spoke: "By God, there it is," he said. "Our island, Eli, at the edge of the world. Our island. And my meteorite."
There was a strange, low giggle behind them. McFarlane turned to see Puppup, who had remained silent throughout the entire conversation, covering his mouth with narrow fingers.
"What is it?" Lloyd asked sharply.
But Puppup did not answer, and continued to giggle as he backed and bowed and scraped his way out of the office, unwavering black eyes fixed on Lloyd.
22: Isla Desolación
12:45 P.M.
WITHIN AN hour, the tanker had eased its bulk into Franklin Channel, which was less a channel than an irregular bay, circled by the craggy peaks of the Cape Horn islands. Now, McFarlane sat in the center of the open launch, his hands gripping the gunwales, aware of the awkward bulk of the life preserver strapped over his heavy jacket and slicker. The seas that caused the Rolvaag to roll uncomfortably were now tossing the launch around like a child's paper boat. The chief mate, Victor Howell, stood at the helm, his face furrowed with concentration as he fought to keep his heading. John Puppup had scrambled into the bow and was flopped down like an excited boy, each hand gripping a cleat. Over the last hour, he had acted as an impromptu harbor pilot for the Rolvaag, and his infrequent murmured words had turned what would have been a harrowing approach into one that was merely nail-biting. Now his face was turned to the island, light snow settling on his narrow shoulders.
The launch bucked and twisted, and McFarlane clung tighter.
The chop eased as the launch approached the lee of Isla Desolación. The island reared up before them, true to its name: black rocks poking up like broken knuckles through windblown patches of snow. A cove came into sight, dark under the shadow of a ledge. Following Puppup's signal, Howell turned the launch toward it. At ten yards out he cut the engine, raising the propeller shaft simultaneously. The boat glided in, crunching lightly onto the shingle beach. Puppup sprang out like a monkey, and McFarlane followed. He turned to offer Lloyd a hand.
"I'm not that old, for chrissakes," Lloyd said as he grabbed a pack and hopped out.
Howell backed the boat off with a roar. "I'll be back at three o'clock," he called.
McFarlane watched the boat slap its way from shore. Beyond, he could make out a zinc-colored wall of bad weather coming toward them. McFarlane hugged himself against the cold. Although he knew the Rolvaag was less than a mile away, he nevertheless wished it was within eyesight. Nestor was right, he thought. This is the very edge of the world.
Well, Sam, we've got two hours," Lloyd said with a broad grin. "Let's make the best of it." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small camera. "Let's get Puppup to take a picture of our first landfall." He glanced around. "Now where did he get to?"
McFarlane looked around the small beach. Puppup was nowhere to be seen.
"Puppup!" Lloyd cried.
"Up here, guv!" came a faint cry from above. Looking up, McFarlane made out his silhouette at the top of the ledge, framed by the darkening sky. One skinny arm was waving, the other pointing at a nearby ravine that bisected the cliff face.
"How'd he get up there so fast?" McFarlane asked. "He's a queer little fellow, isn't he?" Lloyd shook his head. "I hope to hell he remembers the way."
They walked up the shingles to the base of the ledge. Chunks of ice, washed ashore by storms, littered the strand The air smelled sharply of moss and salt. McFarlane squinted at the black basalt cliff. He took a deep breath, then started up the narrow crevasse. It was a tougher climb than it looked: the ravine was slick with packed snow, and the last fifteen feet was a treacherous scramble over icy boulders. Beneath him, he could hear Lloyd puffing as he followed. But he kept a good pace, fit for a man of sixty, and they soon found themselves clambering onto the top of the cliff.
"Good!" cried Puppup, bowing and applauding. "Very good!"
McFarlane bent forward, resting his palms on his knees. The cold air seared his lungs, while the rest of him sweated beneath the parka. Beside him, he could hear Lloyd catching his breath. Nothing more was said about the camera.
Straightening up, McFarlane saw they were standing on a rock-strewn plain. A quarter mile beyond lay the long snowfield that stretched back into the center of the island. Clouds now covered the sky, and the falling snow grew heavier.
Without a word, Puppup turned and set off at a brisk pace. Lloyd and McFarlane scrambled to keep up as they climbed the steady rise. With remarkable speed, the snow developed into a flurry, shutting their world down into a circle of white. Puppup was barely visible twenty feet ahead, a bobbing specter. As they gained altitude the wind picked up, driving the snow horizontally across McFarlane's field of vision. Now he was glad that Glinn had insisted on the subzero boots and Arctic parkas.
They crested the rise. The snow flurries swept aside, giving McFarlane a glimpse into the valley beyond. They were on the edge of a saddle overlooking the snowfield. It looked much larger from up here: a great blue-white mass, almost glacial in its irresistibility. It ran down the center of the valley, surrounded by low hills. Beyond, the twin volcanic peaks thrust up like fangs. McFarlane could see another snowsquall boiling up toward them from the valley: an unrelieved wall of white that swallowed the landscape as it approached.
"Grand view up here, eh?" said Puppup.
Lloyd nodded. The fringe of his parka was dusted with snow, and his goatee was flecked with ice. "I've been wondering about that large central snowfield. Does it have a name?"
"Oh, yes," said Puppup, bobbing his head several times, his wispy mustache swaying in time. "They call it the Vomit of Hanuxa."
"How picturesque. And those two peaks?"
"The Jaws of Hanuxa."
"Makes sense," said Lloyd. "Who is Hanuxa?"
"A Yaghan Indian legend," Puppup replied. He did not offer more.
McFarlane looked sharply at Puppup. He remembered the mention of the Yaghan legends in Masangkay's journal. He wondered if this was the legend that had led Masangkay down there.
"I'm always interested in old legends," he said casually. "Will you tell us about it?"
Puppup shrugged, nodding his head again cheerfully. "I don't believe any of those old superstitions," he said. "I'm a Christian."
Once again, he turned suddenly and began walking, setting a rapid pace down the hillside toward the snowfield. McFarlane almost had to jog to keep up. He could hear Lloyd laboring behind him.
The snowfield lay in a deep fold of the land, mounds of broken boulders and debris lining its edges. As they came up to it, the fresh squall fell about them. McFarlane bowed under the wind.
"Come on, you lot!" cried Puppup out of the storm. They walked parallel to the snowfield, which rose steeply above them like the flank of a huge beast. Now and then, Puppup stopped to examine it more closely. "Here," he said at last, kicking at the vertical wall to make a toehold, pulling himself up, and kicking again. Cautiously, McFarlane crawled up behind him, using Puppup's toeholds, keeping his face turned away from the wind.
The steep sides of the snowfield gradually leveled out, but the wind swirled around them ever more violently. "Tell Puppup to slow down!" Lloyd shouted from behind. But if anything, Puppup walked faster.
"Hanuxa," he suddenly began in his strange, singsong accent, "was the son of Yekaijiz, god of the night sky. Yekaijiz had two children: Hanuxa and his twin brother, Haraxa. Haraxa was always the favorite of the father. The apple of his eye, like. As time went on, Hanuxa grew more and more jealous of his brother. And he wanted his brother's power for himself."
"Aha, the old story of Cain and Abel," Lloyd said.
The snow in the center of the field had been scoured away, leaving blue ice. It seemed impossibly strange somehow, McFarlane thought, to be trudging through the center of this nothingness, this child's snow globe of white, toward a huge mysterious rock and the grave of his former partner—while listening to this old man relate the legend of Isla Desolación.
"The Yaghans believe that blood is the source of life and power," Puppup continued. "So one day, Hanuxa killed his brother. Slit Haraxa's throat and drank his blood, he did. And his own skin turned the color of blood, and he got the power. But Yekaijiz, the father, found out. He imprisoned Hanuxa inside the island, entombing him below the surface. And sometimes, if people approach too close to the island after dark, on windy nights when the surf is up, they can see flashes of light, and hear howls of rage, when Hanuxa tries to escape."
"Will he ever escape?" Lloyd asked.
"Dunno, guv. Bad news if he does."
The snowfield began to slope downward, ending at last in a six-foot cornice. One at a time, they lowered themselves over the edge, sliding down onto harder ground. The wind was gradually abating and the snow falling more softly now, big fat flakes that spun and fluttered to earth like ash. Even so, the wind kept the barren plain scoured almost clean. A few hundred yards ahead, McFarlane could see a large boulder. He watched as Puppup began to jog toward it.
Lloyd strode over, McFarlane following more slowly. A wrinkled piece of hide lay in the lee of the boulder. Nearby was a scattering of animal bones and two skulls, a rotting halter still wrapped around one of them. A frayed halter rope was tied around the boulder. There were some scattered tin cans, a large piece of canvas, a sodden bedroll, and two broken packsaddles. Something was underneath the canvas. McFarlane felt a sudden chill.
"My God," said Lloyd. "These must be your old partner's mules. They starved to death right here, tied to this rock." He began to reach forward, but McFarlane raised a gloved hand and stayed him. Then, he slowly approached the boulder himself. He leaned over and gently grasped the edge of the frozen piece of canvas. He gave it a shake to clear it of snow, then tossed it aside. But it did not uncover Masangkay's body, only a welter of decaying belongings. He could see old packs of ramen noodles and tin cans of sardines. The tins had burst, spewing pieces of fish across the frozen surface. Nestor always did favor sardines, he thought with a pang.
Suddenly, an old memory came back. It was five years earlier, and several thousand miles to the north. He and Nestor had been crouched in a deep culvert next to a dirt road, their packs stuffed to bursting with the Atacama tektites. Armored trucks passed by just a few feet away, showering the culvert with pebbles. And yet they were giddy with success, slapping each other and chortling. They were ravenous, but did not dare light a fire for fear of being discovered. Masangkay had reached into his pack and, pulling out a tin of sardines, offered it to McFarlane. "Are you kidding?" McFarlane had whispered. "That stuff tastes even worse than it smells."
The Ice Limit Page 15