Best New Vampire Tales: Vol 1 Part 17

25 December: A sombre Christmas Day. De Vere, in an attempt to lighten the mood, produced a truly sumptuous Christmas dinner for us all, which did go some way towards brightening our spirits, and afterwards the Guvnor conducted a short but moving Christmas Day service for all the men save Walker, who cannot be moved, and De Vere, who volunteered to sit with the injured man. One thing for which we give thanks is that the storms which have dogged our journey thus far seem to have abated. We have had no further blasts such as the one which did so much damage, and the Guvnor is hopeful that it will not be very much longer before we may hope to see the coast of Antarctica.

28 December: De Vere has been spending a great deal of time with Walker, who is, alas, no better; Beddoes's worried face tells us all that we need know on that score. He has sunk into a restless, feverish sleep which does nothing to refresh him, and he seems to have wasted away to a mere sh.e.l.l of his former self in a shockingly brief period of time. De Vere, conversely, appears to have shaken off the adverse effects the rough weather had on him; I had the occasion to visit the galley earlier in the day, and was pleased to see that our cook's visage has a.s.sumed a ruddy hue, and the haggard look has disappeared.

De Vere's attendance on the injured man has gone some way to mitigating his standing as the expedition's 'odd man out'. Several of the men have worked with others here on various voyages, and are old Antarctic hands, while the others were all selected by the Guvnor after careful consideration: not only of their own qualities, but with an eye to how they would work as part of the larger group. He did not, of course, have this luxury with De Vere, whose air of solitude has gone some way to making others keep their distance. Add to this the fact that he spends most of his time in the galley, and is thus excused from taking part in much of the daily routine of the s.h.i.+p, and it is perhaps not surprising that he remains something of a cipher.

31 December: A melancholy farewell to the old year. Walker is no better, and Beddoes merely shakes his head when asked about him. Our progress is slower than we antic.i.p.ated, for we are plagued with a never-dissipating fog that wreathes the s.h.i.+p, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Brash ice chokes the sea: millions of pieces of it grind against the s.h.i.+p in a never-ceasing cacophony. We are making little more than three knots, for we dare not go any faster, and risk running the Fort.i.tude against a larger piece which could pierce the hull. On the other hand we must maintain speed, lest we become mired in a fast-freezing ma.s.s. It is delicate work, and Mr Andrews is maintaining a near-constant watch, for as captain he bears ultimate responsibility for the s.h.i.+p and her crew, and is determined to keep us safe.

I hope that 1911 begins more happily than 1910 looks set to end.

3 January 1911: Sad news today. Walker succ.u.mbed to his injuries in the middle of last night. The Guvnor gathered us all together this morning to inform us. De Vere was with Walker at the end, so the man did not die alone, a fact for which we are all grateful. I think we all knew that there was little hope of recovery; I was with him briefly only yesterday, and was shocked by how pale and gaunt he looked.

There was a brief discussion as to whether or not we should bury Walker at sea, or wait until we made land and bury him ash.o.r.e. However, we do not know when-or even if-we shall make landfall, and it was decided by us all to wait until the water around the s.h.i.+p is sufficiently clear of ice and bury him at sea.

5 January: A welcome break in the fog today, enabling us to obtain a clear view of our surroundings for the first time in many days. We all knew that we were sailing into these waters at the most treacherous time of the southern summer, when the ice breaking up in the Ross Sea would be swept across our path, but we could not wait until later when the way would be clearer or we would risk being frozen in the ice before we completed our work. As it is, the prospect which greeted us was not heartening; the way south is choked, as far as the eye can see, with vast bergs of ice; one, which was directly in front of us, stretched more than a mile in length and was pitted along its base by caves in which the water boomed and echoed.

Though the icebergs separate us from our goal it must be admitted that they are beautiful. When I tell people at home of them they are always surprised to hear that the bergs and ma.s.sive floes are not pure white, but rather contain a mult.i.tude of colours: shades of lilac and mauve and blue and green, while pieces which have turned over display the brilliant hues of the algae which live in these waters. Their majesty, however, is every bit as awesome as has been depicted, in words and in art; Coleridge's inspired vision in his 'Ancient Mariner' being a case in point.

I was standing at the rail this evening, listening to the ice as it prowled restlessly about the hull, gazing out upon the larger floes and bergs surrounding us and thinking along these lines, when I became aware of someone standing at my elbow. It was De Vere, who had come up beside me as soundlessly as a cat. We stood in not uncompanionable silence for some moments; then, as if he were reading my thoughts, he said quietly, 'Coleridge was correct, was he not? How does he put it: QUOTE.

"The ice was here, the ice was there The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound!"

END QUOTE; NO INDENT NEXT PARAaa 'Quite extraordinary, for a man who was never here. And Dore's ill.u.s.trations for the work are likewise inspired. Of course, he made a rather dreadful faux pas with his polar bears climbing up the floes, although it does make a fine ill.u.s.tration. He was not at all apologetic when his mistake was pointed out to him. "If I wish to place polar bears on the southern ice I shall." Well, we must allow as great an artist as Dore some licence.'

I admitted that I had been thinking much the same thing, at least about Coleridge. De Vere smiled.

'Truly one of our greatest and most inspired poets. We must forever deplore that visitor from Porlock who disturbed him in the midst of "Kubla Khan." And "Christabel," what might that poem have become had Coleridge finished it? That is the common cry, yet Coleridge's fate was always to have a vision so vast that in writing of it he could never truly "finish" in the conventional sense. In that he must surely echo life. Nothing is ever "finished" not really, save in death, and it is this last point that plays such a central role in "Christabel." Is the Lady Geraldine truly alive, or is she undead? He would never confirm it, but I always suspected that Coleridge was inspired, in part, to write "Christabel" because of his earlier creation, the Nightmare Life-in-Death, who "thicks men's blood with cold." When she wins the Mariner in her game of dice with Death, does he join her in a deathless state to roam the world forever? It is a terrible fate to contemplate.'

'Surely not,' I replied, 'only imagine all that one could see and do were one given eternal life. More than one man has sought it.'

De Vere, whose eyes had focussed on the ice, turned and fixed me with a steady gaze. The summer night was upon us and it was sufficiently dark. I could not see his face distinctly, yet his grey eyes were dark pools that displayed a grief without a pang, one so old that the original sting had turned to dull, unvarying sorrow.

'Eternal life,' he repeated, and I heard bitterness underlying his words. 'I do not think that those who seek it have truly considered it in all its consequences.'

I did not know how to respond to this statement. Instead I remarked on his apparent familiarity with the works of Dore and Coleridge. De Vere nodded.

'I have made something of a study of the literature of the undead, if literature it is. Varney the Vampyre; certainly not literature, yet possessed of a certain crude power, although not to be mentioned in the same breath as works such as Mr Poe's "Berenice" or the Irishman Le Fanu's sublime "Carmilla."'

I consider myself to be a well-read man, but not in this field, as I have never had an inclination for bogey stories. I made a reference to the only work with which I was familiar that seemed relevant, and my companion shook his head.

'Stoker's novel is certainly powerful; but he makes of the central character too romantic a figure. Lord Byron has much for which to answer. And such a jumble of legends and traditions and lore, picked up here and there and then adapted to suit the needs of the novelist! Stoker never seems to consider the logical results of the depredations of the Count; if he were as bloodthirsty as depicted, and leaving behind such a trail of victims who become, in time, like him, then our world would be overrun.' He shook his head. 'One thing that the author depicted well was the essential isolation of his creation. Stoker does not tell us how long it was before the Count realized how alone he was, even in the midst of bustling London. Not long, I suspect.'

It was an odd conversation to be having at such a time, and in such a place. De Vere must have realized this, for he gave an apologetic smile.

'I am sorry for leading the conversation in such melancholy channels, especially in light of what has happened. Did you know Walker very well?'

'No,' I replied, 'I did not meet him until shortly before we sailed from England. This was his first Antarctic voyage. He hoped, if the Guvnor gave him a good report at the end of it, to sign on with Mawson's next expedition, or even with Shackleton or Scott. Good Antarctic hands are in short supply. I know that the Guvnor, who has never lost a man on any of his expeditions, appreciates the time that you spent with Walker, so that he did not die alone. We all do.'

'Being alone is a terrible thing,' said De Vere, in so soft a voice I could scarcely hear him. 'I only wish that . . .' He stopped. 'I wish it could have been avoided, that I could have prevented it. I had hoped . . .' He stopped once more.

'But what could you have done?' I asked in some surprise, when he showed no sign, this time, of breaking the silence. 'You did more than enough. As I said, we are all grateful.'

He appeared not to hear my last words. 'More than enough,' he repeated, in a voice of such emptiness that I could make no reply, and before long the cook excused himself to tend his duties before retiring for the night. I stayed on deck for a little time after, smoking a pipe and reflecting on our strange conversation. That De Vere is a man of education and intelligence, I had already guessed from his voice, manner and speech. He is clearly not a common sailor or sea-cook. What had brought him to Australia, however, and in such a capacity, I do not know. Perhaps he is one of those men, ill-suited to the rank and expectations of his birth, who seeks to test himself in places and situations which he would not otherwise encounter; or one of the restless souls who finds himself constrained by the demands of society.

It was, by this time, quite late; the only souls stirring on deck were the men of the watch, whom it was easy to identify: Richards with his yellow scarf, about which he has taken some good-natured ribbing; Wellington, the shortest man in our crew but with the strength and tenacity of a bulldog; and McAllister, with his ferocious red beard. All eyes would, I knew, be on the ice, for an accident here would mean the end.

The dogs were agitated; I could hear whining and a few low growls from their kennels. I glanced in that direction and was startled to see a man, or so I thought, standing in the shadows beside them. There was no one on the watch near that spot, I knew, and while it was not unthinkable that some insomniac had come up on deck, what startled me was the resemblance the figure bore to Walker: the thin, eager face, the manner in which he held himself, even the clothing called to mind our fallen comrade. I shook my head, to clear it, and when I looked again the figure was gone.

This is, I fear, what comes of talks such as the one which I had with De Vere earlier. I must banish such thoughts from my head, as having no place on this voyage.

7 January: There was a sufficient clearing of the ice around the s.h.i.+p today to enable us to commit Walker's body to the deep. The service was brief but very moving, and the faces of the men were solemn; none more so than De Vere, who still seems somewhat distraught, and who lingered at the rail's edge for some time, watching the spot where Walker's remains slipped beneath the water.

The ice keeping us from the coastline is as thick as ever, yet we are noting that many of the ma.s.sive chunks around us are embedded with rocky debris, which would seem to indicate the presence of land nearby. We all hope this is a sign that, before long, we will sight that elusive coastline which hovers just outside our view.

17 January: We have reached our El Dorado at last! Early this morning the watch wakened the Guvnor and Mr. Andrews to announce that they had sighted a rocky beach which looked suitable for a base camp. This news, coming as it does on the heels of all that we have seen and charted in the last few days, has inspired a celebration amongst the expedition members equalling that which we displayed when leaving Plymouth to begin our voyage. The glad news spread quickly, and within minutes everyone was on deck-some of the men only half-dressed-to catch a glimpse of the spot, on a sheltered bay where the Fort.i.tude will be able to anchor safely. There was an excited babble of voices and even some impromptu dancing as the prospect of setting foot in this unknown land took hold. I suspect we will be broaching some of the twenty or so cases of champagne we brought with us.

And yet I found myself scanning the faces on deck, and counting, forever since the evening of that conversation with De Vere I have half-convinced myself that there are more men on board the s.h.i.+p than there should be. Quite how and why this idea has taken hold I cannot say, and it is not something which I can discuss with anyone else aboard, but I cannot shake the conviction that this shadowy other is Walker. If I believed in ghosts I could think that our late crewmate has returned to haunt the scene of his hopes and dreams, but I do not believe, and even to mention the idea would lead to serious concerns regarding my sanity. De Vere's talk has obviously played on my mind. Bogeys indeed!

The man himself seems to have regretted his speech that night. He spends most of his time in the galley, only venturing out on deck in the late evening, but he has restricted his comments to commonplaces about the weather, or the day's discoveries. The dogs are as uncomfortable with him as ever, but De Vere appears to be trying to accustom them to his presence, for he is often near them, speaking with Castleton. The dog master spends most of his time when not on watch, or asleep, with his charges, ensuring that they are kept healthy for when we need them for the sledging parties, a task which we are all well content to leave him to. 'If he doesn't stop spending so much time alone with those brutes he'll soon forget how to talk, and start barking instead,' said Richards one evening.

The dogs may be robust, but Castleton himself is not looking well; he appears pale, and more tired than usual. It cannot be attributed to anything lacking in our diet, for the Guvnor has ensured that our provisions are excellent, and should the need arise we can augment our supplies with seal meat, which has proven such an excellent staple for travellers in the north polar regions. It could be that some illness is doing the rounds, for De Vere was once again looking pale some days ago, but seems to have improved. I saw him only a few minutes ago on the deck looking the picture of health. While the rest of us have focussed our gazes landward the cook was looking back the way we had come, as if keeping watch for something he expected to see behind us.

20 January: It has been a Herculean task, landing all the supplies, but at last it is finished. The men who have remained on the beach, constructing the hut, have done yeomans' work and, when the Fort.i.tude departs tomorrow to continue along the coast on its charting mission, we shall have a secure roof over our heads. That it shall also be warm is thanks to the work of De Vere. When we went to a.s.semble the stove we found that a box of vital parts was missing. McAllister recalled seeing a box fall from the motor launch during one of its landings, and when we crowded to the water's edge we did indeed see the box lying approximately seven feet down, in a bed of the kelp which grows along the coast. As we debated how best to grapple it to the surface, De Vere quietly and calmly removed his outer clothing and boots and plunged into the icy water. He had to surface three times for great gulps of air before diving down once more to tear the kelp away from the box and then carry it to the surface. It was a heroic act, but he deflected all attempts at praise. 'It needed to be done,' he said simply.

I have erected a small shed for my scientific equipment, at a little distance from the main hut. The dogs are tethered at about the same distance in the other direction, and we are antic.i.p.ating making some sledging runs soon, although Castleton advises that the animals will be difficult to handle at first, which means that only those with some previous skill in that area will go on the initial journeys. It is debatable whether Castleton himself will be in a fit state to be one of these men, for he is still suffering from some illness which is leaving him in a weakened state; it is all he can do to manage his tasks with the dogs, and De Vere has had to help him.

And still-I hesitate to confess it-I cannot shake myself of this feeling of someone with us who should not be here. With all the bustle of transferring the supplies and erecting the camp it has been impossible for me to keep track of everyone, but I am sure that I have seen movement beyond the science hut when there should be no one there. If these delusions-for such they must be-continue, then I shall have to consider treatment when we return to England, or risk being unable to take part in future expeditions. I am conscious it is hallucination, but it is a phantasm frozen in place, at once too fixed to dislodge and too damaging to confess to another. We have but seven weeks-eight at most-before the s.h.i.+p returns us back to Hobart, in advance of the Antarctic winter; I pray that all will be well until then.

24 January: Our first sledging mission has been a success. Two parties of three men each ascended the pathway that we carved from the beach to the plateau above and behind us, and from there we travelled about four miles inland, attaining an alt.i.tude of 1500 feet. The feelings we had as we topped the final rise and saw inland across that vast featureless plateau are indescribable. All were conscious that we were gazing upon land that no human eye had ever seen, as we gazed southwards to where the ice seemed to dissolve into a white, impenetrable haze. The enormity of the landscape, and our own insignificance within it, struck us all, for it was a subdued party that made its way back to the camp before the night began to draw in to make travel impossible; there are creva.s.ses-some hidden, some not-all about, which will make travel in anything other than daylight impossible. We were prepared to spend the night on the plateau should the need arise, but we were all glad to be back in the icicled hut with our fellows.

The mood there was subdued also. Castleton a.s.sisted, this morning, in harnessing the dogs to the sledges, but a task of which he would have made short work only a month ago seemed almost beyond him, and the look in his eyes as he watched us leave on a mission of which he was to have been a part, tore at the soul. De Vere's health contrasted starkly with the wan face of the man beside him, yet the cook had looked almost as stricken as the dog master as we left the camp.

1 February: I did not think that I would find myself writing these words, but the Fort.i.tude cannot return too quickly. It is not only Castleton's health that is worrisome; it is the growing conviction that there is something wrong with me. The fancy that someone else abides here grows stronger by the day and, despite my best efforts, I cannot rid myself of it. I have tried, as delicately as possible, to raise the question with some of the others, but their laughter indicates that no one else is suffering. 'Get better snow goggles, old man,' was Richards's response. The only person who did not laugh was De Vere, whose look of concern told me that he, too, senses my anxiety.

6 February: The end has come, and while it is difficult to write this, I feel I must; as if setting it down on paper will go some way to exorcising it from my mind. I know, however, that the scenes of the last two days will be with me until the grave.

Two nights ago I saw Walker again, as plainly as could be. It was shortly before dark, and I was returning from the hut that shelters my scientific equipment. The wind, which howls down from the icy plateau above us, had ceased for a time, and I took advantage of the relative calm to light my pipe.

All was quiet, save for a subdued noise from the men in the hut, and the growling of one or two of the dogs. I stood for a moment, gazing about me, marvelling at the sheer immensity of where I was. Save for the Fort.i.tude and her crew, and Scott's party-wherever they may be-there are no people within 1200 miles of us, and we are as isolated from the rest of the world and her bustle as if we were on the moon. Once again the notion of our own insignificance in this uninhabited land struck me, and I s.h.i.+vered, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, and prepared to go to the main hut.

A movement caught my eye, behind the shed containing my equipment; it appeared to be the figure of a man, thrown into relief against the backdrop of ice. I called out sharply 'Who's there?' and, not receiving an answer, took a few steps in the direction of the movement; but moments later stopped short when the other figure in turn took a step towards me, and I saw that it was Walker.

And yet that does not convey the extra horror of what I saw. It was not Walker as I remembered him, either from the early part of the voyage or in the period just before his death. Then, he had looked ghastly enough, but it was nothing as to how he appeared before me now. He was painfully thin, the color of the ice and snow behind him, and in his eyes was a terrible light; they seemed to glow like twin Lucifers. His nose was eaten away, and his lips, purple and swollen, were drawn back from his gleaming teeth in a terrible parody of a smile; yet there was nothing of mirth in the look directed towards me. I felt frozen where I stood, unable to move, and I wondered what I would do if the figure advanced any further.

It was De Vere who saved me. A cry must have escaped my lips, and the cook heard it, for I was aware that he was standing beside me. He said something in a low voice, words that I was unable to distinguish, and then he was helping me-not towards the main hut, thank G.o.d, for I was in no state to present myself before the others, but to the science hut. He pulled open the door and we stumbled inside, and De Vere lit the lantern that was hanging from the ceiling. For a moment, as the match flared, his own eyes seemed to glow; then the lamp was sending its comforting light and all was as it should be.

He was obviously concerned; I could see that in his drawn brow, in the anxious expression of his eyes. I found myself telling him what I had seen, but if I thought he would immediately laugh and tell me that I was imagining things, I was much mistaken. He again said some words in a low voice; guttural and harsh, in a language I did not understand. When he looked at me his grey eyes were filled with such pain that I recoiled slightly. He shook his head.

'I am sorry,' he said in a quiet voice. 'Sorry that you have seen what you did, and ... for other things. I had hoped . . .'

His voice trailed off. When he spoke again it was more to himself than to me; he seemed almost to have forgotten my presence.

'I have lived a long time, Mr Edwards, and travelled a great deal; all my years, in fact, from place to place, never staying long in one location. At length I arrived in Australia, travelling ever further south, away from civilization, until I found myself in Hobart, and believed it was the end. Then the Fort.i.tude arrived, bound on its mission even further south, to a land where for several months of the year it is always night. Paradise indeed, I thought.' His smile was twisted. 'I should have remembered the words of Blake: "Some are born to sweet delight / Some are born to endless night." It is not a Paradise at all.'

I tried to speak, but he silenced me with a gesture of his hand and a look from those haunted eyes. 'If I needed something from you, would you help me?' he asked abruptly. I nodded, and he thought for a moment. 'There are no sledge trips tomorrow; am I correct?'

'Yes,' I replied, somewhat bewildered by the sudden change in the direction of the conversation. 'The Guvnor feels that the men need a day of rest, so no trips are planned. Why?'

'Can you arrange that a single trip should be made, and that it shall be only you and I who travel?'

'It would be highly irregular; usually there are three men to a sledge, because of the difficulty of . . .'

'Yes, yes, I understand that. But it is important that it should be just the two of us. Can it be managed?'

'If it is important enough, then yes, I should think so.'

'It is more important than you know.' He gave a small smile, and some of the pain seemed gone from his eyes. 'Far more important. Tomorrow night this will be over. I promise you.'

I had little sleep that night, and next day was up far earlier than necessary, preparing the sled and ensuring that all was in order. There had been some surprise when I announced that De Vere and I would be off, taking one of the sledges ourselves, but I explained it by saying that the cook merely wanted an opportunity to obtain a glimpse of that vast land for himself, and that we would not be travelling far. When De Vere came out to the sledge he was carrying a small bag. It was surprisingly heavy, but I found a place for it, and moments later the dogs strained into their harnesses, and we were away.

The journey up to the plateau pa.s.sed uneventfully under the leaden sun, and we made good time on the trail, which was by now well established. When we topped the final rise I stopped the sledge, so that we could both look out across that vast wasteland of ice and snow, stretching away to the South Pole hundreds and hundreds of miles distant. De Vere meditated upon it for some minutes, then turned to me.

'Thank you for bringing me here,' he said in his quiet voice. 'We are about four miles from camp, I think you said?' When I concurred, he continued, 'That is a distance which you can travel by yourself, is it not?'

'Yes, of course,' I replied, somewhat puzzled.

'I thought as much, or I would not have brought you all this way. And I did want to see this'-he gestured at the silent heart of the continent behind us-'just once. Such a terrible beauty on the surface, and underneath, treachery. You say here there are creva.s.ses?'

'Yes,' I said. 'We must be careful when breaking new trails, lest a snow bridge collapse under us. Three days ago a large creva.s.se opened up to our right'-I pointed-'and there was a very real fear that one of the sledges was going to be carried down into it. It was only some quick work on the part of McAllister that kept it from plunging through.'

'Could you find the spot again?'

'Easily. We are not far.'

'Good.' He turned to the sledge, ignoring the movement and the barking of the dogs; they had not been much trouble when there had been work to do, but now, stopped, they appeared restless, even nervous. De Vere rustled around among the items stowed on the sledge, and pulled out the bag he had given me. He hesitated for a moment; then he walked to where I stood waiting and pa.s.sed it to me.

'I would like you to open that,' he said, and when I did so I found a small, ornate box made of mahogany, secured with a stout bra.s.s hasp. 'Open the box, and remove what is inside.'

I had no idea what to expect; but any words I might have said failed me when I undid the hasp, opened the lid, and found inside the box a revolver. I looked up at De Vere, who wore a mirthless smile.

'It belonged to a man who thought to use it on me, some years ago,' he said simply. 'That man died. I think you will find, if you look, that it is loaded.'

I opened the chamber, and saw that it was so. I am by no means an expert with firearms, but the bullets seemed to be almost tarnished, as with great age. I closed the chamber, and glanced at De Vere.

'Now we are going to go over to the edge of the creva.s.se, and you are going to shoot me.' The words were said matter-of-factly, and what followed was in the same dispa.s.sionate tone, as if he were speaking of the weather, or what he planned to serve for dinner that evening. 'Stand close, so as not to miss. When you return to camp you will tell them that we came too near to the edge of the creva.s.se, that a ma.s.s of snow collapsed under me, and that there was nothing you could do. I doubt that any blame or stigma will attach to you-not with your reputation-and while it may be difficult for you for a time, you will perhaps take solace in the fact that you will not see Walker again, and that Castleton's health will soon improve.' He paused. 'I am sorry about them both; more than I can say.' Then he added some words in an undertone, which I did not quite catch; one word sounded like 'hungry,' and another like 'tired,' but in truth I was so overwhelmed that I was barely in a position to make sense of anything. One monstrous fact alone stood out hard and clear, and I struggled to accept it.

'Are you ... are you ill, then?' I asked at last, trying to find some explanation at which my mind did not rebel. 'Some disease that will claim you?'

'If you want to put it that way, yes; a disease. If that makes it easier for you.' He reached out and put a hand on my arm. 'You have been friendly, and I have not had many that I could call a friend. I thank you, and ask you to do this one thing for me; and, in the end, for all of you.'

I looked into his eyes, dark as thunderclouds, and recalled our conversation on board the s.h.i.+p following Walker's death, and for a moment had a vision of something dark and terrible. I thought of the look on Walker's face-or the thing that I had thought was Walker-when I had seen it the night before. 'Will you end up like him?' I asked suddenly, and De Vere seemed to know to what I referred, for he shook his head.

'No, but if you do not do this then others will,' he said simply. I knew then how I must act. He obviously saw the look of resolution in my face, for he said again, quietly, 'Thank you,' then turned and began walking towards the creva.s.se in the ice.

I cannot write in detail of what followed in the next few minutes. I remained beside the creva.s.se, staring blankly down into the depths which now held him, and it was only with considerable effort that I finally roused myself enough to stumble back to the dogs, which had at last quietened. The trip back to camp was a blur of white, and I have no doubt that, when I stumbled down the final stretch of the path, I appeared sufficiently wild-eyed and distraught that my story was accepted without question.

The Guvnor had a long talk with me this morning when I woke, unrefreshed, from a troubled sleep. He appears satisfied with my answers, and while he did upbraid me slightly for failing to take a third person with us-as that might have helped avert the tragedy-he agreed that the presence of another would probably have done nothing to help save De Vere.

Pray G.o.d he never finds out the truth.

15 February: More than a week since De Vere's death, and I have not seen Walker in that time. Castleton, too, is much improved, and appears well on the way to regaining his full health.

Subsequent sledge parties have inspected the creva.s.se, and agree that it was a terrible accident, but one that could not have been avoided. I have not been up on the plateau since my trip with De Vere. My thoughts continually turn to the man whom I left there, and I recall what Cook wrote more than one hundred years ago. He was speaking of this place; but the words could, I think, equally be applied to De Vere: 'Doomed by nature never once to feel the warmth of the sun's rays, but to be buried in everlasting snow and ice.'

A soft flutter of leaves whispered like a sigh as Emily finished reading. The last traces of day had vanished, leaving behind shadows which pooled at the corners of the room. She sat in silence for some time, her eyes far away; then she closed the journal gently, almost with reverence, and placed it on the table beside her. The writer's card stared up at her, and she considered it.

'He would not understand,' she said at last. 'And they are all dead; they can neither explain nor defend themselves or their actions.' She looked at her father's photograph, now blurred in the gathering darkness. 'Yet you did not destroy this.' She touched the journal with fingers delicate as a snowflake. 'You left it for me to decide, keeping this a secret even from my mother. You must have thought that I would know what to do.'

Pray G.o.d he never finds out the truth.

She remained in her chair for some moments longer. Then, with some effort, Emily rose from her chair and, picking up the journal, crossed once more to the rosewood desk and its shadows. She placed the journal in its drawer, where it rested beside a pipe which had lain unsmoked for decades. The ceramic cat watched with blank eyes as she turned out the light. In so doing she knocked the card to the floor, where it lay undisturbed.

Preserver.

TIM WAGGONER.

"That has to be the worst piece of c.r.a.p I've seen in some time."

Benjamin Moulton looked away from what could only charitably be called a sculpture, startled to hear his thoughts echoed so precisely. The speaker was a pet.i.te woman, not much over five feet. She wore her blonde hair short, the cut too ragged to be called a pageboy, although that's what it put him in mind of. He expected her to be dressed in blackaaafter all, well over half of the people milling through the gallery were. But she wore a maroon jacket which was a little too large for her and far too light for late January in Ohio, and a simple pair of jeans, not even designer as far as he could tell. In Benjamin's estimation, that gave her more real taste than ninety-nine point nine percent of the people in the place, himself probably included.

He smiled. "Don't hold back; tell me how you really feel."

She chuckled, the sound more mature, more knowing than someone of her apparent years should have been capable of making. She seemed to be in her early twenties, at most. "I could go on, but why bother? That ... object isn't worth the time it would take."

Benjamin looked at the sculpture again. It was by an artist he'd never heard of, someone named Kopinski. The piece was a hunk of wood, nothing more than a small upright log, really, that had been scored numerous times with a sharp object, the deep cuts criss-crossing and zig-zagging in random, senseless patterns. The hand-lettered placard on the wall said it was called Orpheus Screams, and that the artist was willing to part with this masterpiece for the paltry sum of $365.00.