Free Afterlands by Steven Heighton Page B

scratching and correcting a rough map on the wall, discussing their position. Herron suggests that as Greenland is receding from view, they must be drifting toward the west-shore, and God willing tomorrow or the day after they might find themselves aground on the coast. It’s muskox loin to our dinners then, lads, he says. I hear as they’ll just stand in a circle and let you walk up and shoot ’em.
    Jackson says, I don’t reckon we’ll hit one any other damned way.
    When Kruger goes out to the floe-edge before sleep, a half moon is peering through long louvres of cloud over the snowy summits and blue glaciers of Greenland. There’s Tyson, standing at the earthquake-seam between the small and large floes, apparently checking one of the ice anchors they’ve dug in to hold them fixed. A glint of moonlight on tin as he cants back his head to drink from his flask.
    Kruger starts pissing as noisily as possible, aiming at a swath of hard ice. Tyson spins around, slipping the flask back into his jacket.
    Mr Kruger! I did not hear you come out.
    That preservative is not known to sharpen the senses, sir.
    After a beat or two: I beg your pardon?
    Your plan for rationing is a good one, sir, but you may not always make such good plans after consulting with your bottle.
    Folding his arms across his chest, Tyson lowers his brow like a bull. The visor of the Russian cap hides his eyes. His hands are bare. Mr Kruger—you were second mate aboard the Polaris . Out here you’re simply a castaway. Don’t forget yourself.
    It appears to me, sir, that you also are a castaway here.
    Kruger shakes and tucks his frosted member back into the fur trousers.
    If you will forgive my frankness, sir.
    Go back into the snowhut, Tyson says, and Kruger nods once and turns away.
    Oct. 22 . We have now given up all hopes of the Polaris coming to look for us, and this piece of ice will never do to winter on. So today I got the boats loaded, harnessed on the dogs, and so sledged all of our supplies across onto the big floe. It is fortunate, indeed, that we have these boats. Humanly speaking, they are our salvation, for in an emergency we can use them either for the water or as sledges.
    Have had another talk with Mr Meyer about the locality of our separation from the Polaris . He thinks we were close to Northumberland Island, but I believe it was Littleton Island; he says “he ought to know,” for he took observations only a day before, and of course he ought to be right; but still my impression is that Northumberland Island is larger than the one the Polaris steamed behind. I wish I had a chart, or some means of knowing for certain. Meyer has now taken to reminding me that he is a “trained meteorologist,” by which he means “educated man”—and educated “in Europe,” too! Apparently books and diplomas count with him for more than experience. He has little of that . What with his blond, retreating hair grown somewhat long in the back, his full moustaches, and his hawk nose, he looks somewhat as the famed Colonel Custer might if that gentleman wore spectacles.
    The weather has come on very bad; but, fortunately, we have got our new snow-houses built. We have quite an encampment—one “officers’ hut,” or rather a sort of half-hut, for Mr Meyer and myself; Esquimau Joe’s hut for himself, Hannah, and Punnie; a hut for the crewmen; a store-hut for our provisions; and a cook-house, all united by arched alley-ways built of snow. There is one main entrance, and smaller ones branching off to the several apartments, or huts. Hans has built his family hut separately, but nearby.
    Joe did most of the work building these huts, or igloos —he knew best how to do it—but we all assisted. We have to do things fast, because there is not much light to work by; only about six hours a day, and not very clear then. On cloudy or stormy days it is dark all the time. Tomorrow, according to Mr Meyer, we shall see the last of the full sun until well into the