Bedbugs (47 page)

In the morning, after a breakfast of dried caribou meat and tea, I dressed warmly and went out to the ship’s hull to begin exploring. After walking around the perimeter of the ship several times, making hurried sketches of the ruins from several angles, I took a small oil lamp, lit it, and entered the split side of the hull where the day before I had seen the human remains. This time, I was better prepared for what lay within, and although the thought of the horror that had occurred here some time in the past made my stomach turn again, I moved past the human bones and proceeded deeper into the hollow belly of the ship.

It seemed obvious to me that the sailors, whether they were whalers or explorers, had indeed tried to survive here for some time before succumbing to the hunger and cold. The obvious remains of cannibalism made it clear to me that, as each man died, the survivors partook of the dead man’s flesh. Why they never tried to leave the wreck and travel south seemed obvious. They must have known that none of them would ever make it back to civilization. Why then, I wondered, as I looked around the insides of the scorched ship, why would they prolong the inevitable by engaging in such an unholy act as eating their own kind?

But I already knew the answer.

They, like all of God’s creatures, had clung desperately to life, no matter how futile or foolish the attempt to save it may seen. Perhaps, I speculated, the last survivor, crazed with loneliness and hunger, had tried to burn the ship to stay warm, or perhaps he had tried to burn it with himself inside. This seemed a likely scenario except for one significant fact: the broken bones inside the charred hull had shown absolutely no evidence of having been burned. It was obvious that whomever had eaten the human flesh and dug out the bone marrow had done so
after
the ship had burned.

No matter how long and hard I pondered this desperate situation, I knew that it was and would remain a mystery for all eternity. In the grand scheme of things, it was as if Ajut and I had never discovered this antique ship and never pondered the fate of the wretched individuals who lived and died here.

I made my way slowly through the interior of the ship toward the stern, guided by the flickering flame of my oil lamp. I passed through a warren of wrecked rooms and storage areas where much of the wood making up the inside of the ship had been stripped, no doubt to be used as firewood by the survivors. Deep inside the bowels of the ship, I noticed some things on the floor that did, in fact, look like fire-blackened bones, but I didn’t investigate them too closely.

I lost track of the time as I wandered through the wreck, trying to muster up some images, some indications of the fates of the men who had been here so many years ago, but finally I gave up, knowing that the secrets of what had happened here would remain locked in ice and time forever.

Suddenly, I heard Ajut calling my name from outside. After signaling that I had heard him, I started back toward the opening in the ship’s side, moving carefully so I wouldn’t fall over or bump into anything.

Perhaps it was the hand of God that directed me to place my hand on a particular cross beam, but whatever it was, I shouted aloud and jumped backwards when something white suddenly fluttered in front of my face. The frantic motion as I fell backwards almost extinguished my lamp, but after a few seconds, it burned brightly again. At first I thought I had merely knocked off an accumulation of snow, but once the initial rush of fright had subsided, I saw that I had knocked down a folded piece of paper that had obviously been secreted up on top of one of the wide cross beams.

Ajut called out my name again, sounding extremely concerned or excited. As I bent down to pick up the paper, I shouted to him, assuring him that I was unhurt. I took a moment to unfold the paper and noted that there was writing on both sides of it. The script was small and cramped together with no margins or paragraph breaks. It was written in French, but fortunately I had studied that language in college, and even with only a cursory glance, I recognized several words and phrases. I was trembling with the excited speculation that this might be a page from one of the survivors’ diaries or perhaps from the ship’s log. Hopefully by reading this, I could glean some idea as to who these people had been and what had happened to them out here on the ice.

As I stepped out of the darkened ship into the open, a sudden blast of cold wind took my breath away. My eyes instantly began to water from the stinging brightness of the snow that surrounded me. It took me a moment to notice Ajut, who was standing some distance from the ship and waving excitedly to me as he pointed with one hand toward the sun-hazed horizon. I tried to see what he was indicating, but my vision was still no more than a watery blur. He kept yelling excitedly as he pointed out across the rippling expanse of ice.

“There he is, see? Someone is out there on the ice, Father Robert,” he called out as I slowly made my way over to him.

In all the time I had known Ajut, I had never seen him this agitated or excited. He was practically jumping up and down as he pointed toward the northern horizon.

“He is gone now, but he was there! Did you see him? I tell you, I saw him go by.”

“Who?” I asked, still dazed by the sudden brightness and unable to think clearly. “What are you talking about?”

“Piss Eyes! I’m sure it was Piss Eyes!” Ajut said, practically shouting. “I saw him pass by. He was driving a sled, being pulled by a team of dogs. Do you mean to tell me you didn’t see him?”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head as though dazed. “I didn’t.”

Of course, I immediately suspected that Ajut was having a joke at my expense, but after tacking the folded paper into my parka pocket, we walked out in the direction he had indicated. More than a mile out onto the ice, we saw fresh, clear impressions of dog tracks and the runners of a sled.

Ajut knelt down and inspected the tracks carefully. “That sled was carrying a great weight,” he said. “And I could see, even at this distance, that the man in the sled was very tall.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If it was Piss Eyes. . . .” He lowered his voice as he stood up and, squinting, scanned the distant horizon. “If it truly was him, we would be wise to start back to rejoin the tribe as soon as possible.”

We went back to our temporary shelter to settle down for the night, but before I went to sleep, I translated the page I had found.

Journal, date, 18—? . . . Unknown:

I
have been dwelling in this realm of ice and snow now for I don’t know how long—an eternity of misery and suffering. The nights are long and cold, and the days are no better. Measuring time by the sun makes no sense here.

Long, eternal hours are spent in darkness, and when the sun rises, it weaves and bobs along the horizon like a blazing red disk that casts no warmth. Almost all of the time, my stomach, my entire being growls with hunger and suffering. Following the death of my creator, I wandered I know not how long across the ice, intent on killing myself out here in this vast desert of snow and ice. My wanderings eventually brought me to the northernmost point of the globe, and there I sought death, but no matter how loudly I cried to the heavens to let the spark of life inside me expire, I ever clung to life, knowing that it must be the will of all living things to stay alive. At one point, I had been intent on building a funeral pyre and destroying myself, but this far north where trees do not grow, I could not find anything with which to do that. No wood, and no spark to kindle it. From time to time in my wanderings, I have seen pass by those native people who are suited to living here in the frozen North. On occasion, I have encountered one of them and eaten their food in order to sustain my miserable existence. At times, I have been forced to steal their dogs and sleds. In time, I came to think that I must stay alive, that it must be my creator’s will that I could never allow death to release me from the agony and torment that I so richly deserve. I have no idea when it was that I found this abandoned sailing ship which I have been using as a home. These ruins had sustained the bare existence of these nameless men for some time, but they were all dead by the time I found them. After rummaging through their supplies, I found in the captain’s quarters this single sheet of paper, a quill, and ink, which I thawed over the fire I made by using the iron and flint I also found in their supplies. After writing this short account of my miserable existence, I lit the ship on fire, intending to throw myself into the flames to destroy once and for all the abomination that I am, but as flames licked the dark, frozen sky like hungry tongues, I was again unable to destroy myself. I must live, I realized, even if it is to consign myself to this frozen wasteland for all eternity where I will dwell in the solitary agony of what I am. This is my punishment for having destroyed my creator.

Transcript of a conversation with Ajut, a member of the Inuit tribe.

Part Four:

W
e were lucky to have seen what we have seen and still be alive to tell about it. Even now, as the wind howls around our shelter, I can feel the presence of unseen spirits, moving about on the ice. I know what we have seen must have been “Piss Eyes” because I remember what he looks like as clearly as if there was a picture inside my head from the way my father’s brother described him to me.

Yes, we are very lucky to be alive and still in our right minds. Tomorrow morning, we will leave this place to rejoin the tribe. I have already shown you more than I promised. Once we are back with the tribe, I will tell you more stories.

Rev. Robert Crocker’s journal entry, July 22, 1964:

I
doubt that mere words will in any way convey the true depth of horror, of pure terror which Ajut and I experienced following our evening meal after I had explored the burned ship’s hull and translated the paper which I found there. Totally exhausted, we settled down to sleep. The igloo was illuminated by the single, teardrop-shaped flame of a whale oil lamp. Sleep came fast, as it always does to Ajut, who dropped into a heavy slumber almost the instant he lay his head down. I, on the other hand, lay there shivering as I listened to the steady hiss of wind and snow blowing outside. Usually, I find only beauty, not terror, in this stark, desolate environment; but on this night I was unaccountably filled with agitation and nervous speculation.

Could that truly have been “Piss Eyes” that Ajut had seen out on the ice? I had seen nothing except the evidence of sled runner tracks in the snow, but I knew my companion well enough to know that he would not make light of the situation. True, at times he and other members of his tribe have shown a remarkable sense of humor, but Ajut’s entire demeanor seemed not to be that of someone who was attempting to perpetrate a practical joke. He was obviously nervous and on his guard. Before settling down to sleep, he told me that we might have made a mistake, making our shelter so close to what had been—and obviously still was—the dwelling place of a spirit. Perhaps our presence will anger “Piss Eyes.” I showed Ajut the piece of paper I had found inside the ship, and I explained to him how it indicated that white men from the south, people like me, had been living here, but he would hear nothing of it. He insisted that we should leave this area immediately upon waking so as not to anger the spirits. I can tell by Ajut’s reaction to all of this that my mission here to bring him and his people to Christianity will take a great deal of time, perhaps longer than my lifetime.

Sometime after I had drifted off into a thin and disturbed sleep, I awoke to hear our dogs barking wildly. The instant I opened my eyes, I saw that Ajut, with rifle in hand, was already up and crouching in front of the igloo opening, looking outside in an attempt to see what was disturbing the dogs. My first thought was that it might be a polar bear, wandering nearby. When I asked Ajut what was the matter, he silenced me with a quick hand motion.

We sat for long minutes, waiting for the dogs to stop barking, but they were yelping and leaping about, frantically pulling at their leashes as though they either wanted to attack whatever was in the vicinity . . . or run away from it.

Gripping his rifle tightly, Ajut was preparing to go outside when the side of the igloo behind me suddenly exploded inward. After that, everything happened so fast, it is still nothing but a blur to me. Through the shower of ice and snow, I remember seeing a huge, dark figure lunge at me. In a shattering instant, I was startled by the sudden report of Ajut’s rifle, sounding close to my ear. The sudden brightness inside the igloo stung my eyes, and I had no idea whether or not Ajut’s bullet hit its target. The whole world spun crazily around me. As I fell backwards, I saw Ajut bolt his rifle and try to fire again, but no sound followed. I guessed the chamber had jammed.

My mind went blank with panic.

One of the few clear thoughts I had was that it must be a polar bear, crazed with hunger, that was attacking us. I saw thick, long arms reaching out for me, but in a single, shattering instant, I realized that they were not paws, but large, human hands. A powerful grip took me by the shoulders, picked me up, and shook me roughly as a voice roared in my ears.

At the time, I thought Ajut was shouting to me, but then I realized that the sounds, unintelligible as they were, were coming from the creature. Wide-eyed with terror, I looked up to see a terrifying countenance glaring down at me. My first, fleeting impression was that it was the twisted, ugly face of a dead man. I was repulsed by the creature’s hideous features, its flared nostrils, its snarling mouth; but what drew and held my attention was the creature’s eyes. They stared at me with a violent gleam of bright, burning yellow, like a hideous sulfur fire.