Death on the Ice (44 page)

Birdie muttered something that might have been a curse. ‘I suppose you are right. We’ll start again in the morning.’

‘It is the morning,’ said Cherry gloomily as the moon disappeared again and the blackness descended, masking the landscape once more. Already his breath had frosted his spectacles; he would have to take them off again soon. From out on the ice he heard the faint cry of a penguin, mocking him. How dare you come here in the darkness to steal our young? It seemed to ask. This was, thought Cherry as his body began to convulse with the cold, a very good question.

The door of the hut opened and George Simpson, the meteorologist, dashed in, his temperature readings clutched in his hand. He shook the snow and ice from himself like a wet dog, shed his outer layer of clothes, and went to Scott’s corner. ‘Minus forty-eight,’ Simpson said. He had been taking readings from the thermometer boards, which were mounted away from the hut so as not to be affected by any still air or leakage of heat.

Scott sucked on his pipe and indicated his notebooks. ‘You know, I have been comparing our temperatures with those taken in the Arctic by the Norwegians. Winter seems to be the same in both places. But the Arctic summer is much warmer than here.’

Simpson knew he was being invited to postulate a theory. Scott loved a meteorological discussion. He was a good listener and Simpson knew he took his opinions seriously.

Scott placed his pipe on his desk. ‘Any thoughts?’

‘It’s the sheer expanse of unbroken ice,’ said Simpson. ‘As far as I can see, that is. The reflection is tremendous. Which is why the glare causes snow-blindness. I am of the persuasion that the reflection from the ice means that the sun fails to warm the atmosphere sufficiently by the time the summer solstice is reached. Which means it is a rare day when it gets much above freezing, even in summer. Thereafter, the amount of solar energy decreases, of course, as we move into autumn. The Arctic is a smaller surface, with a greater area of open water.’

‘So it’s reflection.’

‘The albedo. Yes.’

Scott frowned, thinking for a moment. ‘Is there any way to measure this?’

Simpson nodded. ‘I have been working on those hydrogen balloons. They can be modified to measure received sunlight. There must be a way to estimate percentage reflection.’

‘Very good. You want to draw something up for next season?’

Simpson, who relished a challenge, nodded. ‘Of course, skipper. I have to re-calibrate the magnetometer, but after that I’ll get right to it.’

‘Excellent.’ Scott put his pipe back in his mouth. ‘Minus forty-eight, you say?’

‘Yes.’

Scott went back to his pipe, but Simpson could tell it wasn’t the temperature that concerned him, but the thought of the three men out in it, surrounded by the cold, dark night.

‘I’m not going in there,’ said Cherry, pointing at the ominous black hole in the face of the ice cliff. There was moon, enough to show the outline of the landscape’s features, not enough to penetrate the lair-like hole before them. Cherry’s imagination had already conjured up some great worm-like creature that called the tunnel home.

‘We have to,’ said Bowers. ‘The penguins are on the other side of this ridge.’ He pointed upwards. ‘Unless you want to try and climb that.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Cherry glumly. On the way down from their plateau he had fallen so many times he had lost count. He would tally his grazes and cuts later. They had scaled steep cliffs, traversed ridge after ridge and stumbled into crevasses, all to get close to the edge of the sea. Now this enormous wall of ice barred their way. The sledge was miles back and still they had not found the penguins. There were meant be thousands of them, according to Bill, who had witnessed the colony on the
Discovery
expedition, but they had found no evidence of them other than hearing their strange metallic callings.

‘I’ll give it a try,’ said Wilson, pointing at the hole.

‘Oh, no,’ replied Bowers, looping the Alpine rope around his waist. ‘I’m the smallest. If I get stuck, yank me out. I’ll pull on the rope three times. All right?’ Bowers didn’t wait for a reply, but plunged in headfirst.

‘Oh God,’ said Cherry, shivering again in his board-like clothes. ‘Will we ever be warm again?’

‘We get some penguins and we’ll get the stove going at full-blast.’ Wilson clapped Cherry on the back. ‘I promised the Owner some Emperor’s eggs and he’ll have them.’

‘Birdie!’ Cherry yelled into the cave mouth.

They heard a muffled reply. Wilson watched the rope slip through his mitts. ‘Seems to be still going.’

A few minutes later it stopped and went slack. Wilson looked at Cherry with his one good eye. Cherry took out his glasses and put them on, as if it might help him see what was happening within the ice cave. ‘Birdie? You all right?’

There was no reply, just the swirl of wind around the aperture. Wilson pulled on the rope and it came easily. Soon enough, he had the free end in his hand.

‘Oh,’ said Cherry. ‘What do we do now?’

‘I’ll go next,’ said Wilson.

‘No, wait.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll be here by myself.’

‘Right.’ Wilson thought for a moment. ‘Do you want to go next, then?’

‘I  …’ Cherry hopped from foot to foot. ‘Erm.’

‘I’ll go, shall I?’ said Wilson gently, placing a hand on the agitated young man’s shoulder.

‘Yes. Good idea.’

‘You hold your ice axe at the ready in case something other than me comes out.’

‘Like what?’ asked Cherry.

Wilson raised his arms above his head in a threatening manner. ‘A carnivorous penguin?’ he smirked.

‘Not funny. Plays tricks on you, this light. My bloody glasses have gone again.’

Wilson tied the rope to his belt, raised a hand and was gone. Cherry heard the shuffling of his knees and elbows, but that soon faded. He was alone with the moaning of the wind and the chattering of his teeth.

‘Bill?’

Again, silence. He prayed nothing would happen to Wilson. He was the reason Cherry was here. He was a family friend and his quiet tales of the
Discovery
had long inspired Cherry. Perhaps, back in front of a roaring fire in England, this would be such a story. The Great Quest For Penguin Eggs. Yes, that had a ring. Would he by that point be able to recall the throbbing in his fingers, his grumbling stomach, the judder of muscles desperate to keep warm? He hoped not. He didn’t want this feeling with him for the rest of his life. He hoped his memory would kill it.

The sky had begun to haze with sheets of thin cloud, masking the stars and dimming the moon. The mountain and cliffs above him lost their silvery edge and returned to black and brooding. He pulled the rope. It came a good two feet. He pulled once more and knew there was nobody at the other end.

‘Oh, Lord.’ There was no point in pulling it all the way through, because there would be nobody left to pull him back should he get stuck.

He stared at the hole as he jumped up and down, flexing his limbs to try to create some give in his rigid clothes. It would be like trying to crawl while coated in cement.

‘Ah well, Cherry. Here goes. Just remember, you paid a thousand pounds for this privilege.’

Cherry carefully placed his spectacles out of harm’s way and levered himself into the ice hole. His ears filled with a soft roaring, as if there were surf at the far end. But that was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? At minus forty, fifty or sixty, any sea would be a frozen fossil.

Soon even the pathetic light of the outside world had gone, leaving only a thick, tar-like blackness. Now and then he could see shapes in the air ahead of him, swirls, like patterns in drinking chocolate. He knew it was his eyes, trying to make sense of the dark, but the forms still disturbed him. It was as if the inky curtain was holding back restless demons.

He tried to find a rhythm of knees and elbows to push him on through. Whatever lay on the other side had to be better than this strange borehole.
You’ve got it in the neck, Now stick it, stick it.

Another sound came to him, a low, guttural laugh, but he wasn’t sure whether it came from ahead or behind. Was he being chased?

The voice, when it crystallised, appeared to come from a spot right in front of him, inches from his nose.

‘Take it easy near the exit, Cherry.’

It was Bill. His voice calm, even and soothing.

‘The ice is quite sharp there.’

Ahead he could see a perfect circle of soft grey light. He was through. He was within ten feet of it when he heard the scream that made his insides turn to liquid. He clenched his sphincter, fearing he might soil himself. His instinct for survival made him slither backwards for a few inches. Then the words popped into his brain:
Now stick it.
He took a deep breath and pumped his elbows. Sure enough, as Bill had warned, some of the iced razor edges cut through his clothing, but he didn’t care. He shot out on to a glacial tongue and rolled over, his fists clenched to face whatever Cape Crozier could throw at him. Looming above him were two dark shapes.

‘Aaargh,’ he cried.

The other two looked down at him and, whatever they saw in the half-light illuminating his face, made them both laugh. ‘You bastards!’ he cried.

‘Now, Cherry,’ said Wilson, feigning distress. ‘What would Evelyn say to such language?’

‘My mother would forgive me, given your behaviour. What was that scream?’

Wilson pointed over the ice to where the dark hump of a penguin lay still. ‘Just a bit of encouragement to myself so I could put the axe in, Cherry. Sorry if it scared you. Here.’ Bill Wilson held out his hand and Cherry took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

He examined his surroundings. Directly opposite the ice tongue was a cliff, its vertical face clear of ice and snow, and below that he could just make out the fuzzy white dress-shirts that were the breasts of the penguins. ‘They are here,’ he said. ‘That’s something.’

‘Not many,’ said Wilson. ‘Dozens rather than thousands. I suspect the rookery is being abandoned. But there are eggs. Not every bird, one in four or five.’

‘I think we need three skins and blubber. I’ll skin this one, shall I?’ said Bowers.

The others nodded. A male Emperor penguin might only be a shade over three feet high, but they weighed over six stone. There was no way they could manhandle the entire carcass over the ridges and cliffs, so they would have to take what fat they could attached to the bird’s epidermis.

As Bowers got busy with the knife, Cherry moved towards the animals, treading carefully over the ice. They began to trumpet their bizarrely metallic alarm call. The Emperors shuffled back, to press themselves against the wall. He could tell they had incubating eggs down at their feet from the way they moved.

Cherry made a start towards the nearest animal, which tried to waddle away as rapidly as it could, but stumbled over its precious cargo. The egg rolled free. Instantly two other penguins charged for it and Cherry realised they were eggless males, looking for something to nurse. He dived like a goalkeeper, scooping up the precious oval and rolled on to his back as he slid over the ice. He held the intact egg aloft as the three angry penguins barked at him. ‘One,’ he cried.

‘Well done, Cherry,’ said Bill Wilson.

Just then his prize crumbled into ice crystals and rained down on his face. Within a second there was nothing but powder in his mitts.

Wilson came over. ‘False egg, Cherry. Some of the birds that don’t have the real thing use substitutes. Well done for getting it. Now find me a real one.’

Cherry spat out a mix of ice and penguin feather fragments and tried not to gag at the oily taint. ‘Aye, aye.’

As he stumbled to his feet and went among the birds, ignoring their cries, Cherry felt for the poor creatures. The possession of an egg was such a powerful biological drive that clearly they would be leaving the carers bereft. On two occasions he chipped an ice-block into the rough shape of the real thing and offered it to the Emperor he had robbed. One even accepted it.

The thin light began to fade further and the wind picked up once more by the time they had three skinned birds and five genuine eggs. Cherry was given two to carry and he slipped them inside his mittens. The gloves were large enough so that he could still get his balled fists inside to keep them warm. Bowers lashed two skins to himself and carried one egg. Cherry volunteered to take the third skin, even though the smell of warm bird blubber and blood turned his stomach. Wilson also took two eggs in his mittens.

The tunnel seemed shorter on the way back, although they had to crawl through with their prizes in front of them so as not to crush them. Once on the far side, with a gale threatening, they roped themselves together. The stars were disappearing, and the way back up the cliffs, once so clear, was concealed in the shadows. Wilson began to chop steps with his ice axe. Birdie followed. Cherry, his spectacles useless once more, stumbled along as best he could.

It grew so dark he could no longer even see the footholds. ‘Cut your own steps,’ Wilson shouted down to Cherry as he missed his footings once more, causing the rope to jerk painfully on the other two.

‘I’m trying,’ he shouted up the slope. ‘But it’s hard with the eggs.’

‘You really must learn how to use an ice axe.’

‘Sorry, Bill.’

They laboured upwards in silence, apart from the sound of heavy breathing and the increasingly aggressive roar of the wind. Cherry’s leggings were sliced through by rocks, as were the sleeves on his jacket. The wind now had free access to his body and punished him for it. He felt like howling in pain, but his two indefatigable companions prevented him from showing such weakness.

Now stick it, stick it.

They pulled themselves on to a wide plateau of ice and rock that looked familiar. ‘Where’s the sledge?’ Cherry shouted up.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Bowers, undoing the rope that attached them. ‘I thought we would have seen it by now.’

Cherry felt a stab of panic and swallowed hard. It had been lashed down, but that was no guarantee it hadn’t been dislodged. Without the sledge they would have no way of transporting their supplies—tent, cooker, food—home.