Sine sole Sileo

Sine sole Sileo

  by

  Kassandra Alvarado

  Copyright 2013

  Cover Art designed by the author whom gratefully acknowledges contributions from Witold Kaszkin (123rf) and goooooogle.

  Dedicated to Chaed, ever an inspiration :)

  It was a solemn moment, never to be forgotten; and never was the cheering of a seaman so impressive, breaking as it did on the stillness of the night, amid this dreary waste of ice and snow, where there was not an object to remind us of life, and not a sound seemed ever to have been heard.

  - James Clark Ross, 1830

  He did not know where they were.

  Oh, yes.

  His - their scientific instruments gave longitude and latitude. Everything but the accursed question of where on God’s divine earth? Ross screamed inside the prison trap of his analytical mind. Outwardly, he was calm. Oh, yes. So damnably calm and unflappable, the perfect leader to the small band of men, brave souls all, whom had chosen to follow him on the conquest of the pole.

  How bitterly he regretted his choice to blindly push on through the unconscionable weather. Four of his party had been stricken by ophthalmia during the early morning on the twenty-eighth of May. The land had borne a familiarity from their past travels. Ross had been heartened, certain it was impossible to fail. So he had kept on, following the curve of land westward.

  In belief of the long pursuit of their goal’s end, the hale and the ailing had followed in his footsteps until at long last, weariness had eclipsed his flagging wax of spirit and he had bade camp set up upon a shore of flinty rock scattered about with pools of melt water. The wind had howled, battening the walls of their temporary sanctuary. Ross, in a fancy of a moment, imagined he heard a sound above that of the Arctic gusts.

  The sound was so indescribable that he gave up after a few minutes of attempting to describe it to Mr. Abernethy. Am I waking or dreaming? Ross thought to himself troubled, brow furrowing. The illusion of a home away from the home of the Victory; was a cheerless one to his heart. There was another sound out there, rising and falling with the tune of the wind - he would swear so to any man alive - Ross resisted his urge to rise beneath the mate’s curious stare and look upon if only briefly the cause of the noise as such could be found outside the three walls of snow.

  Visited by uneasy sleep, twice he had awakened, listening with the fervor of a half-excited state. It had drawn closer - he was sure of it. Ross couldn’t discern whither it came, from the north, the south, the west or the east. It was in this dread state of wondering, the hours passed and the time for rising came. They emerged to a dull, lifeless wash of aurora light, rocks of strange hues pocking the land, peeking through stratified beds of limestone compressed by the ages.

  Ross shaded his eyes, a pair of useless snow goggles fashioned for the piercing whiteness of the sun, hung about his neck from a leather thong. He had expected the dreary gloom of twilight to be all about them, never the northern lights, and what a sight they were! Such vivid hues weren’t to be found in the civilized world.

  His mind didn’t linger long on the beauties of nature; thought of the traveling hours wasted by a mere coincidence of wrongfully setting his watch, were of immediate concern. Something about the landscape that met the eye, disturbed his recollection…

  “What is the time, Mr. Abernethy?” Ross asked sharply as the other gazed about, gobsmacked. Abernethy fumbled with his watch, careful to expose the glass interior to the frozen air. “Why, a quarter past nine, sir. In the evenin’, sir.”

  “You are certain?” He knew for a fact his read the same.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Ross shook his head; there was no helping for it. They must continue on. The rest of the crew was soon mustered, a breakfast of cold meat and tea served to quiet the grumblings of the belly. The oddity of their surroundings silenced any complaints that might’ve been made and in certain, unusual quiet, they were under way.

  From time to time, under the murky light of midnight, he would marvel how the eye no longer hurt to be raised toward the sky, nor the distance. He had taken measurements while breakfast was prepared in camp, inscribing their coordinates of latitude 69ͦ 46’’ 25,’ with a longitude of 95ͦ 49’ 11’ west. Determined though he was to complete a survey of the coast, Ross avoided following the windings of the coast. A sense of desolation came over him strongly observing the alienity of the land upon which they traversed.

  No markings or trappings of Esquimaux did they find, nor any animal above that of human which comprised their party. Ascending a higher point of land after several hours of constant travel, he discerned a large inlet of brackish water ahead. On the cusp of the coast it was ringed by hewn forms of obsidian-like stone. The grayish shale underfoot had given way to jagged basalt. The icelessness of the water both surprised and brought a renewed surge of hope to his breast. The previous summer he had surveyed the opposite line of coast, suspecting his goal of the magnetic pole was within reach, but hardship and deprivation of supplies had caused him turn back.

  Ross sighed, his regrets greater. Further proof was in the sudden mildness of the weather. True, the temperature scarcely rose went above zero; the late haze had eased the debilitating effects of the sun on the eyes of his men. They camped beside the banks of the inlet at eight in the morning after completing thirteen miles. Ross wrote of this with satisfaction in his journal while supper was got up; he also made curious observations on the lack of the sun in the vibrant play of absinthe green painting the sky.

  The monotony of their rationed cold meat went down their throats easier with a glass of grog. Aboard ship, his uncle maintained strictness over the issuing of spirits that Ross couldn’t bring himself to understand.

  Certainly, a man drunken could be of little use to the rigors of overwintering or the arduous tasks of sledging. He himself enjoyed a little imbibing though was careful to avoid a tongue lashing when in the presence of his uncle, whom thankfully was many miles distant.

  That night, Ross and his men slept with the warm intoxication of ale in their bodies wrapped by many furs. No one spoke of the sounds that came during slumber; for no one knew of their existence. When the reversal of morn came again, Ross awakened with a feeling of ill dread upon his soul. Though, to the outward observer, his sleep had remained unmolested, his mind had undergone a change during the hours without the sun.

  Of the terror wrought in dreamland, he would speak none of it. Ross’s hand trembled violently, his face he scarce recognized staring back from an circle of mirror packed among his possessions. His face was that of a haunted man, a heavily bearded man with haunted gray eyes luminescently large in a thin face.

  Ross passed a hand over his pale cheek, wearing a deprecating smile as he did so. He doubted his own father would recognise his son were he to walk in through his door. His bemusement faded to a thin trickle of awareness, observing the listlessness of his men move about their encampment. They appeared as walkers in a dream, their bearded faces alike in the apprehension of some unknown fear.

  The water he observed last, unable to suppress a shiver of his entire body, watching ripples undulate across the deeply opaque surface. The dream....

  A wild notion came to his mind unchecked by the rationality of science he clung to: a glimmer of whiteness flickered just beneath the fractal motion, therein, a gaping lidless eye stretched forth cephalic arms of no human resemblance - radiating malevolence bent on man’s destruction -

  “Commander?”

  He jolted from the vision, staring wildly around until he met the concerned gaze of Thomas Blanky.

  “Your orders?”

  He saw at once that they had carried out everything to perfection as per his design that no hindrance should deny him of
conquering the Pole. Extra provisions, gear had been disposed of in a way to garner their return to other shores safely. Ross looked about also noticing the light Franklin boats were prepared for travel across the inlet. Across the water, across fourteen miles more, glory awaited.

  “Let us forge history.” He said simply.

  ***

  70ͦ 5’ 17’

  They had crossed under the eternal, watchful eye of the stone watchers.

  96ͦ 46’ 45’ West

  Nature nor God above had touched this land.

  ***

  3 of June 1831

  He swore them of the party to secrecy, for they alone shared the burden of the horrors experienced. No other mortal could comprehend the thing without being called daft or worse in the strait-laced propriety of England. Ross carefully went over his journal, excising his trembled writing from past days, reserving marginal notations of distance for his uncle’s sake; the rest, fed the voracious fire.

  He could only pray they were allowed to leave this Godforsaken land.

  Finis

  Author’s Note: This was pretty much two-hour flashfiction. I hadn’t meant to release another polar explorer story until after Blythewood was completed. Was it ambiguous? Yes, I think it was. Was it a dream, maybe. Hopefully, it was weird ;) Connect with me on: https://yumechanproductions.blogspot.com/

  Selected Bibliography

  Narrative of a Second Voyage in Search of a Northwest Passage - Sir John Ross

  Barrow’s Boys - Fergus Fleming