Killer

The current caused by the iceberg’s massive rush towards the air plunged them willy-nilly deep in the black heart of the ocean. The female, injured, hurled down like a dummy, trailing bubbles. The leader followed her, only partly in control of his headlong rush. Blood streamed from his mate, but was whipped away by the terrible currents like smoke in a hurricane. Powerless as leaves in autumn they tumbled into the deep, until the solid shelf of the bottom rose to meet them and the turbulence rushed them towards the surface again. Then, abruptly, it was over.

The leader slowly regained absolute control of his progress, and caught up with his wounded mate. Carefully, he angled his vital body against her still flank and began to push her away from the danger and towards the surface. As he moved he sent out urgent cries, but it was many minutes before any of his pack came to their aid. Even then he would not relinquish her completely to their care, not accept their help himself. Another large male supported her on the other side, and more rapidly now, they lifted her towards the air. Most of the rest of the pack returned and grouped solicitously around them, rising rapidly ahead of them to smash away the half-frozen debris of ice which now covered the ocean, so that they could breathe.

For several hours they lay on the surface, breathing deeply, recovering, beginning to shrug off the weariness and move more freely – all except the leader’s consort who lay still, not obviously wounded, nor bleeding any more, but badly stunned by a heavy blow to her head, the back of which was swollen and horribly discoloured by a great bruise. No more of the group joined them. Now there were only twelve of them: not a large pack, but still a formidable force. The leader carefully positioned his mate across his broad forehead so that she could still breathe, and began to move with her: temporarily heading south away from the ice-pack.

ii

Back on the floe, the hours dragged interminably by in a haze of shock for all of them. Even Ross and Job were deeply shaken by their narrow escape, and depressed by the greatly increased danger of their new situation. For now a gentle wind came creeping from the west and moved over the floe, shifting crystals like sandgrains, pushing the temperature down even further, bringing the sounds of restless ice and quiet water. The wind had been blowing for some time, but the ice-hills had functioned as a barrier against it and kept it from the floe itself.

Ross, his face towards the soft, damp chill of it, found ice-­crystals drifting against his feet like tiny sand-dunes. Through the angled slits of his mask he saw the bright solidity of the floe stretch only a few yards away before the equally bright liquidity of the sea replaced it. He looked at it, feeling a great hollowness form inside him. Briefly he saw the inside of his chest like a huge limestone cave wooded with stalactites, running with fear. It was not an image he liked. Fear was not an emotion which he relished. But he knew it well enough.

He slapped the white crystals from his clothes and looked about. The fear in his belly and chest did not ease with what he saw: it would now take him, at most, five minutes to walk from one end of the floe to the other – always assuming he was willing to go anywhere near the actual edges of the ice, marked as they were by deep cracks and tell-tale patches of lucent green where the ice was very thin. The remnant of the floe was roughly square, each side being some two hundred yards long. It was quite flat, the surface at the most a foot above sea-level, except for the last remnant of the ice-hills, a low protuberance rising perhaps ten feet into the air, and at the moment acting like the prow of their tiny ship. And it was tiny. Looking around, Ross automatically stepped back towards the centre of the floe. The removal of the ice-hills enabled him to see all around, and his mind reeled. There was nothing except the bright ocean stretching away seemingly forever. He slowly turned through 360 degrees until he was facing the small ice-hillock prow again. There was nothing. And the more he looked the smaller the floe seemed to become; the larger became the cave of fear inside him. He realised there was sweat under his mask. He was terrified.

“Christ!” said Job. It was not blasphemy. Ross glanced down at him. The Eskimo was on one knee, his narrow eyes busy among the bright floes. He was looking for the whales. Ross had also probed the ocean, but there was nothing to be seen.

“It’s so small,” whispered Kate, her voice broken by awe.

“Still bigger than the Queen Elizabeth,” said Ross, bracingly.

“Of course the floe looks small,” said Job quickly. “But it’s big enough to last for weeks.”

Nobody said anything. Doctor Warren looked around. He sniffed deeply, filling his lungs to capacity. “Ah,” he said, “good sea air. Always gives me an appetite.”

“Don’t we ever do anything but eat and sleep?” snarled Quick.