Killer

The whale saw the reaching arms again, and it had learned its brief and bloody lesson too well to let Simon past. It gave one last convulsive leap forward over the ice. Its flippers tore free at last, but its high fin, only a few feet further down its body, caught in its turn. Those few feet were enough. The blunt snout crashed into Simon’s side, knocking him off his feet. He rolled free, gasping for breath. The jaws snapped at him, only inches away. All self-control gone, he brought the coil of rope over his shoulder and struck at the whale with the heavy coils. The whale caught the rope, jerked it out of his hand, snapped its fifty interlocking teeth shut, cutting the rope to pieces. It lunged forward again.

“Simon,” screamed Colin.

But Kate was there. She had caught up Colin’s roughly improvised weapon of bullets by its length of wood, and touched the inch of fuse to the fire. It blazed into life. She ran forward, holding the piece of plank at full arm’s length in front of her until it wedged into the whale’s throat. Just as she did so, the first round exploded, and the recoil nearly tore her hand off. The whale jerked back and went rigid. Kate carried on running. Behind her, the makeshift weapon tore itself apart as the rest of the magnum shells detonated, blasting through the whale, ripping away the whole top of its head. With the last of the rope still caught up in what was left of its jaws, the whale sank silently through the hole, leaving only a long streak of rust behind it on the ice.

Kate fell on her knees beside Colin and looked out with him over the quiet sea at Job kneeling on his little raft of ice.

At least the other two killers had gone for the time being.

“There’s nothing we can do,” she said.

He swung round to face her. His eyes were dark, his face thin, desperate, his lips chapped, there was a cold-sore she hadn’t noticed at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you see . . .” he cried. There were tears in his eyes. His hand moved to dash them away before they froze on his cheeks. “He is my friend.”

She repeated, gently, as if to a backward child, “There is nothing you can do.”

“There must be something . . .”

“Ross.” Simon. “He’s waving.”

Ross slewed round, still on his knees. Kate moved closer to him. Job was a black silhouette against the sea.

“What’ve we got?” asked Colin.

“Nothing.”

“Dynamite . . .”

“It’s gone,” she whispered.

Colin sat back on his heels. There was nothing they could do. A little wind blew in his eyes. He brushed away the tears again. Then, over the sea, came a faint sound. Job was waving his arms.

“C-o-l-i-n!” shouted Job. He waved his arms slowly, carefully, the ice rocking beneath his knees at even this slight movement, the icy water slopping against his sealskin boots and trousers. Distantly, Colin raised his hand. Job continued to wave both hands, the dynamite forgotten in his left mittened fist. He had nothing to say except Colin’s name, no idea except to show that he was as yet all right; and so he waved, and so the ice-raft rocked.

Ripples spread in circles, blue-grey and black. Job’s eyes followed them thoughtfully as they moved towards him, until they became two solid black shapes, graceful as arrow-heads, sharp as knives. Spray roared into the air. The whales began to circle.

Job began to pray. To what gods?

The fins disappeared.

Job cheered and waved his arms. Ross waved back, waved and waved. Job raised his arms, paused: something . . .

A gentle wind was pushing him in the back. The raft began to move towards the floe. Little waves washed over the blunt ice and lapped at his knees. It was moving! With infinite care, he climbed to his feet. Upright he would make a better sail, if only the wind would keep blowing. The figures on the floe became clearer, began to assume depth, colour . . .

Job’s heart beat at the back of his throat. He stood unsteadily, legs spread, arms spread, riding the wind.

A minute passed. Another. Drawing themselves out to terrible length.

“NOT FAR,” Colin called.

“NOT FAR,” answered Job.

The wind faltered. Job looked up. The clouds were thinning. A change in the weather. Perhaps it will get warmer, he thought, shivering in his wet clothes.

“It’s going to break,” he called, for want of anything better to say.

“What?”

“The weather, it’s going to . . .”

The ocean leapt behind him, drew itself up, bucketed aside. The killer rose, foot after foot, to the height of a second-storey window, blocking out nearly half of the sky. Yard after yard of it: scarred face, black liquid eyes, white cliff of belly, up and up until the flippers reached over the far edges of the tiny raft, reached, hooked, held. Job staggered back until his shoulders were against the snow-white belly, and the whale held him erect. He found he was screaming a name. “AIPALOOKVIK!” Great God of Innuit The People: the Spirit under the Iceberg, Teeth of the North Wind, He who Bites and Destroys.