and his legs stopped.
Someone called to him but he didn’t move. His tie-line, slack at first, grew taut.
The roar came at him like a solid thing, louder than the wind. He’d never heard it before, but he knew what it was. He had expected to find it here eventually. No one believed him. Lucky souls. It only sought out the ones who believed.
Now Nigel felt five sharp pulls on his line. Come along.
He reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out his pocketknife, and cut himself loose.
He was free.
The yeti summoned. You could resist its call, they said. But you always gave in.
The howl came from all directions but he knew its source. He walked into the blizzard — but he felt his body growing slowly warmer. Such was its power, they said. It drew heat from the cold and flesh from ice. They said.
After a long time he came upon footsteps, large footsteps. As he followed, the snow blew over the prints. In a moment no one would be able to tell a soul had been there.
The footsteps circled around the side of a ridge. They ended at the mouth of a cave.
The roar beckoned. The beast would be satisfied.
Nigel walked into the cave.
The snow rushed in behind him.
23
Colin
February 9, 1910
B LIND.
He was blind. He couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t feel (the whale, where was the whale?) because the water was hungry; first it sucked the heat from him and then it went after his life. “F — fahh — ther!” he cried out. “Ah — I ca — nn’t —”
The darkness lifted. He saw shadows, foam. Whitecaps. Two shapes.
Philip, flailing.
Father, going under.
His fingers closed around his father’s shirt and he pulled.
Philip tried to swim toward them. He was blue. His eyes were strangely wide and luminous, as if the lids had been peeled away. Reaching out weakly, he too tried to hold up Father.
“S-Save … yourselves,” Father said.
“W-We do this t-together, Father.” Saltwater rushed into Colin’s mouth. He was sinking, losing his senses. “Ph — ilip?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
“For —?”
“S-Saving our lives. For … rowing out of … the m-m-maelstrom.”
There. Colin had owed him that.
Behind Philip’s head, the gray shape loomed toward them.
Colin felt no fear. It was time.
He prayed silently that the water would take them before the whale did. That they would be claimed by the sea, the way Mother had been claimed.
But the shape was gaining steadily.
As the fog rolled aside, Colin saw it clearly.
It was not a whale.
It was a prow.
“C-Colin … ?” Philip coughed.
A good high one, fanning back to outline a broad beam.
The hull was encrusted with barnacles and smeared with blood. Five stout square-rigged masts emerged from the fog, interlaced with staysails. Attached to the ship’s bowsprit was a figurehead, a wooden statue of a mermaid. Two towering metal winches hunched over gunwales laden with long rowboats, racks of spears, and harpoons. Along the bow, peeling gold-and-green letters spelled out the name NOBADEER .
A whaling ship, full-tilt after a catch.
“H-H-Help —” Philip sputtered.
Colin tried to cry out, but his voice was frozen.
The ship’s crew stood at the port bow, facing away from Colin and Philip, searching the seas ahead. As the bow cut swiftly through the water, it smashed through the floating remnants of the Horace Putney.
The water closed around Colin like a fist (why, Lord) and he realized he would die within hailing distance of a ship that by all odds shouldn’t be here, and whose disappearance meant the certain death of the entire expedition.
“W-W-W —” Father said.
“What?”
“WAVE!”
Colin raised an arm limply. The beam of the Nobadeer glided past them now, sending a powerful wake.
“C-Col— lin —” Philip said. “Look. Up.”
As they rose on the wake, Colin saw over the starboard gunwale. The men were swarming the masts, pulling at halyards, slackening the sails.
The ship was losing speed.
One by one, sailors in striped
Someone called to him but he didn’t move. His tie-line, slack at first, grew taut.
The roar came at him like a solid thing, louder than the wind. He’d never heard it before, but he knew what it was. He had expected to find it here eventually. No one believed him. Lucky souls. It only sought out the ones who believed.
Now Nigel felt five sharp pulls on his line. Come along.
He reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out his pocketknife, and cut himself loose.
He was free.
The yeti summoned. You could resist its call, they said. But you always gave in.
The howl came from all directions but he knew its source. He walked into the blizzard — but he felt his body growing slowly warmer. Such was its power, they said. It drew heat from the cold and flesh from ice. They said.
After a long time he came upon footsteps, large footsteps. As he followed, the snow blew over the prints. In a moment no one would be able to tell a soul had been there.
The footsteps circled around the side of a ridge. They ended at the mouth of a cave.
The roar beckoned. The beast would be satisfied.
Nigel walked into the cave.
The snow rushed in behind him.
23
Colin
February 9, 1910
B LIND.
He was blind. He couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t feel (the whale, where was the whale?) because the water was hungry; first it sucked the heat from him and then it went after his life. “F — fahh — ther!” he cried out. “Ah — I ca — nn’t —”
The darkness lifted. He saw shadows, foam. Whitecaps. Two shapes.
Philip, flailing.
Father, going under.
His fingers closed around his father’s shirt and he pulled.
Philip tried to swim toward them. He was blue. His eyes were strangely wide and luminous, as if the lids had been peeled away. Reaching out weakly, he too tried to hold up Father.
“S-Save … yourselves,” Father said.
“W-We do this t-together, Father.” Saltwater rushed into Colin’s mouth. He was sinking, losing his senses. “Ph — ilip?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
“For —?”
“S-Saving our lives. For … rowing out of … the m-m-maelstrom.”
There. Colin had owed him that.
Behind Philip’s head, the gray shape loomed toward them.
Colin felt no fear. It was time.
He prayed silently that the water would take them before the whale did. That they would be claimed by the sea, the way Mother had been claimed.
But the shape was gaining steadily.
As the fog rolled aside, Colin saw it clearly.
It was not a whale.
It was a prow.
“C-Colin … ?” Philip coughed.
A good high one, fanning back to outline a broad beam.
The hull was encrusted with barnacles and smeared with blood. Five stout square-rigged masts emerged from the fog, interlaced with staysails. Attached to the ship’s bowsprit was a figurehead, a wooden statue of a mermaid. Two towering metal winches hunched over gunwales laden with long rowboats, racks of spears, and harpoons. Along the bow, peeling gold-and-green letters spelled out the name NOBADEER .
A whaling ship, full-tilt after a catch.
“H-H-Help —” Philip sputtered.
Colin tried to cry out, but his voice was frozen.
The ship’s crew stood at the port bow, facing away from Colin and Philip, searching the seas ahead. As the bow cut swiftly through the water, it smashed through the floating remnants of the Horace Putney.
The water closed around Colin like a fist (why, Lord) and he realized he would die within hailing distance of a ship that by all odds shouldn’t be here, and whose disappearance meant the certain death of the entire expedition.
“W-W-W —” Father said.
“What?”
“WAVE!”
Colin raised an arm limply. The beam of the Nobadeer glided past them now, sending a powerful wake.
“C-Col— lin —” Philip said. “Look. Up.”
As they rose on the wake, Colin saw over the starboard gunwale. The men were swarming the masts, pulling at halyards, slackening the sails.
The ship was losing speed.
One by one, sailors in striped
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