The North Water by Ian McGuire

ceases whistling.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œBear,” Drax says. “The next floe over.”
    Cavendish shields his eyes and squats down to get a better look.
    â€œI’ll get a boat,” he says, “and a rifle.”
    They lower one of the whaleboats onto the ice, and Drax and Cavendish and two others drag it across to the open water. The floe is a quarter mile wide and hummocky. The bear is pacing at its northerly edge, snapping at the air and sniffing about for seals.
    Cavendish through his spyglass spots a trailing cub.
    â€œMother and child,” he says. “Look see.”
    He hands the glass to Drax.
    â€œThat babe’s worth twenty pounds alive,” he says. “We can skin the mother.”
    The four men discuss finances for a minute and then, having reached a satisfactory agreement, they pull slowly towards the floe. When they are fifty yards away, they stop rowing and steady the boat. Cavendish, with his knees braced against the bows, lines up his shot.
    â€œI’ve got a guinea in my locker says I’ll put one plumb in her eyeball,” he whispers. “Who’ll match it, now?”
    â€œIf you’ve got a guinea in your locker, then my cock’s a cunt,” one of the men retorts.
    Cavendish snickers.
    â€œNow, now,” he says. “ Now , now .”
    â€œPut it in the heart,” Drax says.
    â€œThe heart it is,” Cavendish nods, “and here we go.”
    He scowls along the barrel one more time, then shoots. The bullet hits the bear high on the rump. There is a squirt of blood and a roar.
    â€œFuck,” Cavendish says, looking suspiciously at the rifle. “The sight must be skewed.”
    The bear is circling wildly now, shaking its withers, howling and biting at the air as if fending off an imaginary foe.
    â€œShoot her again,” Drax says, “before she runs.”
    Before Cavendish can reload, the bear sees them. Instead of running, she pauses a moment, as if thinking what to do, then drops off the ice edge and disappears into the sea. The cub follows her.
    The men row forwards, scanning the surface, waiting for the two bears to rise. Cavendish has his rifle at the ready; Drax is holding a looped rope to snickle the cub.
    â€œShe could have gone back under that ice,” Cavendish says. “There are cracks and holes aplenty.”
    Drax nods.
    â€œIt’s the babe I want,” he says. “That babe’s worth twenty pounds easy. I know a fellow at the zoo.”
    They circle slowly. The wind drops off, and the air about them settles. Drax snorts, then spits. Cavendish resists the urge to whistle. Nothing moves, there is silence all around, then, only a yard off the boat’s stern, the she-bear’s head, like the pale prototype of some archaic undersea god, rises up out of the dark waters. There is a moment of wild commotion, scrambling, shouting, cursing, then Cavendish takes aim and shoots again. The bullet hums past the ear of one of the oarsmen and slaps into the bear’s chest. The bear rears up shrieking. Its enormous clawed feet, broad and ragged as tree stumps, crash down on the whaleboat’s gunwales, raking and shredding the planks in a frenzied bid for purchase. The boat pitches wildly downwards and seems set to capsize. Cavendish is thrown forwards, dropping his rifle, and one of the oarsmen is tossed overboard.
    Drax pushes Cavendish aside and takes an eight-inch boat spade from the side rack. The bear, giving up on the boat, lunges for the thrashing oarsman. She clamps onto his elbow with her teeth, and then, with one dismissive shake of her enormous neck, rips away most of his right arm. Drax, standing upright in the still-rolling whaleboat, lifts up the boat spade and plunges its chisel edge hard down into the bear’s back. He feels the moment of resistance and then the inevitable and irretrievable give as the bear’s spine is split asunder by the milled steel edge. He