The Rope Eater Page 10

  “Dr. Strabo believed that he could help them by teaching them English—just the mental energy saved from trying to understand each other would free them up tremendously for other things. At first they were amused by him—they thought he was simpleminded and were entertained greatly by the simplicity of his speech. Being used to a constant stream of new words, they learned the words of English very rapidly.

  “But as he patiently repeated them over and over and over, they became alarmed; they were afraid he would become stuck in time somehow if he did not continue to move along—that his thoughts would become fixed and his bodily functions would slow and eventually he would turn into stone.

  “They mocked him at first, but gradually grew afraid for themselves, that he would spread this thickening to their own thoughts, like a disease—would moor them in the forest and turn them into stones. He thought they were terrified of learning, that their heads would fill and burst, but the simpler he tried to make the lessons, the more upset they became—and they, in turn, believed that he was starting to turn to stone in front of them, speaking fewer and fewer words, then simply single words over and over. They packed up and retreated into the rain forest, pushing him away violently and threatening him when he attempted to follow them.

  “After a week or so they returned to him—to see what he looked like made of stone, no doubt. They were astonished to see him walking around, but shrank back again when he repeated the same set of words he had when they saw him last. Puzzled, he tried to speak to them in French, and they came forward again, translating it effortlessly into their own tongue—until he began to repeat himself again and they became wary. Then he switched to German and then Latin, and the little Italian that he knew, and a few words of Russian. They were delighted, and began to chatter freely again, leaping enthusiastically into whatever tongue he offered—supposing that his fever had passed and his thoughts were beginning to unlock again. Perhaps he wouldn’t turn to stone after all. As they spoke, he took notes on the sounds and sound patterns and began to understand the dynamics of their language—for there were no stable structures. The sounds formed and re-formed in cascades of new meanings, and there were patterns to the cycles that he could follow if he listened without interruption.

  “He began to understand at last how their language worked, if not comprehend its meaning, and he was surprised to hear in their own speech echoes of English and French—constructions and patterns that were familiar to his ear, though broken and re-formed. At first he assumed they were parroting badly what he had tried to teach them, or were mocking him again to themselves, but as they cycled back again and again in different forms, he began to see how the invention built on itself, taking pieces of recent speech and blending them with new pieces and then blowing them apart again and rebuilding new words with the pieces.

  “Here is a passage where he describes it:

  It is like a dance of the mind, their speaking, and each of them speaks a kind of private language that only mingles with the others at the edges—it seems profuse, exploding like the rain forest—it suits what they see—when new varieties of the altocanus nemoamus emerge in the space of seven or eight generations—within a single week—it seems foolish to attempt to shackle its identity to a single word.

  “And so he ceased trying to teach them English and worked to learn their speech—he felt it was the best way to gather their understanding of the coleoptera, and eventually became convinced it was the only way to understand beetles at all.

  “He devised his own written notations for it, and the remainder of his journal is composed entirely in that notation. As you can imagine, it was therefore fiendishly difficult to translate, as it requires one to understand the leaps and gaps of his own mind as it creates new words for the same objects or ideas. It has been a painstaking process to reconstruct, and even then we cannot be sure we have accurately tracked the progression of his thoughts. But as I came to understand some bare hints of what it contained, I became increasingly interested in its contents.”

  “Get on with it,” grumbled Reinhold.

  “I was able to fill in many of the gaps in Happy Strabo’s life, and unveil for us a discovery most remarkable—the second mystery of the journal. My family had thought Strabo was safely ensconced in the research faculty of a small university, hunched over his bugs—didn’t keep a close eye. He was no sailor—hated to travel—and yet according to this journal, he had sailed out of Boston on a twelfth of June in the sloop Blythe, outfitted for a two-year solo voyage through the Canadian Arctic in search of the fossilized remains of prehistoric beetles.

  “Clearly mad, he sailed north into the pack alone, but—fools and children—somehow made his way north into Lancaster Sound and began exploring the inlets along the northwestern coast, digging into the frozen gravel for traces of his precious genitalia even as his little sloop fell apart.

  “As he passed north out of Lancaster Sound, he encountered a number of unusual phenomena: rapidly developing storm systems with far heavier snow than is generally found in this region; sudden, powerful currents that pulled his ship from side to side and once drove it backwards through the water despite full sails; and air and water temperatures that diverged greatly from anywhere else in the Arctic.

  “Unfortunately he had little chance to explore these at any length. The storms damaged his ship badly, and he was forced to remain in the hold, pumping and patching as he drifted further and further to the north. He found himself in a bay free of pack ice but ringed by two great glaciers that calved masses of icebergs, and between them was a vast high wall of ice he called the Barrier. The bay itself was filled with dense fog and chaotic turbulence from the constant flipping of the icebergs.

  “With his ship leaking steadily, his rudder and mast gone, he limped forward, looking for a stable shelf of ice so he could safely abandon. As he moved north, however, the entire Barrier disappeared—it was an epic mirage, created by a current of extremely warm water that passed down between the glaciers. Once past the mirage, his ship ran aground, and he waded through the now-temperate waters to the shore.

  “He made his way along the channel, the air and water temperatures rising steadily. At the end, he found a temperate archipelago covered by trees of fantastic colors that grew from the heat of the earth rather than the sun—a lush Garden of Eden in the heart of the Arctic—and the rest, coleopterists, is unfortunately lost.

  “Imagine: a temperate archipelago in the heart of the Arctic! It will be our triumph: Westland! It will be our fortunes.”

  “But sir,” said Adney, hesitantly, “how so? Is there gold there?”

  The doctor laughed.

  “Trade in your beads—here is the new world,” he said.

  West leaned over the table.

  “There will be more than enough shiny trinkets for you mockingbirds—the rotation of the earth acts as a centrifuge, separating the heavier metals from the lighter, and concentrating them near the openings on the surface, where they may work their way out. But that is the least and smallest of our rewards—trust me, it will seem like nothing. Perhaps we will find something beyond gold—something unique from the hidden core of the planet, and so rarer and a thousand times more valuable. Whatever treasures we find—and there are sure to be many—we will divide between us, in proportion to our role. We shall each have lands named for us, and plants and unknown animals. Whose name will grace the gateway to these Elysian fields? Adney Strait? Or Mount Reinhold? I will give the honor to the first man who finds it. We are Columbus, Balboa, Cook—we shall be legends.” He sat back decisively.

  “But how is such a thing possible?” asked Pago.

  “My family naturally believed, like you, that these were hallucinations or lies, but with my great-uncle lost and the journal being found in the nets, my grandfather contracted an investigator to examine discreetly what had really happened. He found little—Strabo left nothing in his quarters at the university, except for diagram books of beetle genitalia with notes
in his peculiar notation. They gave no clue to his whereabouts. He was toasted on New Year’s and forgotten. I had put him from my mind until a conversation with Dr. Architeuthis resurrected my interest. I’ll allow him to explain the rest.” West sat back as the doctor unrolled a chart onto the slab.

  “I was involved in volcanic research in Iceland when I met Mr. West. Over the course of the evening I was intrigued to hear the story of his strange relative, and we began some exploratory research. This is, in fact, our second expedition, as Mr. Preston can attest.” I turned to Preston in surprise, but he kept his eyes resolutely forward.

  “First I will share with you some of my own geologic theories. My research has led me to believe that the surface of the planet, both land and sea, is made up of a thin crust of solid rock that is fractured into pieces that grind over each other with some regularity. These pieces float on a sea of molten rock thousands of miles thick, and this molten rock carries them here and there, just as ocean currents carry boats. Yes?” He looked up for a moment before continuing.

  “This molten rock performs much like water, except at a much slower pace—it flows into the shape of its container, the globe, extending itself where the opportunity presents, and receding when enough pressure is placed upon it. We discovered in Scandinavia that the weight of ice, in sufficient quantities, can depress the land surface greatly. In Sweden even now, the land is springing back from the weight of ancient glaciers; families with land on the coast see their holdings improve with each generation as the surface springs up from the sea.

  “On Greenland, the ice cap is, we estimate, several miles thick and weighs many millions of tons. The center of Greenland is therefore many hundreds of feet below sea level in the center. It is a huge bowl, with the coastal mountains forming the upper rim, and the rest beneath, filled with ice.

  “So the landmass pushes down into the molten layer and forces it up on either side”—he pushed his palms down and out to demonstrate. “This has two effects. First, it places tremendous strain on the crust, which is not at all elastic and so must fracture. Second, it forces the molten rock nearer to the surface around the bowl’s edges. On one side you have Iceland—a volcanic land filled with hot springs and lava flows that are continually creating more land. However, according to my analysis of the mass of Greenland’s ice, the greatest pressure is not to the southeast, but to the northwest, because it is there that the ice is the thickest, hence there is the most pressure.” He paused expectantly.

  “Thus it is very likely that there is a region to the northwest where this geothermal rift erupts, an area of considerable size. It seems certain that this rift would naturally create a long, steep valley, similar to the rift valley of Palestine, between the spreading ridges of the surface plate. If that valley were properly shaped, and wind conditions permitted, the hot air that emerged from the molten layer would remain trapped beneath the colder, heavier Arctic air. Thus trapped, it would form a temperate valley in the heart of the Arctic. Given the shift of the portions of the crust, it seems likely that the valley would spread, and the islands Dr. Strabo saw be created, as the center of the rift moved. It is possible, therefore, that a temperate archipelago could form—which Dr. Strabo seems to have stumbled upon.

  “Many puzzling aspects of his account are thus explained— the intense storms, created by the divergence in temperatures between the rift valley and the surrounding area; the size and speed of the two glaciers, formed by moisture evaporated from the valley and powered by melting from the land beneath; the swift currents and the flipping icebergs, also melted from below; the peculiar plant life, powered by geothermal energy below rather than the light of the sun; the bank of sulfurous fog, released by the volcanic vents; even the mirage, formed by the bend of light from warm air to cold, a remarkable feat of disguise!

  “Now if you examine this chart—vastly simplified—you see the developing heat indexes in air and water rising steadily as we near the area just beyond Jones Sound. Estimated ice masses increasing here, and the estimated iceberg volume here”—he indicated the northeastern edge of Lancaster Sound—“are beyond the amount a simple landmass could generate. Hence there must be something that is attracting sufficient moisture to generate the icebergs and sufficient heat to force them south. Our archipelago.” He circled an area on the map around the seventy-eighth parallel, between eighty-five and ninety degrees west.

  “The influence of the currents of warm water and rapid glaciation and melting is of a distinctive channel marked by variation in temperature, salinity, ice structure, et cetera. We need only to find this channel and follow it up to the Barrier.” He pointed to a jagged red gash extended up the side of the map.

  The men rumbled and shifted. West rose up from his chair.

  “Your lack of imagination is disappointing,” he said, “but not unexpected. If we find the islands and if they are as we anticipate, I will fill any man’s locker with money if he is not satisfied with his share. Will that do? A number of you have already gotten the treasure of your freedom, and should count yourselves lucky for that.” He glared at Reinhold, who glared in return but said nothing. We sat a moment in silence, expectant. Then West again:

  “That will be all.”

  We shuffled out in silence and returned to the deck. We cast off and moved into the thickening ice, each man mulling his fortunes. My watch divided into cells—Reinhold and Adney rode in the rigging, Pago sat in the deckhouse with Creely. I went below to find Aziz, edging past West and the doctor in the hallway, who dropped their voices and waited for me to disappear below before continuing their conference.

  “Well?” said Aziz, pouring me a cup of tea. “What do you think of their marvelous fairy tale?”

  “It sounds incredible,” I said. “Do you think it’s true?”

  “I think it is well worth the chance that it might be true.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the meeting? Were you on the previous expedition?”

  “Yes,” replied Aziz. “And it was I who translated Strabo’s journal.”

  “You did? What else does it say? Anything about what we will find on the islands?”

  “Some remarkable beetles,” he said, laughing. “It is very difficult to say with certainty what it says at all. There is nothing in the journal about gold or precious metals of any kind, if that is what you are asking.”

  “Then why is West promising us fortunes? What is he hoping to find?”

  “West and Architeuthis have their own ideas about what we will find there.”

  “What are you hoping to find?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I am hoping to discover something unique in the world—to see something no one has ever seen before. I think we may find extraordinary things.” I had a thousand other questions, but I was summoned to the deck by the captain to help reef as the wind came up.

  With Reinhold and Adney above me, the reefing went quickly, and we moved to lash down loose items on the deck. The evening grew steadily colder, and with the help of low clouds, a soft twilight settled. I thrilled at the prospect of finding this new land, of taking one unique step where no other human foot had stepped, where I was not stepping onto generations of death and rot and decay. Reinhold clambered down to meet me.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Another guzzle of lies but piping hot,” he answered grimly.

  “What do you mean? There aren’t islands?”

  “Oh there may be—I doubt we’ll ever see them. Or if we do, that we’ll leave them.”

  “Aziz has read the journal. He thinks it might be true about the islands, but he says there’s nothing in it about gold.”

  “Of course that’s what he says, snug in the back with West and the doctor. Your friend Aziz knows more than he’s telling— why would he come if not for money?”

  “To discover something new. To explore.”

  Reinhold snorted derisively.

  “Men like West don’t head out into the Arctic t
o explore without a damn good reason. West knows something is there and I’ll bet Aziz knows as well. Otherwise West would have just sent us up on our own and see what we found. And if not us, then another rotting hulk and another pack of cheap fools to man it. He needs us to get him up there because he isn’t sure where the islands are. Once he knows and doesn’t need us, he’ll dump us the first chance he can and take the treasure for himself. Of course he promised the moon. Act happy and watch your step.”

  He laughed shortly and moved off to the foredeck.

  I pushed away from the men in my mind as I imagined another set of the same conferences belowdecks, each set of men coiling against the others like pools of stagnant water breeding larval eggs beneath dark and impenetrable surfaces.

  eight

  The morning watch brought clear, cold skies and dazzling sun; the days were returning to a recognizable shape now— light, then darkness, then light again. The bile of last night seemed to fade and men worked with enthusiasm and vigor. We scoured the deck, cleaned the lines, mended sails. Shanties were flung out in clouds of steam. The wind carried a spray of fine crystals through the sunlight. All the lines carried a tracery of ice— delicate diamonds that melted under our hands. Though it was late summer, the days had in them the quickening of spring, and that same promise—of flooding, fruiting life welling up in secret channels, that tension of holding back and that building.

  The water we moved through began to fill again with ice— pure white and searing blue in the sun. The icebergs were fresher than the icebergs to the south, great knives of ice, and bulky mountains freshly carved. There was little of the arching grace of the eroded ice, none of the pitted gray shapes of melt; in its place was a sharpness, an austerity of line and plane, a landscape of fractured glass.

  We stopped frequently for more tests from the doctor—for a sounding lead, or a chain of colored bottles to be released, or hunks of ice harvested from this iceberg or that one; sometimes he had us climbing up to gather meltwater from their secret pools. The doctor brought out a massive spool of copper wire with a weighted bucket tied to the end for more precise measurement of greater depths and for bringing up some small sample of the bottom. This we hauled down to the ice several times a day, and waited while it whined down to the bottom, then hauled it back up and watched the doctor coo over the gray-brown muck as if it were a nest of baby birds. The tests yielded numbers and readings, vague noddings from the doctor but no explanations of what we might be discovering. The doctor seemed never to sleep; I saw him an equal amount as I rotated through my watches, peering at his gauges and making calculations in his books.