The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(29)

But, regrettably, his strategy did nothing to wipe the fear from the eyes of the sailors, who went on obsessively searching the ship and grilling Carson about what he had seen. They needed to know what the monster looked like. But Carson’s account was only sketchy. The sailor had been stretched out on one of the cots in the infirmary, semiconscious from the laudanum, so that he felt the teeth of the saw as little more than a pleasant, harmless tickle, even though the surgeon was about to take off his right foot at the ankle, when a huge shadow entered the room and hurled itself at the unwitting Doctor Walker. In a matter of seconds, the apparition had torn the surgeon to shreds, pieces of him flying about the room in a hail of bloody lumps of flesh and broken bone. Unsure if this was a hallucination caused by the laudanum, or, however insane it seemed, if it was really happening, the horrified Carson prepared himself to meet the same fate, wondering whether he would feel anything more than a pleasant tickle when the creature began to dismember him. But luckily for Carson, his fellow sailors’ movements had alerted the demon, and it had fled the room. Carson could only offer a vague and incomplete description of the monster that added nothing new to the information Peters had gleaned from its footprints. The Martian, indeed, did have claws, not hooves, and was terrifying to behold, but they could get no more information out of Carson, not even about the color of its skin. Carson was a man of few words who knew when to unfurl a sail to make the most of the wind but whose vocabulary was too limited to describe a creature that probably resembled nothing he had ever seen before. When Carson had recovered from the shock, they dressed the tiny incision on his foot made by the saw, although none of them dared finish the amputation the doctor had started. They left him in the infirmary, hoping for a miracle or that a game of cards would decide who would wield the saw and put an end to Carson’s suffering.

The following morning, they buried the remains of Doctor Francis Walker in a coffin expressly built by the carpenters, although what they placed inside it was little more than a smattering of fragments. They dug a grave in the ice with shovels and pickaxes, and they lowered the box into it, draped in a flag. Marking his final resting place was a simple plank of wood, with the following inscription:

In memory of Doctor Francis T. Walker, who departed this life on 4 March 1830 on board the Annawan, at the age of thirty-four years.

Peters took upon himself the task of driving the wooden plank into the ice with an enormous mallet. They performed the ceremony close to the ship, and although it was meant to be a solemn affair they could not help carrying it out as quickly as possible, since no one wanted to spend too long exposed to that bitter cold, especially when the monster responsible for what happened to the doctor was still at large.

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AFTER THE BURIAL, REYNOLDS retired to his cabin and, lying on his bunk with his eyes closed, mulled over recent events. After seeing the doctor’s fragmented body it was logical to assume the monster had no interest in fraternizing with them but rather seemed hell-bent on death and the annihilation of all forms of life, whether elephant seals or skilled surgeons. Still, Reynolds had not given up his idea of conversing peaceably with it. Must he rule out that option simply because the monster had not shown Doctor Walker the proper respect? Perhaps it had felt threatened by the frail-looking surgeon. Or perhaps it had still not grasped that they, too, were intelligent beings, and that it could therefore communicate with them if it so wished. Perhaps to the monster they were simple cockroaches, so that it had no moral scruples about crushing them. Reynolds abandoned that line of reasoning when he realized he was simply trying to find a way of justifying the monster’s violent behavior, whereas perhaps what he ought to be doing was accepting the fact that, for whatever reason, the demon was intent on destroying them, giving them no choice but to kill it before it killed them. Although he could not be sure of that either. They lacked information, and staying posted around the ship, ready to blast away anything on the snow that moved, whatever its size or shape, was clearly not the best way to get any. The explorer sighed and sat upright in his bunk. Something prevented him from giving up hope of communicating with a being from another planet. Perhaps they would succeed if they dealt with the situation a little more calmly instead of giving way to panic. They had the opportunity to establish diplomatic, peaceful relations with another world! They should not rule out that possibility simply because they did not yet know what they were up against, he told himself. Reynolds stood up and, brimming with resolve, made his way to Captain MacReady’s cabin to discuss the matter with him.

MacReady greeted him with his usual lack of interest. The captain’s cabin was almost four times bigger than the explorer’s, spanning the breadth of the ship’s stern. It boasted a substantial library and an enormous food store crammed with hams, cheeses, pots of marmalade, sacks of tea, bottles of excellent brandy, and other delicacies paid for out of the captain’s own pocket. But more significantly, it was fitted with its own privy, where MacReady could relieve himself away from the stresses and strains of his command. Reynolds envied him this tiny closet on the starboard side, which he considered a great luxury, a slice of civilization as comforting as it was incongruous. The captain offered him a glass of brandy and gestured wearily toward a chair.

“Well, Reynolds, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” he said sardonically as soon as his visitor had sat down.

The explorer gazed pityingly at this giant of a man who, despite being aware he was defeated, utterly overwhelmed by circumstances, insisted on exerting his authority with a kind of crude malevolence. For perhaps the ship becoming icebound was a foreseeable event, a setback that years of experience had prepared the captain to face with professional equanimity, imagining perchance that the arrival of summer would bring the long-awaited miracle: the thaw that would liberate them. Yes, the accursed icepack would eventually break up, and the Annawan, less damaged than they had feared, would be free to sail away from there, down the channels that would widen with their passage, in a genuine apotheosis of human will, but above all in a celebration of life, shared by petrels and skuas flocking gaily overhead, as well as shoals of cod and herring and even Arctic whales, which would escort them home in a majestic convoy. Reynolds took a sip of brandy and went straight to the point.