The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(34)
The explorer looked toward where Griffin had pointed, and saw the lookout standing some twenty yards from them, on the poop deck.
“Is that Carson?” he asked, confused, peering at the dark figure with its back turned, busily keeping watch.
Griffin nodded.
“Are you sure?”
The sailor gazed at the distant shape almost ruefully.
“Yes, sir, absolutely certain,” he replied. “It’s Carson.”
Reynolds went on staring at the figure, incredulous.
“Are you all right, sir?” he heard the sailor say again.
“Yes, Griffin, quite all right, do not fret . . . ,” Reynolds murmured slowly. “I must have had too much to drink, that’s all.”
“I understand, sir,” Griffin replied sympathetically. “This situation is intolerable for everyone.”
Reynolds nodded absentmindedly as he walked away from Griffin as if in a trance, indifferent to what the man might think of him. Indeed, he was scarcely aware of the sailor, whose eyes remained fixed on his back, contemplating him with something more than simple curiosity as he crossed the deck of the Annawan. Ironically, despite what he had said to Griffin, Reynolds had never been more sober. The long trek through the snow had cleared his head, and he felt oddly lucid as he walked with measured steps toward the dark figure of the other lookout. The closer he got, the more terrifying the man’s imposing stillness became. Griffin had assured Reynolds this was Carson, but the explorer knew that was impossible: he had just found Carson’s body in the snow. He only had to close his eyes and he could see Carson’s contorted face, that look of terror preserved for all eternity. He strained to make out the figure he was approaching but found it difficult in the pale half-light and due to all the layers of clothing they were obliged to don before venturing out. The easiest figures to recognize from a distance were no doubt those of Peters, the giant Indian, and Allan, whose painful thinness rendered him almost wraithlike. But that formless blob, scanning the white plain, unaware that Reynolds was watching it, could have been anyone, from the ship’s cook to George IV to President Jackson. And Reynolds would have been less surprised to encounter any of those three than the sailor who lay with his guts torn out in the snow.
But what if that figure really was Carson, as Griffin claimed? Reynolds pondered as he moved toward it slowly and deliberately, as though carrying a pitcher on his head. Ought he then to doubt what he had seen out there in the snow? Surely doubting his senses was the most logical thing to do. After all, there could not possibly be two Carsons, one up there on watch and the other lying in the snow, his innards spilled to the air! And he must not forget that he had been drunk. The dead sailor had looked to him like Carson, but it could have been another sailor who resembled Carson. Could he remember the face of every sailor on board? Good Lord, no, he had not given most of them a second glance! When Reynolds was close enough to glimpse the lookout’s vaporous breath rising from his padded head, a sudden thought struck him like a stone, causing him to stop dead in his tracks a few yards from the figure. He had been forced to dig the body out from under a thick blanket of snow! And, on further reflection, it must have been lying in the snow a lot longer than an hour, for even the raging winds and subzero temperatures could not freeze a body solid in such a short time. Reynolds’s theory that Carson had followed him off the ship suddenly seemed completely absurd. Why had he not realized this when he was digging him out? The body might have been there for a day or two.
Reynolds remained motionless on deck, a few yards from the lookout, scouring his memory. The last time he saw Carson was in the infirmary, where he had been reduced to a catatonic stupor after witnessing the surgeon’s brutal murder. Several of Carson’s fellow sailors had gone to see him there, keen to find out more about the monster. But since then Reynolds had seen nothing more of him. True, when he had left the armory he had thought he recognized Carson on watch, but now he was not so sure. He must have mixed him up with someone else, as no doubt had Griffin. Carson had probably left the infirmary and slipped off the ship without anyone noticing, God only knew for what reason. Perhaps he had fled in a moment of delirium brought on by the fever, or because he could no longer bear the apprehension of waiting. It did not really matter why. Had he, Reynolds, not committed the same act of folly? Whatever the case, the poor wretch had stumbled on the creature, which had given him the same treatment as it had the surgeon. And Reynolds had found his body scarcely an hour ago, while everyone thought Carson was still on board ship. But he could not have been, he said to himself, contemplating the shadowy shape standing out against the mist, almost within reach.
His heart knocking in his chest, Reynolds cursed that idiot Griffin for making him so absurdly anxious. Clearly that bright spark had been mistaken, and doubtless once he had covered the four or five paces between himself and the lookout, and had placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, he would feel a wave of relief as he saw Kendricks, Wallace, or even George IV staring back at him. Then, after suggesting to Griffin he purchase a pair of spectacles at the first opportunity, he would go straight to Captain MacReady to inform him of the sad news. Having resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery, Reynolds took a deep breath and stepped forward once more. But before he was able to move, the dark figure, alerted to his arrival by the creaking boards, began slowly to turn around. Forgetting to breathe, Reynolds watched the man’s hazy profile emerge from behind the earflaps of his hat, growing ever more distinct as the sailor turned with exasperating slowness, until the two men stood face to face. On the Annawan’s deck, Reynolds and the sailor who lay dead out in the snow stared at each other in silence. Reynolds’s face registered surprise and disbelief, while that of Carson had a slightly lost look, as though the explorer had woken him abruptly from a deep sleep. And yet it was Carson who broke the silence enveloping the two men.