Icebound

ICEBOUND.

The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All characters are over the age of 18. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Thank for reading and I hope you liked this story. Please do leave a comment as I read all of them and take them all onboard.

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Please note: Fair warning - this story is non-erotic. I wrote this some time ago but this story is one of my favorites so wanted to upload it here. It has appeared elsewhere and been published in an anthology. I was, and am, influenced by the writings of H.P. Lovecraft and this is my humble tribute to the master. If you read it, I hope you enjoy it.

This story is influenced by two of H.P. Lovecraft's stories: Polaris, which is set in the pre-ice age city of Olathoë in the land of Lomar. Lomar was eventually destroyed by savage Inutos peoples from the west. Also, The Mound which tells of terrible caverns beneath the Earth.

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MESSAGE OF THIRD OFFICER WILLIAM ABBOTT.

FEBRUARY 2, 1942.

I was asleep when the torpedo struck. The explosion flung me out of my bunk, fetching my head a bang against the bulkhead, stunning me, during which time the Glen Markie's deck rapidly listed to a fifteen degree angle. Because of the Arctic cold, I was already dressed so I dragged on my sea-boots, grabbed my kitbag and made my way up to the bridge, struggling into my life-vest as I did so.

Even in that short journey, it was obvious our ship was doomed. Its tilt became steeper and I heard more explosions as ice-cold seawater flooded the boiler room. The alarm was ringing fit to wake the dead. As I reached the bridge, Captain Melrose was ordering the radio operator to signal an emergency Mayday call.

The Captain pressed the tannoy system. "Abandon ship," he called. His voice was calm but we both knew it was a desperate situation. This far north, the Arctic Ocean's heart-stopping chill would kill any man immersed in water within five minutes.

Catching sight of me, Captain Melrose ordered me to supervise lowering the lifeboats. With the angle of the hull our port boats were already out of use, while the starboard dangled over the ocean. Snapping off a quick salute, I hurried out of the bridge and into sub-zero air.

Crewmen had already gathered around the lifeboats and were wrestling with ice-bound davits. I took charge and soon two boats were filled and lowered. They rowed away from the ship not wanting to be caught up in the whirlpool when it finally sank.

Then another, larger, explosion rocked the Glen Markie and I nearly tumbled overboard. I don't know if it was another boiler explosion or whether the U-Boat had fired a second torpedo to finish us off. The ship staggered and its bows started dipping beneath green waves as its stern raised, the screw threshing air, not water. With our cargo of ammunition and tanks destined for Murmansk I knew we'd go under within minutes.

I was about to run back for Captain Melrose when, with a creaking roar, the weakened bridge superstructure toppled over. That decided me. I climbed into the last lifeboat and ordered Petty Officer McCrudden to cast off. The boat slid down the hawsers and splashed into the water. There were thirteen of us in the boat - an unlucky number but I had no thought of that at the time.

"Row," I ordered, seizing an oar myself.

We pulled with all our might, not wanting to be caught up in the doomed ship's maelstrom. In the distance, I saw guide lights from the other boats. Finally, after we'd rowed a few hundred yards the Glen Markie took those souls unable to escape down to Davey Jones's Locker. The sound was indescribable, like a great groaning roar, but far worse.

In the polar darkness, I tried to steer towards the other boats but then a mist drew down and I lost sight of them. Sudden fogs are not uncommon in this region east of Jan Mayen Island, and as we rowed in their general direction, it was like we were enclosed in our own little world.

"Do you think we'll get picked up, sir?" Hughes asked. This was his first Russian Convoy and although he tried to keep fear from his voice, it still showed through.

I opened my mouth. "The Captain got off a Mayday before...," I couldn't finish as the thought of all our dead crew mates upset me. Tears came to my eyes and froze as I recalled my dead companions.

"We'll be alright, lad," McCrudden said reassuringly. "The Navy will be scouring the seas for us." He glanced at me. We didn't have to say anything. It was long odds against us surviving in these wastes before succumbing to bone-chilling cold.

The fog closed in, and with the long winter night, we were completely isolated. It persisted for the whole of the next day and night. We huddled together, shivering terribly with cold, and ate carefully rationed hard tack and bully beef. To keep up morale, I had us all sing songs and tell stories. McCrudden was very good, telling us about his pre-war exploits in The Gut, Malta. Unfortunately, they made us all wish we were safe on that sunny island.

The second day, the fog lifted somewhat and we carefully searched the horizon for any sign of the other boats but saw nothing - we were completely alone. That, as well as the sub-zero cold, made our spirits sink to our boots. All the same, I had us row west, more for the exercise, as I knew we'd never reach Jan Mayen.

Twilight was already falling when an iceberg loomed out of a fog bank. It was large, about sixty yards tall, and shaped like a church with a spire of ice at one end. Even in the dim light it shone an eerie, iridescent bluish-purple.

"Shall we head there, sir? We could hack off some ice to drink," McCrudden suggested. Although our lifeboat held a cask of water, it wasn't enough. We were all exhausted from rowing in the cold and insufficient food so I nodded wearily. We might as well head there as anywhere. Turning the boat's prow, we cautiously rowed towards the mountain of ice. It loomed over us as we drew closer and its mysterious glow appeared to come from within. A handy shelf of ice jutted out from the lee side. Careful, so as not to hit any underwater protrusions which could smash our boat, we approached.

McCrudden and Hughes leaped out and hauled the lifeboat up onto the ice. The rest of us followed. The shelf was just beneath the pinnacle and the ice soared up into the air. McCrudden took a hatchet from the boat and hacked off pieces of ice.

"At least we won't die of thirst," he said through chapped lips.

The men milled around the shelf while McCrudden set up the primus stove to boil the ice. Everyone was glad to stretch their legs and escape the boat's narrow confines for a while.

At one end of the ledge, a dark crevice opened in the ice wall. For some reason we stayed away from that end. Once the water boiled he brewed mugs of strong cocoa to which he added condensed milk - and a splash of brandy. Once the hot cocoa hit our stomachs, we all felt much better.

However, McCrudden drew me to one side. "We can't stay here, sir," he said in a low voice. "Icebergs are unstable; as they melt it'll turn turtle and pitch us all in the briny."

I nodded. I had some experience of these northern seas from before the war. "It's a large berg and I don't think it will do that just yet. And we all need some rest. We'll stay here overnight, catch some zees then I'll climb that pinnacle and see if I can see anything." I used to enjoy mountaineering in my youth and looked forward to testing my skills against the ice.

"And what's the worst that can happen? We either die here or on the open sea," I said. Little did I know.

"Don't talk bilge, sir. We'll make it through." All the same, McCrudden looked doubtful but he realized that everyone could do with rest.

We found a sheltered spot out of the wind, rigged up tarpaulins to make a rudimentary shelter and huddled together for warmth.

Dawn, or the dim grey light which passes for sunrise this far north, found us not much rested. I had been disturbed by strange dreams of being attacked by savage Eskimos but those images faded as I came to. McCrudden lit the stove and brewed up again.

While he did so, I investigated that fissure at the far end of the ledge. It opened up into an ice-grotto fringed with stalactites. It was no warmer in there but the ice walls muffled the sound of crashing waves. The sea seemed to be getting rougher. The dim light filtering through the ice gave the grotto an eerie bluish-grey glow, barely light enough to see by. Aware of thousands of tons of ice pressing down from above, I wasn't going to linger but at the far end I saw what appeared to be a flight of steps leading down into the berg's submerged interior.

Despite a warning voice at the back of my mind telling me that this was a bad idea, I climbed down the first few steps. They were more regular than I expected but ice is strange like that and this must be one of several natural fissures in the ice, maybe caused when this berg calved from the Arctic ice sheet. All the same, it was odd. Drawing my flashlight, I carried on downwards. As I descended beneath the ocean, the little outside light faded.

My flashlight caught strange grooves on the steps' surfaces and I couldn't account for these. They looked like footprints but that was impossible as I was the first human ever to descend this ice-mount. They were most unusual, though, and I couldn't account for them. Drawn onwards despite myself, I descended into the very heart of the berg. My breath formed wraiths of condensation around me and I heard ominous creaking and groans as the ice shifted and settled. This was dangerously foolhardy but what had I to lose? Once we cast off, we'd be adrift in an open boat with an almost zero chance of rescue.

As if lured by forces beyond my power I carried on down. Every step still had those strange tracks. My flashlight splashed sparkles of color as it played over the icy walls. Down I went until my way was blocked by a translucent wall of ice. It was completely smooth, like a window pane and rose from floor to ceiling. Rubbing it with my mittens, I tried to peer through the glassy ice. I couldn't be sure but it seemed as if there was some sort of chamber beyond so, taking off my mitten, I rapped the wall and found it was hollow.

I'd never heard of anything like this before and my curiosity was piqued. However, the wall was too thick for me to break down and I couldn't see any way around it. The thought came to me that something had been sealed off behind it. I stood there, deep in thought at this anomaly.

Wearily, I climbed back up the steps. Yet there was a part of me that didn't want to leave. Back on the ice-shelf, McCrudden was gazing out to sea. He was muffled up and even in the short time I'd been away, the sea had become rougher and whitecaps danced as far as the foggy horizon. Waves crashed against the berg, the force of them making even this mountain of ice shake and tremble.

"Where've you been, sir, we've all been lookin' for you?" His Belfast accent was stronger now.

I told him about what I'd found beneath the ice. "I'd like to check it out further."

"You're one mad Canuck. We should leave now before this berg turns turtle," he said. All the same, I could tell he was intrigued.

"It's too risky to leave now. We'll go when the sea calms down," I said. For some reason, it felt so important for me to find out what was on the other side of that ice-wall. Probably nothing, the rational part of my mind insisted, but I felt a definite pull.

He looked at me and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Might as well, it shouldn't take too long. But I think we ought to leave right away, sir. I dunno, this berg feels rotten to me."

Normally I would defer to McCrudden's experience but I was in the grip of a desire to find out what lay beyond. Somehow, I knew that not knowing would nag me all my life, however long or short that would be. In the end, apart from one man left to guard the lifeboat and keep an eye open for any shipping, everyone else went.

Carefully, we made our way back through the ice-grotto and down the steps. We took several flashlights, ropes and equipment with us. This time I felt the mountain of ice above us tremble as the sea battered against it. Several of the men looked like they'd rather return to the surface but none wanted to show fear before their mates.

"This is a bad idea, sir," McCrudden whispered.

I was tempted to agree but we were now at the ice window.

"Never seen nothing like this," McCrudden said. However, he took a hatchet, hefted it and then swung at the ice-wall. It held firm, making a strange, ringing sound. He aimed another, harder, blow at it and the wall shattered into a thousand glassy splinters leaving just a fringe of icicles at the top. A draft of sub-zero air billowed out. Unlike the clean, odorless Arctic air, I discerned a faint aroma of long-gone spices. Behind me, the men coughed and spluttered.

Taking the lead, I stepped through the opening, my boots crunching over the shards. McCrudden laid a hand on my sleeve.

"No...," he said, but it was too late.

Raising my flashlight, I was shocked by what I saw. Even the men fell silent. For we had stepped into a tomb. Lying on a block of ice was a man in an extraordinary state of preservation. He looked to be merely in a waking trance, not dead, as his eyes were open and the irises were a tawny-golden color. We gathered around, hushed and awed, stilled into silence. Even the most humble seaman knew that it was a remarkable discovery.

The man was tall, well over six foot, yet slender and intelligent looking. He was clean shaven, fair-skinned and had an aquiline nose. This was no Inuit hunter. He wore a black robe which had strange golden amulets and talismans sewn onto it. A tall, conical hat, also ornamented with gold, added to his height while a bronze wand lay in his hands. By his side was a bronze book with richly decorated covers.

Yet what shocked us all the more was that the man looked like myself. The resemblance was remarkable - not like identical twins but he could have been my younger brother. Except for the eyes, as mine are grey, and he looked to be in his late twenties whereas I won't see forty again.

"A Viking?" McCrudden wondered. "They roamed the Arctic."

I shook my head. "This is no Viking. I think this man is much older; maybe from the Bronze Age." I was excited, even though I knew it was extremely unlikely I'd ever get to tell anyone about my find. "This changes everything we know - Bronze Age Europeans in the Arctic." As I spoke, I wondered how and why this man had been entombed in the ice. This was a deliberate interment, not as a result of an accident.

There was a sudden, rumbling screech, resounding around the chamber as the iceberg complained against the buffeting it was getting. That brought us to our senses.

"We should get away now," McCrudden warned.

This time, I had to agree. Wishing I had a camera so I could record my find for posterity, I pocketed the wand and book as some sort of proof. We almost ran up the steps to reach the illusory safety of the ice-shelf. Nobody wanted to be trapped below if the iceberg toppled over. As if being on the surface would take us out of harm's way.

The short polar day was ending when we emerged out of the ice-grotto. We were shocked. The waves were much stronger now and washed over the ledge. Peering through the gloom we were horrified to find our lifeboat had been washed away and was drifting fifty yards away. Fifty yards or fifty miles, it was all the same. We had no way of reaching it - we were trapped on this treacherous iceberg. Worse, there was no sign of the man left behind. If he'd been washed away, then he was already dead.

"We should have got away when we had chance," Hughes wailed.

"Easy, lad. What's done is done. And we have more chance of being spotted here than in a little boat," McCrudden said. But his reassurance fell on deaf ears.

Hughes and some of the others were so furious and wanted to throw me into the sea to swim for the boat and I was forced to draw my pistol to quell them. But they still looked at me angrily. I was shocked at how quickly discipline had broken down even under these circumstances but couldn't blame them. Ultimately it came down to either dying in the lifeboat or here on the berg.

And I wanted to investigate that body again.

The men huddled out of the killing wind in the grotto. Along with the lifeboat, our camp had been washed away so there was no warmth. Without saying anything we all knew we'd succumb to exposure within the next couple of days. To lift their spirits, I authorized another swallow of brandy apiece.

Once again, I made my way down the steps. They were glad to see me go. The men's boots had damaged the steps and it was hard to see the original 'footprints'. In the ice-tomb I looked again at the body. Yet it was hard to believe I was looking at a corpse as he looked so alive, merely sleeping.

I yawned. It had been a long day and I was exhausted. I didn't feel like climbing the steps to stay with the hostile men so, despite my superstitious dread, I sat down on the icy floor and closed my eyes.

I awoke some time later with a scream dying in my throat. My nightmare had been vivid and unlike any I'd had before. Before the images faded from my mind, I focused on what I could recall. There was something about a bone-white, marble city. Lining its streets were caryatid pillars, the upper parts of which were carven into the images of bearded men. Beyond its white walls I made out stark peaks. Yet what made me cry out was the pole star itself. Somehow, I knew our doom would come when that star set.

Shuddering with fear and cold, I climbed up to the surface. As I ascended, the nightmare fell away. But nothing prepared me for what awaited me at the top. Everyone was gathered around a prone figure.

"Hey! What's happened?" I called, shouldering my way through the gathering. It was immediately obvious what had happened. The man, Everson, was dead. His face was deeply cyanosed and frost crystals had formed on his skin. I guessed that his heart had succumbed to the bitter cold, that and despair, but I'm no doctor so I couldn't be sure.

The men stirred sluggishly and looked my way. I was surprised that McCrudden hadn't set a watch outside but probably the cold numbed their senses. There was nothing we could do for Everson, so we took the remains outside and dropped them into the ocean. I said a short prayer afterwards. Unsurprisingly, the men were reluctant to return to the grotto and stood outside on the ice-shelf smoking the last of their cigarettes.

McCrudden stood to one side and offered me his lighter. "Where were you?" he asked.

"You know where I was - down in the tomb."

He narrowed his eyes at this. "All that time? And why?"

I noticed he no longer called me 'sir'. "That's right. I fell asleep down there. And you may have noticed that the men aren't too happy with me."

He was about to say more when we were disturbed by a small avalanche falling down the steeple of ice above us, crashing into the sea and cascading waves over the ice-shelf. We stepped back, avoiding the freezing spray. The entire berg shuddered and I wondered if the whole ice mount was about to turn turtle, hurling us all into the freezing ocean where we'd join Everson. However, it recovered and resumed its drift.

Once the berg stabilized, McCrudden didn't say anything more but looked at me as if trying to read my mind. I'm not sure he liked what he saw in my face for he turned away and joined the men. There was nothing more I could do so I returned down to the tomb.