The Travels of Mr. Greg Fields (Part 2)

The Travels of Mr. Greg Fields

[image loading]

or, a Journey to a remote and unforgiving land

Dear readers,

I present to you here the second episode of Mr. Greg Fields' travels. The first detailed Mr. Fields' upbringing, gave a brief account of his studies, and then his reasons for travelling abroad; you may find it here. We join him again as he starts his voyage through cold and treacherous Arctic waters. I trust that you have found this account of his worth perusing, and that you will choose to continue with it here; again, I have enclosed a number of daguerrotypes which depict scenes from his journey.

Yours as ever,

Grovel Oh-Sea

Part 2

Voyage Through the Arctic

In which the author recounts his safe passage through to Newfoundland, thereafter a calamitous incident that near wrecks his journey, and a premonition told to him from an unlikely source.

The reader should be now familiar with my upbringing, and the suffocating state of affairs that led to my departure from New Jersey. I was Korea bound, aboard my little skiff and well prepared to face the inclement elements. I had bid a quiet farewell to my parents, promising myself that I would see them again when the time came, I in better spirits and with successes to my name. I expected to make Korea in two months, maybe more if the Arctic took objection to my passage: a week to Newfoundland, then another past Baffin and Banks Islands through to Russia; I figured five weeks to cross the Pacific. It is with grim humour that I look back on my ambitions now: to think that a boy in possession of nothing but a flimsy scull and mouse pad could make his way half across the world! To what, thaw the frozen seas with nothing but warm-hearted resolve? To cross the featureless Pacific, as broad as she is, with only obstinacy as his guide? Of course, what amuses me more, and this time more happily, is that I did make it. Perhaps I too readily discount the tenacity of youth, or at least that of a StarCraft player in distant sight of his goals.

I left you last with my leaving home, renting the boat, and pushing off from familiar ground. As I have said, the weight of my decision settled upon me then like a dim and oppressive fog; it was only when I could no longer see the lights of my town did the cloud in my heart lift a little, and, after the dawn broke, the sun brought with it real cheer. To my left the coast continued out of sight, to my right, the vast and unbroken ocean brought my mind to reflect on what was in store. The time would come when, by force of my route, I would have to leave the security of land and direct my bow forward into perilous sea; but not yet.

Days passed, and I kept close sight of the shoreline. I had no need yet of the sextant and astrolabe that I had packed. I passed the time by reading through my Brood War manual, turning each page gingerly lest I damage the serviceable information contained therein. Some of the corners had begun to furl and yellow through exposure to the elements, and I took it upon myself to preserve it by placing it under my jacket as I slept, thus insulating it from the rain and chill. I had passed Labrador and was now entering the Hudson Strait; the nights grew colder. My grass stuffed coat was now no longer enough, and I availed myself of the mouse pad which I had so prudently packed. Recumbent on the hard wooden floor of my skiff, my coat wrapped tightly around me, I used the pad to cover my face. I found that I could position it such that the cold air could not get in, so servicing to insulate my brow, nose, and mouth with the warmth of my breath. I passed many a lonely hour in this way, thoughts of sound economic management strengthening my fortitude and stern determination to see this Arctic through.

During the more pleasant daylight hours I took to declaiming with vigour my build orders to the gulls overhead. They came low and swept passed my bow, yet unresponsive to even my most arduous recitations. Once, in my gusto, I scaled the mast and tried to pluck one out of the sky, but to no avail. They rose and circled above me at leisure, keeping pace easily.

From here I could see the ice stretching away in every direction. I paused to take breath. I can then recall three things happening all at once, and with no prior warning. First, a great rendering sound, as though my little skiff had been split asunder by some huge object; second, me being flung forwards with murderous force onto the deck below; and third, a great screaming of birds echoing in my ears, as if my calamity had occasioned their malicious cries. I rose bewildered and in great pain: in order to break my fall I had extended my right arm forward, such that it had taken the brunt of the blow. The skiff was now stationary. I had hit something, there was no doubt of that, though what I couldn’t tell, certainly I had seen nothing from my vantage point upon the mast. The gulls circled closer now, squawking with glee at my misfortune . I cursed, loudly. I peered over the bow, nursing my right arm. There, submerged in the icy blue water, I saw a great length of ice embedded in the hull.

In making passage through the frozen waters I had neglected to perceive the narrowing of my channel, and now I found that the ice came up almost to the boat’s sides. The length embedded there jutted out from a larger shelf to my left, the whole thing submerged a foot deep in water. With the tide rushing through the fissure, the boat was rapidly filling. I cannot describe to you the horror which, on seeing this, gripped my heart. I thought of my sweet parents, tender guardians of my fate; little help could they afford me now. I thought of all my friends at home. I thought of Korea…

All at once I broke from my reverie: hesitation would only serve me ill. Furiously I took to bailing out water with my left hand, bending low and scooping it up. Little good did this do, and I realised that I would have to stem the tide before trying to rid the boat of water. The hole in the hull was about the size of my fist, and desperately I looked about for something to plug it with. Nothing: foodstuffs, clothing, a length of rope. Then I saw it: the mouse pad. With my right hand, I reached for it, keeping my left jammed against the hole to suppress the flow of water. Quickly I rolled it up, and with all available force, pushed the ice through the hole with my feet, releasing its hold. I leapt up and jammed the pad through the breach, the torrent abating. Still, the weight of water in the skiff was causing her to heel forwards, and feverishly I resumed bailing it out with my good hand. Finally, with most the water evacuated, she seemed alright. I checked again the mouse pad: it remained securely wedged. I collapsed against the bow in exhaustion, nursing my swollen arm.

I recall all this with great clarity, such was the effect the frightful episode had on my mind and temperament. I took great care now to keep watch over the course of my passage, and thankfully made it through to the Beaufort Sea with no more issue. Without my mouse pad to shield me from the night’s chill I had to rely instead on the Brood War manual, a poor substitute. Also, my arm still pained me, and I knew it to be broken. With my supply of food and water running short, and my skiff in need of repair, I set course for the town of Deadhorse, Alaska, arriving there a full two weeks after my encounter with the ice-berg.

It was twilight, and under smooth sail I entered the little bay, tying up my scull to a mooring. I walked through town, looking for an inn. I came to a place where dim light struggled through frosty panes, and, hearing a creaking sound, looked up to see a swinging sign over the doorway; there an image of a bird’s nest was faintly imprinted, and above it, these words: The Nidus. Scraping the ice from my boots, I opened the door and went inside.

Such sublime heat! The first I’d felt in weeks. I approached the bar, catching the eye of the man behind the counter. Telling him that I desired accommodation for a week or so, time enough at least to give my arm some rest and make repairs on my boat, he showed me upstairs: a small room, fitted with a thin mattress and thicker, tightly drawn curtains. I agreed to the price, and, leaving my things on the bed, went downstairs for something to calm my rumbling stomach.

I sat at one end of a long, dark wooded bench; the landlord (I presumed it was he) brought me some thin broth and a hunk of dry bread. I ate in silence, observing a few men at the opposite end of the table as I, slurping at pints of dark ale. I finished my meal and leaned backwards in my chair, savouring a full belly and the warmth of The Nidus. I was addressed then, and rather gruffly, from behind; turning in my seat, I beheld a man previously hidden to me by the shadows flung from the bar. I would call him a man now, but through a trick of the light, I feigned at first that he was some creature of the deep, freshly caught and deposited here by a force ill-disposed to his will.

Again:
“Ay, scant lad, where are ye headed?”
I collected myself, and, lending my eyes to his misshapen features, replied.
“I’ve come from New Jersey, through the Arctic. I’m bound for Korea.”
“Korea!” he cried, “Well, you’ll be heading through the Bering Strait then?”
“Yes.”
At this his eyes, before so small and dark, widened; his lips, before, tightly closed around the stem of his pipe, curled a little.
“Dear, dear, laddie”. Again, quieter, “dear, dear.”
He had me piqued.
“Why do you take that tone with me?” I asked. “You think me unsuited to peril? I’ve told you how far I’ve come, do you doubt that I can go further?”
“No, no laddie, not that at all.” His tone suggested otherwise.
“What then?”
He leaned towards me, taking the pipe from between yellowed teeth. I could smell the brine upon his breath. He whispered:
“What, ye haven’t heard tales from that dark strip of sea? No word of the malice that resides there?”
Then a low mumbling, though portentous:

“Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Where darkness rules and sunlight flees,
The monstrous Gracken wakes from sleep!"

With that he grew silent and would not respond to further questioning. I left him there and climbed the stairs to my room, thoughts of his strange words filling my head. I tossed and turned beneath my thin blanket, waiting for sleep’s cool hand to suppress the wild imaginings of my mind. Eventually I dozed, though fitfully. I dreamed of the old man and his portent: a vision of myself aboard my skiff, boundless ocean in a tumult of fury, rain lashing sails, the sky a violent purple; beneath it all, a dark and massive form rising with terrible speed from the abyss.

Part 3

The Travels of Mr. Greg Fields (Part 2)

Completed

Ongoing

Upcoming