Under the Ice, Under the Snow

by Elizabeth J. Kepsel

April 23, 18--

Dearest Nellie,

Every moment aboard this ship takes me further from you and Luke, and my heart aches at the thought. I know you shan’t receive this letter, or any other, until my return, but writing is the only way I have of staying close to you. It is a risk I am willing to take.

We sailed at dawn, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t watch your handkerchief waving us off from the docks. Please don’t be mad; I was sent to the galley the moment I boarded. Besides, my tears would have surely made me stand out, and we both know my aim is to stay as invisible as a ship’s cook can among thirty sailors.

I must keep these letters brief to avoid being caught writing to you in the dim candlelight. Goodnight, my dear.

-M.

April 24, 18--

Dear Nellie,

What a night I’ve had – the ship constantly tosses and sways, though at breakfast the others were so jovial and bright-eyed you’d think they had never slept better. I suppose I will eventually adjust to the hammocks. They’re great spidery things, really just swaying nets, and you cannot turn without the risk of dumping yourself onto the hard floor below. I hardly dare breathe on mine for fear of giving away my ineptitude at even this simplest of actions.

This is the longest we’ve been apart in years. I miss you. I doubt time and distance will make the pain easier. Please, be well.

-M.

April 30, 18--

Dear Nellie,

So far, all is well – shockingly well, perhaps. I am practically part of the furniture to the crew, so little do they notice my presence. They’ve all taken to calling me “Cookie” when they do acknowledge me, but mostly that’s just to ask for seconds. I don’t mind – it’s better if they not notice me.

I’m kept below decks all day, cooking, scrubbing, scouring. There are only so many meals I can prepare with such limited supplies and already I’ve grown restless within this confined space. I suppose I am at least grateful that the captain and mate don’t demand separate meals like Luke insisted they would. Perhaps in his adventure stories he read of such holier-than-thou officers, but on this ship everyone eats the same meals – though the first mate does come down each evening for a dessert of raisins, taken with a wink and a nod.

The kitchen is stale and humid, warm enough, I suppose, but dim and smoky. I go up above at night and breathe as deeply as I can to clear my lungs of the salt pork that has seeped into my pores, but it’s no use. Until I leave this vessel, I think I’ll just have to accept that my world will stink of the kitchen.

-M.

May 4, 18--

Dear Nell,

It feels like a lifetime ago that I boarded this ship, turning my life into one of Luke’s novels. I wish I’d consulted you before signing up, but I was feeling so desolate that day – cold, hungry, feet damp from the rain – and worse inside, knowing you were just as unhappy. We needed the money, so when I saw an ad calling for a ship’s cook, well, what else could I do but march myself down and apply?

I had to lie about being uneducated, of course. I still don’t understand it – what does it matter if a ship’s cook can read or not? – but today I learned another piece of the puzzle: none of the crew can read, either.

A squall hit us this afternoon – don’t fret for me, it died after a few rollicking hours – and when the first shift ate their dinner, a bag of potatoes slumped to the floor. The man sitting near where it fell hauled it back into place, then traced a shy finger across the bold letters printed on the sack. “I suppose,” he said, “this must say potato, but I never did learn my letters.” All around him were grunts of assent ranging from utter indifference to wistful sorrow.

“It weren’t right, the way they tricked us,” said another man between bites. “I were so embarrassed I nearly punched the boss fella’s mouth.”

“Aye,” agreed a third sailor. “I almost told them where they could shove their contract after that little prank, but at double the rate of another ship for just a short voyage? I couldn’t say no.” More murmurs of assent sounded through the cabin.

You remember, don’t you, Nellie? After I signed my contract they told me to exit through a door clearly labeled DANGER DO NOT ENTER, but I’d already told them that I couldn’t read a single letter. They called my name as the door opened and I looked back, my foot reaching out into nothing, and when I went to put weight on it I stepped straight off the dock, falling down into the open water. The shock of cold almost made me regret taking the job – almost. Only when they hauled me up and gave me an apology and an extra crown for my troubles did I begin to wonder what you would think of the whole endeavor.

“We all need the money. Still, seems odd, don’t it?” The speaker paused to swallow a bite. “I’ve heard calls for able-bodied men and skilled men, but never unlettered ones.” The conversation then turned to how they heard about the posting – in taverns or read aloud to them by friends – and then they were speaking of other matters altogether, and I was left with my thoughts.

I miss you.

-M.

May 9, 18--

Dear Nellie,

For three days we’ve been tormented by a storm so fierce I dared not write. Were my candle to fall over, it could set the whole ship ablaze. I feared the damp would ruin my letters to you, but they’ve remained safe, hidden as they are in the cache of my trunk’s lid. I am exhausted, having barely slept a wink since the crashing waves began, but at long last they have ceased.

Thoughts of you, Luke, and the day we are reunited are always on my mind.

-M.

May 13, 18--

Dear Nellie,

There isn’t much to write most days. This humdrum life below decks is nothing like Luke’s adventure stories, at least not for me. The men above likely have far cheerier opinions. I do not envy them the cold wind or wet spray, but rather their freedom – as much freedom as one can get aboard a ship. I feel like a prisoner trapped down here.

I hope that, with the help of my pay from this voyage, you’ve found a cottage and gotten out of that dreadful boarding house, with the inescapable damp and the smell of piss wherever you turn and the fat landlord’s roaming hands. By the time I return, you and Luke should be comfortably settled. The doctor said the country air would help Luke’s lungs, and I think it will also be a balm for me. I can almost picture it now – a little stone house with a low fence surrounding a vegetable garden in the back.

My daydreams are all the company I have. I miss your companionship and conversation dearly.

-M.

May 24, 18--

Nellie,

We’ve spotted the ice! Even I scrambled above to see, the blazing midday sun piercing my eyes like arrows for a long minute before I could open them enough to see the world of white stretching before us. The Arctic chill nipped through my jacket, but it was several long minutes before any of us could be convinced to stop gawking at the world before us.

Imagine it, Nellie: a horizon not green or gray or blue, but pure, bright white, hardly touched by civilization, known only to a few fearsome beasts. I understand now why the ad called for “Adventurous men” alongside its cryptic mention of “Lettered men need not apply.” My heart swells at the thought of this strange, cold world before us. I wish you could see it.

-M.

May 29, 18--

Nellie,

There has been nothing to write. We have reached the edge of the great sheet of ice and can move no further until it breaks up, creating a path forward, and so we patrol along its edge, hoping to discover a point of entry. It seems coming here is a gamble: arrive too early and you are forced to wait for the sun to melt your route, too late and you risk being trapped when the ice freezes back over. I suppose the former is preferable to the latter, but it makes for tedious, dull days.

-M.

June 1, 18--

Dear Nellie,

I have been caught. Had I been more careful this may not have happened – but then again, maybe it was only a matter of time.

This afternoon, the first mate came into the galley, no doubt in search of yet another pilfered snack. I had no time to hide the novel I’d snuck aboard. I was a fool for that, and for reading during the day – but the boredom had me restless and, yes, foolish. I was just about to discover whether the lusty hero would catch up with his kidnapped betrothed when the first mate barreled into the room and caught me, book in hand, obviously reading.

Oh Nell, in my surprise I cried out – not a man’s yell, but my own high-pitched shriek, clearly feminine.

The mate and I stared at each other for what felt like an eternity before he pointed his finger at me. “Don’t move,” he said, and I don’t think I could have even if I wanted to. He was back in moments, the captain in tow.

Have I told you of the captain? He is a mature man, stern-faced and quiet, and he walks with a peculiar stick - almost a staff - with a heavy metal ball at the top, nearly as tall as himself. He reminds me of a minister, telling you how to live your life with one breath and forgiving your sins with the next. The scowl on his face marred any hope I had of leniency.

“Well?” he said, staring at me.

The first mate spoke before I could open my mouth. “She – the cook – she’s a woman! And she can read!”

The captain had not taken his eyes off of me. “What say you?”

I shook my head, lost the pretense of depth to my voice, and gave away my sex. “Aye, sir.”

“What will we do, captain?” asked the mate. “The men will have a fit if they hear there’s bad luck aboard. They’re already miserable waiting for the ice to shift.”

Silence loomed for a long moment. Oh, Nell, my heart pounded so hard I thought it was going to run up the stairs and leap straight into the icy water. “Have we tried a woman yet?”

“Captain?” asked the mate.

“We haven’t, have we.” It wasn’t really a question – he clearly knew the answer already

“No, sir, we haven’t. But surely -”

“You are to continue as before,” the captain said to me, cutting off the mate. “You are the ship’s cook, a young illiterate man like every other illiterate man on this ship. If you lay low and remain undiscovered when we return home, you’ll leave this ship a free man. If you are caught, we’ll have no choice but to have you arrested. Am I clear?”

What choice did I have but to say, “Aye, captain,” and let him take my book as he left?

I am safe – for now. These letters could cost me my freedom. I should stop writing. Perhaps I will.

-M.

June 8, 18--

Dear Nellie,

In times like these, I wish that Luke were here – and you, of course, but Luke especially. He would raise my spirits with a funny song or a quick joke, and I would forget that there are still months left before I leave this ship.

It isn’t even the ship itself that I loathe so much as the loneliness. I have no friends and cannot risk making any, especially with the captain’s eyes trained on me every time he enters the galley. I am fearful to even join in the Sunday morning religious services for fear that I might forget myself in prayer and sing a high note. Even writing to you has a new edge of danger to it.

What is it that Luke always says? “Smile, and eventually your spirits will lift?” I’m smiling, Nell, but this dark kitchen has me feeling melancholic indeed.

-M.

June 13, 18--

Dear Nellie,

Good news at last! We’ve discovered a path through the ice, and after a very thorough examination by the captain and his mate, we have started the process of making our way further north. The crew is bustling with talk of undiscovered lands and exotic civilizations, and I realized something: none of us actually know what we are hoping to accomplish by seeking out the end of the world.

-M.

June 17, 18--

Dear Nellie,

We spend our days inching through a world of blinding white, lifeless and barren yet still strangely beautiful. It is desolate, but I am not unhappy.

I dreamt last night that you and Luke were settled into your new cottage. A forest stood behind it and a small dog frolicked in the front yard, yet I could not approach - I desperately feared entering that house. I wish I knew what it meant, but you’re the one who always interpreted our dreams, even as small children.

I hope you are well.

-M.

June 21, 18-

Dearest Nellie,

Progress is slow. We have several times spotted small whales of various types – some are deathly white, while others are far darker, with a unicorn’s spiraled horn jutting from the front of their heads. I managed to come above deck in time to see the latter. Some fool threw a harpoon at it but, thankfully, he missed. I would hate to see such a pretty creature killed, and would hate all the more to have to cook it up for dinner.

The air grows colder around us, though the sunny days are longer – far longer than I have ever known, with hardly a minute of darkness, no matter the time. Even in my dusky kitchen there are stray beams of light in the evening hours. It makes the space feel just a little less forlorn.

-M.

June 27, 18--

Dear Nellie,

We have stopped. Wind whips around us as though it hopes to lift our ship clear out of the water and set us sailing across the sky. The howling burns in my ears, making sleep impossible.

When the first mate came down for his customary snack this evening, I asked in my gruffest voice what we would do. He paused, seeming to weigh whether he should tell me anything. “Well,” he mumbled at last, “we’re nearly there. If the ice settles into place, I guess we’ll walk the rest of the way.” He’d grabbed his raisins by then and was out the door before I could ask another question.

-M.

June 29, 18--

Dear Nellie,

We have started to walk, just as the mate predicted, though he stayed behind on the ship. The wind may have ceased – indeed, the world feels eerily quiet without its constant screech – but the ice is now firmly wedged around the ship, and no pushing or prodding seems able to convince it to move.

The captain gathered us all on deck this morning to explain the situation. The ship, he said, would remain our base, but a sizeable group – and here his eyes caught mine, sending a spear of ice down my back – would continue onward. By his calculations it would take a few days of walking to get there.

Finally someone asked what had been on my mind for weeks: where? The captain sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Our orders are to continue to a specific set of coordinates. Prepare your packs.” He did not elaborate further.

I’m equal parts curious and frustrated, Nell. I wonder if even the captain knows what it is we seek.

-M.

July 5, 18--

My dearest Nellie,

Happy birthday to the two of us! I’m sorry to not be spending it with you – for the first time ever we are apart on our birthday. I only hope that your celebration was grander than mine. I packed a small pouch of raisins in my bag, taking the idea from the first mate, and this morning ate them before our long march.

Writing you is hard, not for lack of light – darkness does not seem to ever touch these parts, at least not during this time of year – but because there is so little privacy. The men in my shared tent are all snoring, however, so I feel safe writing these lines.

It is as cold as you would expect the great north to be, though we work up quite the sweat while hiking. The captain checks his compass every hour and makes notes on his map, and he swears now that we are close. There are eighteen of us trekking across this barren icefield, and it alarms me that only one knows where we are going. What if something should befall just him? Then what shall we do?

I have one raisin left, and I will fall asleep with it in my mouth so that, as mother always said, I may invite sweet dreams. Mine have been dark as of late – frightful images of running from something I cannot see stop me from feeling fully rested when I wake. They are not bad dreams, but they confuse me. If I must dream tonight, I hope it will be of the comforts of home.

-M.

July 10, 18--

Dear Nellie,

It looms somewhere ahead of us, and I cannot sleep. The men around me are snuffling and snoring and groaning as they dream, but the sense of dread remains for me – and the captain – alone. One unanswered question resounds in my thoughts: why did he bring us here?

There were signs leading up to where we are now camped, Nell. Regular posted signs – like anything you’d see on the street or in front of a shop, but out of place in this desolate wasteland, leading to nothing we could see. They were perfectly legible, utterly obvious, and they all warned of danger ahead, spelling out threats of what would become of those who ventured closer. They spoke of a sleeping horror, of an ancient curse, and still we walked closer, Nellie, still we continued ahead. Who raised them? What terror lies before us? Why does the captain continue trudging grimly onwards, though I know that he, too, can read the warnings? I have no answers.

The others commented on the oddness of the signs, but mostly they seemed unconcerned. They’re tough sailor men, and they’ve all seen worse than letters on wood. They are not afraid of signs.

I am, and it is taking every ounce of my will to not show it.

I left my tent just now – the atmosphere within is stifling even in the cold, and air does not seem to reach my lungs as it should. The captain sat beside the remains of our meal, stirring circles in the snow with the tip of his heavy walking stick. He did not look up as I approached. “There’s a reason we hired illiterate men,” he said, so quiet I could barely hear him.

I crouched on the ground beside him. He asked why I came, why I would lie about so much, and in my regular voice – foreign now in my throat – I told him about you, and about Luke’s cough leaving him hardly able to work, let alone care for two sisters, and about our debts, and then I realized he wasn’t really listening so I stopped and instead asked him why he was here if he knew of the danger ahead.

He remained silent, tracing circles on the cold ground, and before I went back to my stuffy tent he simply said, “I am not an honorable man.”

I am afraid, Nell. The cold is not what makes my hand shake as I write this.

-M.

July 12, 18--

Nell,

All I can do is try to write of what happened over the last few days. If this letter never reaches you, I hope you somehow know that I am sorry and I love you.

The captain roused us in the morning, or what he claimed was the morning, and we packed up camp once more. If I slept I did so poorly, and if I had dreams I have forgotten them. No one else seemed to notice the oppressive atmosphere surrounding us as we marched.

When the captain stopped walking, everyone fell silent – we’d only been on our feet for an hour or two at most. He was staring at his compass as he ordered everyone to begin searching the area. One of the men asked the obvious question: “Search for what?” The captain waved him away, saying that we would know it when we found it.

With no directions and only uncertainty to guide us, we spread out and began scanning the ground. After a few minutes I began to notice some tiny specks below my feet – something I would not have noticed were I not staring so intently at the snow. The spots were dark brown, like dirt but woven into the ice itself, not crumbly or grainy, and I picked one up with my bare hand only to watch the ice melt and the fleck turn to a bright red drop.

That’s when the man to my right cried out. He’d found something – and we all, even me with a prick of wet blood-colored liquid on my fingertip, headed over to the discovery. A closed door lay shut against the snow, and the captain opened it to reveal a hole in the ground with wide stairs leading down. We all looked to the captain for guidance. Fear swam through my body, but all around me the men were murmuring with excitement, the lure of adventure dancing in each of their eyes. The captain ordered us down, hanging back himself as we lit the torches he’d insisted we pack.

I didn’t want to go down those stairs, Nell, but the captain scowled and pushed me forward, and despite my fears I went, last in the line. We had not gone thirty steps down when the floor leveled out and opened into a massive, shadowed room, so wide our torchlight did not reach the walls. Our eyes, accustomed now to the blinding snow, took several minutes to adjust. The men wandered about, chattering with excitement at the discovery, loud enough that none of us heard it coming.

What words do I use to describe such a creature? Satan himself could not be half so ugly or cruel. It whipped out of the darkness, eyes on every side flashing lurid greens and yellows in the rippling firelight, and I must have been the first to see it because no one else screamed until the first man was cut down by a razor-fast strike from one of its many snake-like tails. The monster leapt among the crew, using claws and fangs and horns to rip down those brave men around me, sending streams of blood in every direction as pained shrieks died into gurgling sobs. Several men pulled knives, one fired his pistol, but the thing kept coming as though it did not know the meaning of pain.

I ran, Nell. I know you will not blame me for my cowardice. My bravery fled in that moment, and I take some small comfort in knowing that I was not the only one. Another man rushed ahead of me, scrabbling up the stairs, his breaths loud and pitiful to my ears. He reached the top and slammed his body against the now-shut door, crashing it open with a wail of fear that cut off abruptly as he fell, stumbling backwards, and I only just avoided his body as it thudded to the stony steps, his skull neatly caved in.

A glint of sun off the metal sphere at the top of his walking stick gave the captain away. I walked softly – easy enough with the screams still echoing below me – and leapt forward on the second-to-last step, dodging the captain’s staff and ramming my head into his stomach. He fell to the ground, gasping in pain, and I kicked his stick away in disgust. He knew! He knew where he was leading us, what horrors we would find, and he stayed behind, letting that creature annihilate his crew. In my anger I moved to kick him, and he grabbed at my foot, pulling me to the ice and climbing on top of me. “Why?” I snarled as he rested his hands around my throat. “Why?”

Nell, his words have haunted me since, those half-crazed mutterings, his eyes just as fear-filled as the men screaming down the stairs just behind us. “It requires sacrifice. We woke it, and now we must feed it. We tried to kill it, to bury it back under the earth, but it always came back. We tried giving it cows, pigs, sheep, to no avail. It wants human flesh. It seeks us out if we ignore it – it knows our faces - it haunts our dreams, shows itself to our families. So every year we bring up a crew, hoping that maybe one of them will finally satiate it, or manage to kill it, or something.” He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “I hoped that maybe a woman would be enough, but clearly no.” His hands tightened around my throat. “I’ll make this quick and throw you down with the rest. If it helps, I am sorry about –”

I never learned what he regretted. A dark shadow loomed over us both for a brief moment before blood sprayed across my face as something long and flexible shot through his chest. It had a face of its own, and it made eye contact, approximating a human smile before wrapping around the captain’s sagging body and dragging him down the dark stairs from which I could still hear the quieting screams of the men below. Another of those horrid tentacles snaked towards me and I rolled away from it, by chance brushing against the captain’s staff. I bashed the face with the heavy metal ball and it retreated, that nauseating smile still leering at me as I slammed the door after it.

Why did I grab my bag? I don’t know, Nell. I didn’t think, just grabbed it and ran, and when I passed the last of those hideous signs, only then did I take a moment to breathe, sides heaving, bile in the back of my throat – and then I heard it, a high keening wail, somewhere between anguish and manic jubilation, and again I ran, keeping enough presence of mind to follow our tracks heading back toward the ship. I ran until I collapsed, and when I did I slept and did not dream.

I write this now, before I continue toward the ship. My body aches, but I’ve already lingered too long writing this account. If I do not make it back, please know I love you.

-M.

July 22, 18--

Nellie,

Against all odds, I have returned to the ship. The surrounding ice has cleared once more, creating a path back towards the open water. The first mate hid it well, but I know he is dismayed that I am the one to return instead of the captain. He welcomed me aboard, took me to his quarters, and listened to my story three times over, wringing details from me that I wish I could forget. I tried to ask him about the signs, about the creature, but he would give me no answers, just sent me to my hammock to rest.

He knows something, though. He knows, and he is captain now, and I have no doubt that next year he will command a crew of brave men to sail to the white north in search of discovery and adventure. But for now he will take us back home, he says. I do not know what story he will tell the rest of the sailors about the missing captain and crew, and I do not care.

Let this be a dreamless sleep.

-M.

July 31, 18--

Dear Nellie,

We have left the horrid ice behind. I did not go above decks to watch it disappear from sight, as I feared what I might spy lurking near the edge, watching us sail away.

-M.

August 11, 18--

Nellie,

I write quickly, for we have crossed paths with two ships – one heading back home, the other out to sea. The first mate – now the captain – has decided to sail alongside the one heading home.

I am entrusting these letters to the cook on that homebound ship. He has promised to post them once ashore. It is the best I can do. I have also spoken with the captain aboard the ship heading out to sea – they are a merchant vessel going south and have agreed to accept my service in place of their own inexperienced cook, who is already homesick and more than willing to ride home in my place.

I do this for you, Nellie, and for Luke – to keep you safe. That thing has seen my face. If it wants me, it will have to search hard. I will not make this easy. I will not lead it to you.

All my love,

-M.