Trapped in Ice (3 page)

Rriiinnnggg!

I turned towards the sound. Mother was standing by a large oak counter, her hand suspended above a bell on the ledge. The ringing still echoed across the empty lobby. A few seconds later a door creaked open behind the counter and a man poked his head out.

“Yeah ... can I help you?” he asked, scratching his head. He looked as if he'd just woken up, although it was only supper-time.

“Yes, I am here to speak to Mr. Stefansson.”

“Have you checked the dining room?”

“We have checked nothing. Where would I find the dining room?”

He pointed to a set of tall, polished mahogany doors at the far side of the lobby. “Through there.”

“Thank you,” she replied curtly. She gestured for us to follow. She grabbed the tarnished brass handle and opened the door. We walked in behind her. Right inside the doors was a man in a faded uniform. Faded glory like the rest of the hotel.

“Seating for three?” he asked.

The dining room was almost as deserted as the lobby. There were people at only a few of the tables.

“No... no, thank you. I need to speak to Mr. Stefansson.”

Before she'd even finished speaking, my eyes focused on a gentleman who I knew had to be him. He was sitting with three other men at a large table strewn with papers at the back of the dining room. They all seemed to be studying the papers intently. Stefansson, or at least the man I thought was him, had a neatly trimmed beard, short hair, a high-buttoned shirt and a fancy waistcoat. He looked like the sort of person who would ride all the time in a carriage like the kind we'd been in, or as if he was from a royal family, or a moving-picture star ... or a character in one of my adventure stories.

Mother started walking towards their table, with Michael trailing behind. I followed. She came to a stop before them. The men continued to look at their papers, which I could now see were maps. They were concentrating so hard they didn't even notice us.

“Hhhhmmmmm,” said Mother, clearing her throat. They all looked up.

“My name is Mrs. Kiruk and I am here to speak with Mr. Stefansson.”

There was a scraping of chairs against the floor as first Mr. Stefansson, then the other men, rose to their feet. He
towered above the others and was broad in the shoulders. From the pocket of his vest hung a long gold chain. He bowed slightly and extended his hand to Mother.

“I am Vilhjalmur Stefansson, and I am most pleased to meet with you, Mrs. Kiruk,” he said as they shook hands. He spoke with a gentle, lilting accent.

“As I am pleased to meet you,” she replied.

“Could I invite you to sit with us? I will introduce you to these distinguished scientists who will be part of our expedition, but first, I would be honoured to be introduced to your children.”

She introduced us by name. Mr. Stefansson offered Michael his hand and they shook. I did my best to curtsey, although I felt a little awkward.

“Mrs. Kiruk, you have such well-mannered children. And please do not find me too forward, but your daughter is going to be a striking young woman someday.”

I felt my face redden and I looked down at the floor. Nobody had ever said such a thing to me before. I touched my hair to see if it was messy. It was bad enough it was always curling and twisting in ways I didn't want, but why did it have to be so mousy brown?

“Gentlemen, please get more chairs for these newest members of our expedition.” Two men quickly brought over three chairs.

“You all must be tired and hungry and thirsty after your travels. I will order you a soft drink, or perhaps the children would prefer a dish of ice cream…” He paused. “Are you too old for ice cream, Helen?”

“No! I mean, no sir, I like ice cream. That is, if it's all right with you, Mother.”
Both of us looked at her and pleaded with our eyes. Mother didn't believe in children being “indulged.” She subtly nodded and we both burst into smiles. Stefansson motioned for the waiter, who came quickly to the table.

“I wish you to take my two special guests into your cold storage and let them choose the flavour ... and amount of ice cream that they wish,” he said.

We got to our feet and followed the retreating waiter. He led us through a swinging door and into the kitchen. One man was standing beside a large stove and two women were seated at a counter, peeling and chopping vegetables.

“Who are your friends?” asked one of the women. “Customers,” the waiter corrected. “Guests of Mr. Stefansson.”

He crossed the kitchen and pulled the handle on a large metal door. There was a metallic click and the door swung open. Frosty mist wafted into the warm air of the kitchen. He walked into the locker and motioned for us to enter. Stepping in, I was hit by a wave of cold and a shiver ran down my spine. The locker was lined with shelves filled with containers. There were a few dead chickens strung up by their feet and a whole side of beef on a big metal hook. The waiter reached up to a shelf, pulled down a large tub and plunked it on the wooden counter in the middle of the locker. “Vanilla.” He reached up and grabbed a second tub. “Chocolate.” He then took a third off the shelf and placed it beside the other two. “Strawberry, my favourite. I'll get you both a bowl,” he said. As he walked towards the door, he stopped and gave us a big smile, “a big, big bowl.”

“He's really something,” I said.

“The waiter?” Michael asked.

“No, not the waiter ... Mr. Stefansson.”

“Stefansson? I guess so,” Michael said as he dipped a finger into the strawberry tub. “Nobody ever offered me this much ice cream before.”

“I don't mean the ice cream. I mean he's so ... so ... dashing,” I replied and felt as though I was blushing again.

“Dashing?” Michael asked as he popped his finger into his mouth and licked off the ice cream. “Dashing ... oh, dashing,” he chuckled, and did a silly curtsey.

I was going to reach over and swat him when the waiter reappeared with two big bowls and a metal soup ladle. We pointed to our choices. He filled my bowl with chocolate and my brother's with strawberry. He led us out of the kitchen and back to Mother. We sat down and savoured our ice cream while the men and Mother continued to talk.

“Yes, Mrs. Kiruk, you are correct, our ship is not ideal,” Stefansson noted.

“Far from it!” one of the other men agreed. “We need a ship like the
Flam
!”

“What's the
Flam
?” asked Michael between spoonfuls of ice cream.

“Michael! Listen but do not speak! Where are your manners?” reprimanded Mother.

“That is all right,” Mr. Stefansson said quietly. “It is good he is confident enough to ask such questions. The
Flam
is a special ice ship. It has a very thick steel hull and its bottom is rounded so the ice cannot grasp it. It has recently completed a circumnavigation of the Arctic Ocean.”

“I thought the Canadian government would have provided us with one of those new ice-breaker ships,” added a third.

“Or at least something that wasn't so old,” the fourth chipped in.

“How old is the ship?” asked Mother.

“Older than any of us!” chuckled one of the men.

“It is true she is neither young nor built for the ice, but as we speak she is being refitted to make her more suitable,” Stefansson continued.

“We saw some men working when we dropped off our things. What are they doing?” Mother asked.

“Putting additional sheathing inside the hull and extra crossbeams to give the ship more strength,” answered Stefansson.

“Good thing. That old ship would have cracked like a walnut the first time she hit ice!” said one of the men.

“Now, now ... there is no need for such statements,” Stefansson responded, turning directly to the man. “And it is not necessary to say things which might be of distress to the children.” Stefansson now turned to Michael and me. “I want you both to know there is nothing to fear. We are being captained by one of the most qualified ice men in the world. He is the man who took Peary to the North Pole.”

“To the North Pole!” Michael exclaimed.

I'd read a newspaper account of that journey. It was almost as exciting as my novels.

“Yes. Our captain is an interesting man ... you would call him an old salt ... He has more ice experience than any other man on the planet.”

“I am very impressed you've secured such a man, Mr. Stefansson. Although, I must tell you I was not impressed with one member of the crew,” said Mother.

Stefansson looked puzzled.

“One of the sailors working on the ship voiced his opinion, not very politely, that my children should not be accompanying me on this trip, and further, questioned your decision to allow this to take place.”

“That is most, most unfortunate,” Stefansson agreed. “Did you happen to learn his name?”

“Yes, I did. Bartlett, Bob Bartlett.”

All at once there was an eruption of laughter which quickly faded away. Mother's face mirrored my confusion.

“Please, Mrs. Kiruk, excuse our laughter, it is just ... just that obviously you have already met our captain.”

 

 

Chapter Three

A
S WE LEFT THE HOTEL
, the winds were stronger and the skies dark.

“I will hail a coach for the journey,” Mr. Stefansson announced. “We do not wish to be caught in the rain. Please wait here.”

We stood under the canopy of the hotel while Mr. Stefansson hurried off. Within two or three minutes a carriage pulled to a stop and Mr. Stefansson emerged. I was a little disappointed. He'd hired a plain one instead of something as fancy as the one we'd ridden in earlier. The driver jumped off the top of the carriage and held open the door. Mr. Stefansson helped my mother climb in and then offered me his arm. I felt a little flustered and hoped the dim light would hide my blushing. Mother settled onto one bench facing forward and I sat opposite her. Michael came in next and sat down beside Mother, leaving a spot next to me for Mr. Stefansson. The carriage started moving.

“It was good of you to join our expedition on such short notice.”

“That was not a problem, Mr. Stefansson.”

“May I ask, did you have any trepidation about bringing your children on a two-year trip to the Arctic?”

“What's ‘trepidation'?” Michael interrupted.

“It means worry or concern, Michael,” Mother answered. “And I do have some concern. I still think it would have been better for them not to come, but circumstances dictated they accompany me.”

“Circumstances?” asked Mr. Stefansson.

“Yes, there really isn't any close family to leave them with. And I had to keep my word. When my husband died, the children made me promise to never leave them.”

“That's right, we're together,” Michael added.

“A man's word ... or a woman's word,” Mr. Stefansson said, “must be their bond. It is good you brought them. They will be part of a wonderful adventure. Do you know what this venture is about, Michael and Helen?”

“Sort of ... we're going up north to the Arctic.”

“To the Arctic, yes. We are going to a place where very few people have ever been, and, this is my hope, to some places where no man has ever set foot.”

“Wow! You mean nobody has ever been there?”

“I pray we are going to places no one even knows are there. That is why the Canadian government has sponsored an expedition of such large scale.”

“How large is it to be, Mr. Stefansson? How many will be in our party?” Mother asked.

“Counting explorers, scientists, crew and natives, there are thirty-six members of our expedition.”

“That's a lot of people,” Michael said.

“It is a big country which we are to explore and discover and map. And, most important, our expedition must claim any new lands for the Dominion of Canada.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “I thought all of the north already belonged to our country.”

“There are many people, many countries who would disagree with you, Helen. Explorers from Italy, Russia, the United States and Sweden are all mounting expeditions and would claim any new-found islands for their country.”

“But I was taught in school all of the islands were the property of Britain, or the Hudson's Bay Company, and now they belong to Canada,” I responded.

“You can only claim what you know. It is not enough to walk down a street and call out ‘any money that is found belongs to me.' The money would belong to whoever finds it. Can you imagine being the first person to set foot on an island? It will be something you will tell your children and grandchildren that you were part of!”

“Children? I don't have any children. I'm only eleven years old,” Michael replied in confusion.

“Michael, he means someday,” I explained.

“Someday, no day. No way am I having kids 'cause there's no way I'm ever getting married!”

Mr. Stefansson reached over and put a hand on Michael's knee. “There are many reasons to marry ... as well as many reasons not to marry.”

“Are you married, Mr. Stefansson?” I blurted out, surprising myself, and from Mother's expression, her as well. I quickly looked away.

“No, Helen, I am not married. A man can only have one love in his life and mine is exploring. Besides it would not be fair to leave my wife behind for months or years at a time.”

“Why couldn't you just bring her along?” asked Michael.

“The Arctic is a very wild and dangerous place, far too dangerous to bring along …” He stopped before completing his sentence, but I knew what he was going to say before he thought better of it.

He started again. “Helen, would you wish your husband to go off for months or years and go to bed each night wondering if he was still alive?”

“Ah ... no, I guess not.”

“You can see my reasons, yet for some the Arctic is well worth the dangers and discomforts. I am most pleased you and your brother agreed to make the journey with us.”