The World of Ice

by R. M. Ballantyne

While this tunnel was approaching completion, Fred retired to a short distance, and sat down to rest a few minutes on a block of ice.

A great change had come over the scene during the time they were at work on the snow-hut. The night had settled down, and now the whole sky was lit up with the vivid and beautiful coruscations of the Aurora Borealis—that magnificent meteor of the north which, in some measure, makes up to the inhabitants for the absence of the sun. It spread over the whole extent of the sky in the form of an irregular arch, and was intensely brilliant. But the brilliancy varied, as the green ethereal fire waved mysteriously to and fro, or shot up long streamers toward the zenith. These streamers, or “merry dancers” as they are sometimes termed, were at times peculiarly bright. Their colour was most frequently yellowish white, sometimes greenish, and once or twice of a lilac tinge. The strength of the light was something greater than that of the moon in her quarter, and the stars were dimmed when the Aurora passed over them as if they had been covered with a delicate gauze veil.

But that which struck our hero as being most remarkable was the magnitude and dazzling brightness of the host of stars that covered the black firmament. It seemed as if they were magnified in glory, and twinkled so much that the sky seemed, as it were, to tremble with light. A feeling of deep solemnity filled Fred’s heart as he gazed upwards; and as he thought upon the Creator of these mysterious worlds—and remembered that He came to this little planet of ours to work out the miracle of our redemption, the words that he had often read in the Bible: “Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of him?” came forcibly to his remembrance, and he felt the appropriateness of that sentiment which the sweet singer of Israel has expressed in the words: “Praise ye him, sun and moon; praise him, all ye stars of light.”

There was a deep, solemn stillness all around—a stillness widely different from that peaceful composure which characterises a calm day in an inhabited land. It was the death-like stillness of that most peculiar and dreary desolation which results from the total absence of animal existence. The silence was so oppressive that it was with a feeling of relief he listened to the low, distant voices of the men as they paused ever and anon in their busy task to note and remark on the progress of their work. In the intense cold of an Arctic night the sound of voices can be heard at a much greater distance than usual, and although the men were far off, and hummocks of ice intervened between them and Fred, their tones broke distinctly, though gently, on his ear. Yet these sounds did not interrupt the unusual stillness. They served rather to impress him more forcibly with the vastness of that tremendous solitude in the midst of which he stood.

Gradually his thoughts turned homeward, and he thought of the dear ones who circled round his own fireside, and, perchance, talked of him; of the various companions he had left behind, and the scenes of life and beauty where he used to wander; but such memories led him irresistibly to the far north again, for in all home-scenes the figure of his father started up, and he was back again in an instant, searching toilsomely among the floes and icebergs of the Polar Seas. It was the invariable ending of poor Fred’s meditations, and, however successful he might be in entering, for a time, into the spirit of fun that characterised most of the doings of his shipmates, and in following the bent of his own joyous nature, in the hours of solitude, and in the dark night, when no one saw him, his mind ever reverted to the one engrossing subject, like the oscillating needle to the pole.

As he continued to gaze up, long and earnestly, into the starry sky, his thoughts began to wander over the past and the present at random, and a cold shudder warned him that it was time to return to the hut; but the wandering thoughts and fancies seemed to chain him to the spot, so that he could not tear himself away. Then a dreamy feeling of rest and comfort began to steal over his senses, and he thought how pleasant it would be to lie down and slumber; but he knew that would be dangerous, so he determined not to do it.

Suddenly he felt himself touched, and heard a voice whispering in his ear. Then it sounded loud. “Hallo, sir! Mr Ellice! Wake up, sir, d’ye hear me?” and he felt himself shaken so violently that his teeth rattled together. Opening his eyes reluctantly, he found that he was stretched at full length on the snow, and Joseph West was shaking him by the shoulder as if he meant to dislocate his arm.

“Hallo, West! is that you? Let me alone, man, I want to sleep.” Fred sank down again instantly—that deadly sleep, produced by cold, and from which those who indulge in it never awaken, was upon him.

“Sleep!” cried West frantically, “you’ll die, sir, if you don’t rouse up. Hallo! Meetuck! O’Riley! help here!”

“I tell you,” murmured Fred faintly, “I want to sleep—only a moment or two—ah! I see; is the hut finished? Well, well, go, leave me. I’ll follow—in—a—”