Authors: Graham Masterton
“Not the old Indian burial ground problem,” said Jim.
John Kudavak gave him a thin, strained smile. “The place is sacred because it was here that the Great Immortal Being took out the eyes of his favorite angel, as a punishment for his jealousy, and charged him with taking care of those who are lost in the snow.”
Jim turned to Henry Hubbard. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“Didn’t I? Well, I don’t think that it’s particularly important.”
“But that must have been why Edward Grace built it there in the first place. Don’t tell me he put it there by accident.”
“Mr Hubbard,” put in John Kudavak, “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to pull the plug on this expedition. In my judgement, you’re ill prepared and badly under-equipped; and I don’t believe that what you’re trying to do here is in the best interests of the local environment.”
“This is crazy,” said Henry Hubbard. “If we find Dead Man’s Mansion, it could be the biggest tourist attraction in Alaska.”
“These days, Mr Hubbard, there are many more ethnic Inuit people working for the environment agency. Like me, they believe in the story of the spirit who rescues people lost in the snow. Some of them have friends and relatives who claim to have been saved by the Snowman. The feeling in the agency these days is that they want the site to remain
undiscovered. If it were found, it could constitute a threat to the integrity of their beliefs.”
“Are we talking about a suggestion here, or a legal prohibition?”
“I have the authority to prevent you from undertaking an expedition to Dead Man’s Mansion on the grounds that it would materially jeopardize the environment.”
“We’re taking one Sno-Cat across the glacier and the rest of the way we’ll be traveling on foot. How can three pairs of feet materially jeopardize one of the harshest landscapes in the northern hemisphere?”
“Because if you find Dead Man’s Mansion, your one Sno-Cat and three pairs of feet will be followed by hundreds of Sno-Cats and thousands more pairs of feet. You said yourself that it could become the biggest tourist attraction in Alaska.”
“It’s not just that, is it?” asked Henry Hubbard. “It’s not just the landscape you’re worried about.”
“We’re also concerned about the spiritual repercussions, yes.”
“Spiritual repercussions? Why don’t you speak English? You’re worried that somebody’s going to find this Snowman of yours, and stop it from doing what it always does when it rescues anybody.”
“The Snowman is only a legend, Mr Hubbard, just like the angels in your own religion. But that is no excuse for anybody to compromise its sacred place. How would you feel if we Inuit trampled into your churches and denounced the Archangel Gabriel?”
“Bemused, to be frank.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t change things. You will have to pack up all of your gear and return to Los Angeles.”
Jim said, “Come on … I’ve sunk all my savings into this ill-prepared and badly under-equipped expedition.”
“Then I am very sorry for you.”
“We’re still going to need paying for the Sno-Cat,” put in Matty Krauss.
“You and your big mouth, you’ll get your money,” Henry Hubbard told him. Then – to John Kudavak, “Listen, supposing we sign a declaration that if we find Dead Man’s Mansion, we will never reveal its location to anyone, will that satisfy you?”
“How do I know that you will honor such a declaration? Especially with the chance of making big money.”
“Because I’m not doing this for the money. I’m not even doing it for glory. I’m doing it to save somebody’s life. You’re Inuit. You know what I’m talking about.”
John Kudavak took off his wire-rimmed glasses. “Your Bible talks about an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, doesn’t it? That wasn’t meant to encourage vengefulness, Mr Hubbard, although it seems that way today. In Biblical times, when somebody was wronged, he slaughtered the wrongdoer’s entire family, right down to the last generation. Wiped out their name. All your Bible asks for is fairness. An eye for an eye, no more. A tooth for a tooth. And our belief is just the same.”
“A soul for a soul,” said Henry Hubbard, grimly.
John Kudavak replaced his glasses. “You will have to stay the night here, of course. But I expect you to arrange a flight back to Fairbanks by this time tomorrow.”
They lodged that night in the house of a loopy old trader and his squat and silent Inuit wife. A big potbellied stove still stood in the center of the living-room, but it had dried flowers in it now, and all the heat came from butane fires. On the yellow-papered walls there were all kinds of unlikely pictures cut out of magazines and framed in home-made frames. Elvis Presley hung next to a view of the
Verrazano Narrows Bridge; and a hand-colored photograph of Rin-Tin-Tin hung next to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The trader’s name was William Crown and he had first come out to Alaska when he was twelve. He had been to Anchorage only once, to have an appendix operation, and he had been distinctly unimpressed. “Nobody never doing nothing for themselves in that place. What good is a man if he can’t tie knots and he can’t whittle and he can’t gut a salmon? I’ve had seven wives and drunk half a bottle of whiskey every day and I can build you a kennel with one hand tied behind my back.”
The squat and silent Inuit wife made them a meal of Sloppy Joes and spicy oven fries, and they sat in the overheated kitchen to eat it. So much for ethnic Inuit cooking, thought Jim. At least she hadn’t served up jugged seagull. After huge platefuls of Rocky Road ice cream, they sat in the living-room while the squat and silent Inuit wife banged the saucepans in the sink like the climax of the
1812 Overture
and William Crown lit a cigarette.
“The doctor says I aint supposed to smoke, but I like to have one before I turn in. It aids restful sleep, which is a boon when the wind is shaking your roof at a hundut miles per hour and your woman is snoring and whooping and booming like a school of whales.”
“You ever met anybody who’s seen Dead Man’s Mansion?” Henry Hubbard asked him.
“Some people say that they’ve seen it, but most of them are unreliable types; types you wouldn’t trust to read a menu for you when you’ve sat on your glasses.”
“I suppose you’ve never seen it.”
“Nope, and I don’t want to see it, neither. Because in my opinion it can’t be seen, except for those who’ve looked death right slapbang in the face and I don’t want to look
death right slapbang in the face until it’s my turn to go and take a look at him for good.”
“What do you mean, it can’t be seen?” Jim asked him.
“Exactly that. If your normal man went looking for it, he’d never find it, even if he walked right up to the door. But take a man who’s nearly died, and he’ll see it clear as any other house.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You take the fellow who built it. Edward Grace, he looked death in the face, didn’t he, when he nearly went down with the
Titanic
. And the story goes that he only employed builders who had been gold prospectors or miners or some such dangerous jobs – men who had cheated death. When it was finished they went home and talked about it, how grand it was. Everything super deluxe, by Alaska standards anyhow, like flush toilets and so forth.
“They weren’t supposed to tell anybody where it was, but one of them was so pleased with his carpentry that he let it slip to his best friend that it was someplace close to the Ghost Salmon Glacier. This friend of his went to see it, but he searched all day and he couldn’t find it anyplace. Others went, but they couldn’t find it either. Only some kid saw it, some kid who’d nearly died of consumption, and he was so young and stupid that nobody believed him.
“To the ordinary eye, there was nothing there but rock, and ice. Not long after, the fellows that built it were laughed out of town because everybody thought they were doolally, pretending that they’d built a house, when there was no house there.”
“That’s why the environmental people can’t find it,” said Henry Hubbard. “And that’s why the satellites can’t pick it up. It doesn’t exist in this world, only in the next.”
“But you and I could see it,” said Jim. “You’ve had a near-death experience, and so have I.”
“We could see it if Mr Kudavak would allow us to go look for it.”
“How can he stop us? There’s only one of him and there’s three of us.”
“So what are you going to do, coldcock him? The environmental protection people have a whole lot of clout here in Alaska.”
“I suppose they must. I mean, there’s nothing much here
except
environment, is there? More environment than you could shake a stick at.”
Henry Hubbard said, “We could take a risk. Get ready to leave at five o’clock in the morning, and head out of here before he can catch up with us.”
Jim thought for a while, and then he said, “This guy armed, this Kudavak?”
“He’ll have a rifle to protect himself against bears.”
“All right, let’s do it. After all, we don’t exactly have a choice, do we? Either we find out how to beat this Snowman, or else the Snowman’s going to catch Jack one day, and neither of us will be able to live with it, will we?”
“Jack?” asked Henry Hubbard.
But Jack was fast asleep in his chair, his head dropped back, his mouth wide open. With surprising tenderness, Henry Hubbard got up and covered him with his coat.
“Come on,” said Jim. “We’d better hit the sack, too. Let’s just hope that we can get that Sno-Cat running at five in the morning.”
Jim didn’t sleep that night. The sky never grew completely dark, and by three o’clock in the morning the sun was shining through the thin home-made drapes that covered his bedroom window. Tibbles Two didn’t seem to have any trouble sleeping, however. She remained curled up at
the foot of his bed, dead to the world, even when he made the blanket surge underneath her with his feet.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he had brought her to Alaska with him. But in some indescribable way he felt safer when she was around. She seemed to know why he was here even more clearly than he did; and what he was supposed to do next. And there was no doubt in his mind at all that she was aware of the Snowman, aware of its presence, and aware of what it could do to them all.
At five after four he rolled out of bed and stiffly climbed into his clothes. Thermal long-johns, which made him feel like somebody’s grandpappy; heavy-duty jeans; a red woollen shirt and a thick cable-knit sweater. He went to the kitchen and put on the coffee percolator, and then he stepped outside to look at the Arctic dawn.
The sky was the palest yellow, with tatters of high gray cloud, like a torn net-curtain. The sun was already gleaming over the snowcapped mountains off to the east. The wind was getting up: it made a feathery noise against his ears, and he could feel the thermometer dropping.
Henry Hubbard was out there already, walking around the battered old Sno-Cat. The Sno-Cat had a big squarish cabin made out of white-painted aluminum, insulated inside with metallic quilting. Instead of wheels it had four triangular caterpillar tracks at each corner. Henry Hubbard was checking the tracks for loose linkages and inspecting the hydraulic cables for leaks. He came over to Jim clapping his hands together to warm himself up.
“Beautiful morning,” said Jim.
“Unh-hunh. Not for long. You feel that wind? There’s something nasty coming from the north-west.”
“I thought the summers up here were supposed to be pretty balmy.”
“It depends. It’s been a weird year for weather. El
Niño maybe. Maybe something else. Sunshine one minute, blizzards the next. Anyhow, since you’re up, how about we grab ourselves a bite to eat and hit the trail? The further we can make it across the glacier before the weather breaks, the happier I’m going to be.”
They sat in the kitchen and drank hot bitter coffee. William Crown’s squat silent wife appeared and made them some heavy pancakes, which she drowned in maple syrup, and then left, slamming the door emphatically behind her. Jack came in looking frowzy with his hair sticking up and one shirt-tail hanging out. He sat down at the table and poured himself a large mug of coffee.
“Want a pancake?” asked Jim.
“I don’t know. What are they like?”
“Hard to describe. Ever eaten a beret?”
By the time they had finished breakfast, Matty Krauss and Bill Wilderheim had appeared, carrying an assortment of spanners and wrenches. “You ready to roll? You want to start that engine and light out of here quick, before that Kudavak fellow hears what’s going on, and starts off after you. Fussy little fellow, aint he? Never concerns himself with folk that have to make a living. Worries about animals, and trees, and all of that Inuit hocus-pocus.”
Off to the west, the sky was darkening with alarming speed: a great bank of yellowish-gray snow-clouds climbed into the air like a massive volcanic eruption. The wind had risen to a thin, persistent sizzle, and it was filled with flying fragments of grit and ice. Jim and Jack and Henry Hubbard were all dressed up now in bright orange Arctic waterproofs, with hoods and snow-goggles and insulated gloves. Matty Krauss and Bill Wilderheim led them out to the Sno-Cat and opened the door for them. The perspex windows were milky and scratched and the cabin stank of diesel oil.
“She’s pretty old,” Matty Krauss told them. “We bought
her from some guy in the Yukon in 1976. He used her as a toolshed. He bought her from some guy in Alberta way back in 1968, and God alone knows where
he
got it from. But she runs okay, provided you treat her like the old lady she is.”
He nodded at the cardboard box that Jim was carrying. “You aint seriously taking that moggie along, are you?”
Jim pressed his finger to his lips. “Don’t upset her. She thinks
she’s
taking
us
.”
They climbed into the Sno-Cat. There were four rudimentary seats made of aluminum piping and red leatherette, and stick controls for the two front steerable tracks. Henry Hubbard twisted the ignition key and the engine made a deep sluggish sound, like a hippopotamus turning over in its sleep. He twisted it again, and this time he managed to elicit a deep sluggish sound and two or three reluctant coughs. Jim leaned forward and said, “Try it again. My father used to have a diesel pickup, and it always took five turns to get it going in the winter.”