The Map of the Sky (15 page)

“Calm yourself, sir,” the sailor responded at last. “I heard you perfectly well, only I think you are mistaken: Carson is over there.”

The explorer looked toward where Griffin had pointed, and saw the lookout standing some twenty yards from them, on the poop deck.

“Is that Carson?” he asked, confused, peering at the dark figure with its back turned, busily keeping watch.

Griffin nodded.

“Are you sure?”

The sailor gazed at the distant shape almost ruefully.

“Yes, sir, absolutely certain,” he replied. “It’s Carson.”

Reynolds went on staring at the figure, incredulous.

“Are you all right, sir?” he heard the sailor say again.

“Yes, Griffin, quite all right, do not fret . . . ,” Reynolds murmured slowly. “I must have had too much to drink, that’s all.”

“I understand, sir,” Griffin replied sympathetically. “This situation is intolerable for everyone.”

Reynolds nodded absentmindedly as he walked away from Griffin as if in a trance, indifferent to what the man might think of him. Indeed, he was scarcely aware of the sailor, whose eyes remained fixed on his back, contemplating him with something more than simple curiosity as he crossed the deck of the
Annawan.
Ironically, despite what he had said to Griffin, Reynolds had never been more sober. The long trek through the snow had cleared his head, and he felt oddly lucid as he walked with measured steps toward the dark figure of the other lookout. The closer he got, the more terrifying the man’s imposing stillness became. Griffin had assured Reynolds this was Carson, but the explorer knew that was impossible: he had just found Carson’s body in the snow. He only had to close his eyes and he could see Carson’s contorted face, that look of terror preserved for all eternity. He strained to make out the figure he was approaching but found it difficult in the pale half-light and due to all the layers of clothing they were obliged to don before venturing out. The easiest figures to recognize from a distance were no doubt those of Peters, the giant Indian, and Allan, whose painful thinness rendered him almost wraithlike. But that formless blob, scanning the white plain, unaware that Reynolds was watching it, could have been anyone, from the ship’s cook to George IV to President Jackson. And Reynolds would have been less surprised to encounter any of those three than the sailor who lay with his guts torn out in the snow.

But what if that figure really was Carson, as Griffin claimed? Reynolds pondered as he moved toward it slowly and deliberately, as though
carrying a pitcher on his head. Ought he then to doubt what he had seen out there in the snow? Surely doubting his senses was the most logical thing to do. After all, there could not possibly be two Carsons, one up there on watch and the other lying in the snow, his innards spilled to the air! And he must not forget that he had been drunk. The dead sailor had looked to him like Carson, but it could have been another sailor who resembled Carson. Could he remember the face of every sailor on board? Good Lord, no, he had not given most of them a second glance! When Reynolds was close enough to glimpse the lookout’s vaporous breath rising from his padded head, a sudden thought struck him like a stone, causing him to stop dead in his tracks a few yards from the figure. He had been forced to dig the body out from under a thick blanket of snow! And, on further reflection, it must have been lying in the snow a lot longer than an hour, for even the raging winds and subzero temperatures could not freeze a body solid in such a short time. Reynolds’s theory that Carson had followed him off the ship suddenly seemed completely absurd. Why had he not realized this when he was digging him out? The body might have been there for a day or two.

Reynolds remained motionless on deck, a few yards from the lookout, scouring his memory. The last time he saw Carson was in the infirmary, where he had been reduced to a catatonic stupor after witnessing the surgeon’s brutal murder. Several of Carson’s fellow sailors had gone to see him there, keen to find out more about the monster. But since then Reynolds had seen nothing more of him. True, when he had left the armory he had thought he recognized Carson on watch, but now he was not so sure. He must have mixed him up with someone else, as no doubt had Griffin. Carson had probably left the infirmary and slipped off the ship without anyone noticing, God only knew for what reason. Perhaps he had fled in a moment of delirium brought on by the fever, or because he could no longer bear the apprehension of waiting. It did not really matter why. Had he, Reynolds, not committed the same act of folly? Whatever the case, the poor wretch had stumbled on the creature, which had given him the same treatment as it had the surgeon. And Reynolds had found
his body scarcely an hour ago, while everyone thought Carson was still on board ship. But he
could not
have been, he said to himself, contemplating the shadowy shape standing out against the mist, almost within reach.

His heart knocking in his chest, Reynolds cursed that idiot Griffin for making him so absurdly anxious. Clearly that bright spark had been mistaken, and doubtless once he had covered the four or five paces between himself and the lookout, and had placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, he would feel a wave of relief as he saw Kendricks, Wallace, or even George IV staring back at him. Then, after suggesting to Griffin he purchase a pair of spectacles at the first opportunity, he would go straight to Captain MacReady to inform him of the sad news. Having resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery, Reynolds took a deep breath and stepped forward once more. But before he was able to move, the dark figure, alerted to his arrival by the creaking boards, began slowly to turn around. Forgetting to breathe, Reynolds watched the man’s hazy profile emerge from behind the earflaps of his hat, growing ever more distinct as the sailor turned with exasperating slowness, until the two men stood face to face. On the
Annawan
’s deck, Reynolds and the sailor who lay dead out in the snow stared at each other in silence. Reynolds’s face registered surprise and disbelief, while that of Carson had a slightly lost look, as though the explorer had woken him abruptly from a deep sleep. And yet it was Carson who broke the silence enveloping the two men.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

Reynolds thought his voice sounded a little hoarse, like someone who has not used it for a long time. He had to make a supreme effort to overcome his astonishment and utter a reply.

“No, thank you, Carson . . . I just came to say how glad I am to see you have recovered.”

“Very kind, sir, I’m sure,” the other man said amiably.

Reynolds could not help comparing his face with the one he had dug out of the snow—that bruised countenance, contorted by fear, identical to the one before him now, which had been etched on his memory forever. Carson’s face. But if that was Carson’s body . . . Reynolds’s heart
missed a beat as a terrifying question formed in his mind: who was he talking to now? Yes, who the devil was he?

“Sir . . . can I help you?” the sailor repeated.

The explorer shook his head slowly, unable to speak. There was definitely something strange about the sailor’s voice. It belonged to Carson all right, yet it was subtly different. Perhaps all this was pure imagination on his part, thought Reynolds, and yet he sensed something was not quite right about the man. His gestures, his way of speaking, of looking . . . It was as if he were watching someone forcing himself to play a role. What are you? Reynolds said to himself, mesmerized by Carson’s small, unremarkable eyes, which seemed to peer back at him in an overly guarded manner, with a look of mistrust uncharacteristic of the sailor.

Just then, a bulky figure that could only be Peters emerged on deck, interrupting the two men’s mutual scrutiny. Peters descended the ramp agilely and, hunched against the cold, made his way over to the dogs’ cages, which he usually kept covered with a tarpaulin for a few hours during the day to enable the animals, unsettled by the continual half-light, to fall asleep. Carson and Reynolds watched the Indian go about his business in silence, grateful for the respite afforded by his sudden appearance—especially the explorer, who desperately needed time to order his thoughts. However, no sooner had Peters drawn back the tarpaulin than the dogs began to stir, visibly uneasy, scenting the air. All at once, as though following a choreographed gesture, the dogs turned as one toward where Reynolds and Carson were standing and almost immediately broke into a frenzy of barking, pressing themselves against the bars, lunging at the cage door. Reynolds was taken aback at the dogs’ sudden outburst of aggression, those wild barks and growls directed at them. Peters did his best to calm them, but the animals appeared possessed. Then the explorer looked at Carson, who stared back at him blankly.

“The dogs seem on edge,” Reynolds remarked, holding Carson’s gaze with difficulty.

Carson simply shrugged. But the explorer thought he glimpsed a
flash of anger behind his tiny eyes. Then a mad thought occurred to Reynolds, swift as a bolt of lightning streaking across the sky; beneath all his layers of clothing he broke into a cold sweat. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and with the complete calm of a suicide, who, hours before taking his own life, already feels he is dead, addressed the sailor once more.

“When you have finished your watch, Carson, come to my cabin. I’d like to offer you a glass of brandy. I think you’ve earned it.”

“That’s kind of you, sir,” said the sailor, looking straight at him with alarming intensity, “only I don’t drink.”

The look on Carson’s face, together with the disturbing tone of his reply, made Reynolds shudder. Or perhaps it was simply Carson’s thick Irish brogue that made his voice sound menacing, Reynolds reflected, trying to reassure himself.

“Think about it,” he forced himself to say, feeling a knot in his stomach. “A brandy like the one I’m offering you is not something to be passed up.”

Carson contemplated him in silence for a few moments.

“Very well, sir,” he replied at last, still fixing him with that disconcerting gaze. “I’ll go to your cabin when I’ve finished my watch.”

“Marvelous, Carson,” the explorer declared with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, his heart in his throat. “I shall be expecting you.”

With this, Reynolds turned around and walked casually toward the nearest hatch, unable to avoid feeling the dead sailor’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The die was cast, he told himself with a shudder. He had decided on that course of action almost on impulse, and now it was too late to change his mind. Like it or not, he had no choice but to carry it through to the end. However, he would need assistance, and there was only one person on the
Annawan
who could help him. Feigning nonchalance, he made his way toward Allan’s cabin, leaving the sound of the dogs’ frenzied barking behind him.

•   •   •

T
HE GUNNERY SERGEANT WAS
in the middle of composing a poem when Reynolds burst into his cramped quarters. The explorer was visibly agitated and breathed uneasily, yet the young poet scarcely looked up at him before returning to his labors, as though inspiration were like a handful of sand that would slip through his fingers if he slackened his grasp. And despite having little time to spare, the explorer bit his tongue rather than interrupt. Allan had explained to him that many years earlier, after one of his countless arguments with his stepfather, he had set sail for Boston to try his luck there and had succeeded in publishing his first book of poetry, although sadly he did not sell enough copies to save him from poverty. Desperate, and without a penny to his name, he had enlisted in the army as a foot soldier and had even risen to the rank of sergeant major before fleeing that rough environment, scarcely appropriate for someone wishing to pursue his vocation as a poet. He had been forced to return, tail between his legs, to his benefactor’s home. This had happened prior to Allan’s strategy of enrolling at West Point, and Reynolds could see how vital it was to him to try to make his living from writing. So he sat down on his bunk and waited for Allan to finish, taking the opportunity to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. The trance into which Allan was plunged, however, ended up diverting Reynolds. The pale young man sat hunched over his table, a cascade of dark hair falling down over his eyes. He seemed more fragile than usual, his body wracked by an almost imperceptible spasm, as though he were distilling on paper the dark essence of his soul.

Reynolds nodded to himself. He had done the right thing in coming there, he reflected, his eyes still fixed on the gunner. Only a mind like Allan’s could grasp what Reynolds was about to tell him, only a soul as devoid of worldliness as his could join him in the venture he was about to propose. Most important of all, only a man possessed by the demon of creativity would agree to remain discreetly in the shadows when it came to reaping the rewards of earthly fame, for Reynolds suspected Allan was only interested in the glory he might obtain through his
writings. Yes, the sergeant was undoubtedly the ideal person to assist him in the foolhardy plan he had elaborated whilst speaking with Carson up on deck, a plan he could never hope to carry out alone. Now all Reynolds needed to do was tell the gunner about it without seeming as though he had completely lost his mind. When Allan finally set aside his quill and turned to Reynolds, his eyes glowing faintly like the embers of a fire, the explorer still did not know where to begin.

“An unusual theory has occurred to me regarding the Martian, Allan,” he said, for he had to begin somewhere, “so unusual that were I to make it known, no one on this ship would take me seriously.”

“Are you in need of someone who does?” Allan grinned, gathering up his writing implements as a pathologist might carefully tidy away his instruments.

Reynolds nodded with brooding solemnity.

“I am, and I believe you are the only one capable of it. Therefore, I am going to share it with you, in the hope you may shed some light on this madness, for I fear if you do not, we shall all perish even sooner than we thought.”