It seemed to be the very roof of the world, all naked to the outer cold,
this flat vast of solitude, dimly outspread beneath the Arctic night. A
line of little hills, mere knobs and hummocks, insignificant under the
bitter starlight, served to emphasize the immeasurable and shelterless
flatness of the surrounding expanse. Somewhere beneath the unfeatured
levels the sea ended and the land began, but over all lay the monotony of
ridged ice and icy, wind-scourged snow. The wind, which for weeks without
a pause had torn screaming across the nakedness, had now dropped into
calm; and with the calm there seemed to come in the unspeakable cold of
space.
Suddenly a sharp noise, beginning in the dimness far to the left of the
Little Hills, ran snapping past them and died off abruptly in the
distance to the right. It was the ice, thickened under that terrific
cold, breaking in order to readjust itself to the new pressure. There was
a moment of strange muttering and grinding. Then, again, the stillness.
Yet, even here on the roof of the world, which seemed as if all the winds
of eternity had swept it bare, there was life, life that clutched and
clung savagely. Away to the right of the Little Hills, something moved,
prowling slowly among the long ridges of the ice. It was a gaunt, white,
slouching, startling shape, some seven or eight feet in length, and
nearly four in height, with heavy shoulders, and a narrow, flat-browed
head that hung low and swayed menacingly from side to side as it went.
Had the light been anything more than the wide glimmer of stars, it would
have shown that this lonely, prowling shape of white had a black-tipped
muzzle, black edges to the long slit of its jaws, and little, cruel eyes
with lids outlined in black. From time to time the prowler raised his
head, sniffed with dilating nostrils, and questioned with strained ears
the deathly silence. It was a polar bear, an old male, too restless and
morose to content himself with sleeping away the terrible polar winter in
a snow-blanketed hole.
From somewhere far off to seaward came across the stillness a light
sound, the breaking of thin ice, the tinkle of splashings frozen as they
fell. The great white bear understood that sound. He had been waiting for
it. The seals were breaking their way up into their air-holes to
breathe—those curious holes which form here and there in the ice-fields
over moving water, as if the ocean itself had need of keeping in touch
with upper air for its immeasurable breathing. At a great pace, but
noiselessly as a drifting wraith of snow, the bear went towards the
sound. Then suddenly he dropped flat and seemed to vanish. In reality he
was crawling, crawling steadily towards the place of the air-holes. But
so smooth was his movement, so furtive, and so fitted to every
irregularity of the icy surface, that if the eye once lost him it might
strive in vain to pick him up again.
Nearer, nearer he crept, till at last, lying motionless with his lean
muzzle just over the crest of the ice-ridge, he could make out the dark
shapes of the seals, vague as shadows, emerging for a few moments to
sprawl upon the edge of the ice. Every few seconds one would slip into
the water again, while another would awkwardly scramble forth. In that
phenomenal cold it was necessary for them to take heed to the air-holes,
lest these should get sealed up and leave them to drown helplessly under
the leagues of solid ice-field. These breathing-spells in the upper air,
out here on the world’s roof, were their moments of greatest peril. Close
to the edge of the hole they sprawled; and always one or another kept
anxious watch, scanning with mild, bright eyes the menacing solitude,
wherein they seemed the only things alive.
About this time, from one of a group of tiny, snow-covered mounds huddled
along the base of the Little Hills, emerged a man. He crawled forth on
all fours from the tunnel of his doorway, and stood up and peered about
him. His squat figure was clothed and hooded in furs. His little,
twinkling eyes, after clearing themselves from the smoke and smart of the
thick air within the igloo, could see further through the gloom than even
the eyes of the bear. He noted the fall of the wind, the savage intensity
of the cold, and his eyes brightened with hope. He had no fear of the
cold, but he feared the hunger which was threatening the lonely village.
During the long rage of the wind, the supply of food in his igloo had run
low. He welcomed a cold which would close up most of the seals’
breathing-holes, and force more numerous visitors to the few holes that
they could keep open. For some moments he stood motionless, peering and
listening as the bear had done. Suddenly he too caught that far-off light
crashing of brittle ice. On the instant he turned and crawled hastily
back into the hut.
A moment later he reappeared, carrying two weapons, besides the long
knife stuck in his girdle. One of these was an old Hudson Bay Company’s
musket. The other was a spear of spliced bone, with a steel head securely
lashed to it. Powder and ball for the musket were much too precious to be
expended, except in some emergency wherein the spear might fail. Without
waiting for a repetition of the sounds, he started off at once unerringly
in the direction whence they had come. He knew that air-hole; he could
find it in the delusive gloom without the aid of landmark. For some way
he went erect and in haste, though as soundlessly as the bear. Then,
throwing himself flat, he followed exactly the bear’s tactics, till, at
last, peering cautiously over a jagged ice-ridge, he, too, could make out
the quarry watchfully coming and going about the brink of the air-hole.
From this point onward the man’s movements were so slow as to be almost
imperceptible. But for his thick covering of furs, his skin tough as
leather and reeking with oil, he would have been frozen in the midst of
his journey. But the still excitement of the hunt was pumping the blood
hotly through his veins. He was now within gunshot, but in that dim light
his shooting would be uncertain. He preferred to worm his way nearer, and
then trust to his more accustomed weapon, the spear, which he could drive
half-way through the tough bulk of a walrus.
At last there remained between him and the seals but one low ridge and
then a space of level floe. This was the critical point. If he could
writhe his body over the crest and down the other side, he would be
within safe spear-shot. He would spring to his feet and throw before the
nimblest seal could gain the water. He lay absolutely still, summoning
wits, nerves, and muscles alike to serve his will with their best. His
eyes burned deep in his head, like smouldering coals.
Just at this moment a ghostly light waved broadly across the solitude. It
paled, withdrew, wavered back and forth as shaken from a curtain in the
heavens, then steadied ephemerally into an arch of glowing silver, which
threw the light of a dozen moons. There were three seals out upon the ice
at that moment, and they all lifted their eyes simultaneously to greet
the illumination. The man irresistibly looked up; but in the same
instant, remembering the hunger in the igloo, he cowered back again out
of sight, trembling lest some of the seals might have caught a glimpse of
his head above the ridge. Some dozen rods away, at the other side of the
air-hole, the great white bear also raised his eyes towards that
mysterious light, troubled at heart because he knew it was going to
hamper his hunting.
For perhaps two minutes the seals were motionless, profiting by the
sudden brightness to scrutinize the expanse of ice and snow in every
direction. Then, quite satisfied that no danger was near, they resumed
their sportive plungings while the instantly frozen waters crackled
crisply about them. For all their vigilance, they had failed to detect,
on the one side, a narrow, black-tipped muzzle lying flat in a cleft of
the ice-ridge, or, on the other side, a bunch of grayish fur, nearly the
color of the grayish-mottled ice, which covered the head of the man from
the igloo beside the Little Hills.
And now, while neither the man nor the bear, each utterly unconscious of
the other, dared to stir, in a flash the still silver radiance of the
aurora broke up and flamed into a riot of dancing color. Parallel rays
like the pipes of a Titanic organ, reaching almost from the horizon to
the zenith, hurtled madly from side to side, now elongating, now
shortening abruptly, now seeming to clash against one another, but always
in an ordered madness of right lines. Unearthly green, palpitating into
rose, and thinnest sapphire, and flame-color, and ineffably tender
violet, the dance of these cohorts of the magnetic rays went on, across
the stupendous arc of sky, till the man, afraid of freezing in his
unnatural stillness, shrank back down the ridge, and began twisting his
body, noiselessly but violently, to set his blood in motion; and the
bear, trusting to the confusion of shifting lights, slipped himself over
the ridge and into a convenient crevice. Under the full but bewildering
glare of that celestial illumination, he had gained a good ten feet upon
his human rival. The man’s eyes reappeared just then at the crest of his
ridge. Their piercing glance lingered, as if with suspicion, upon the
crevice wherein the bear had flattened himself. Was there something
unduly solid in that purple shadow in the crevice? No, a trick of the
witch lights, surely. The piercing eyes returned to their eager watching
of the seals.
Precious as was his ammunition, and indifferent as was his shooting with
the old, big bore, Hudson Bay musket, the man was beginning to think he
would have to stake his chances on the gun. But, suddenly, as if at a
handsweep of the Infinite, the great lights vanished.
For a few seconds, by the violence of the contrast, it seemed as if thick
darkness had fallen upon the world.
In those few seconds, noiseless and swift as a panther, the man had run
over the ridge to within a dozen paces of the seals, and paused with
spear uplifted, waiting till his eyes should once more be able to see in
the starlight glimmer. As he stood thus waiting, every sense, nerve, and
muscle on the last strain of expectancy and readiness, he heard, or
seemed to feel as much as to hear, the rush of some great bulk through
the gloom. Then came a scramble, a heavy splash, a second splash, a
terrible scuffling noise, and a hoarse, barking scream. The man
remembered that before the light went out there had been three seals on
the ice. Two he had heard escape. What had befallen the third? Fiercely,
like a beast being robbed of its prey, he sprang forward a couple of
paces. Then he stopped, for he could not yet see clearly enough to
distinguish what was before him. His blood pounded through his veins. The
cold of Eternity was flowing in upon him, here on the naked roof of the
world, but he had no feeling or fear of it. All he felt was the presence
of his foe, there before him, close before him, in the dark.
Then, once more, the light flooded back,—the wide-flung silver
radiance,—as suddenly and mysteriously as it had vanished.
Close beside the air-hole, half crouching upon the body of the slain
seal, with one great paw uplifted, and bloody jaws open in defiance,
stood the bear, glaring at the man.
Without an instant’s hesitation the man hurled his spear. It flew true.
But in that same second the bear lifted his paw to ward off the blow. He
was not quite quick enough, but almost. The blade struck, but not where
it was aimed. It bit deep, but not to the life. With a growl of rage, the
bear tore it loose and charged upon the man.
The antagonists were not more than twenty paces apart, and now a glory of
colored lights, green, red, and golden, went dancing madly over them,
with a whispering, rustling sound as of stiff silk crumpled in vast
folds. The man’s eyes were keen and steady. In a flash both hands were
out of his great fur mittens, which were tied by thongs to his sleeves.
The heavy musket leaped to his shoulder, and his eye ran coolly along the
barrel. There was a thunderous roar as of a little cannon. A dense cloud
of smoke sprang into the air just before the muzzle of the gun.
Through the smoke a towering shape, with wide jaws and battering paws,
hurled itself. The man leaped to one side, but not quite far enough. One
great paw, striking blindly, smote him down; and, as he fell, the huge
bulk fell half upon him, only to roll over the next instant and lie
huddled and motionless upon the ice.
The man picked himself up, shook himself; and a look of half-dazed
triumph went across his swarthy face as he pulled on his mittens. Then he
smiled broadly, patted approvingly the old Hudson Bay musket, turned on
his heels, and sent a long, summoning cry across the ice towards the
igloos at the foot of the Little Hills.