Shackleton's Final Voyage
Shackleton’s Final Voyage
The sun was high, cold and small, yet shining bright in the late morning of the south. Shackleton, nearing his fiftieth birthday yet feeling in his prime, was enthusiastically watching the snow-capped island of South Georgia disappear over the horizon. He had just left the whaling station of Grytviken, and was happy to find that Mr. Jacobsen was still station manager. Mr. Jacobsen was a kindly man, glad for any new company, and he had supplied Shackleton’s team with a myriad of instruments and tools to use on the voyage.
The final journey. The last time Shackleton would see Antarctica – just one last time. He couldn’t wait for the moment he saw the white behemoth appear through the mist…
“Are you sure you’re alright, Henry?” said William Bental, standing beside him and rubbing his thickly gloved hands together. Bental was one of many people who had noted Shackleton’s declining health over the past couple of years.
That didn’t mean anything. He could do it, easily, and probably still have time for a healthy retirement in England.
“Oh yes, I’m alright; just anxious to get back on the ice again!”
“Of course. This sailing lark never did do much for me, and wind off the sea is ever so sharp. I can’t even sleep downstairs without my furs wrapped tight as.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” Shackleton’s voice still retained some of its Irish accent, though it was now mainly English. It was deep, yet felt child-like – there was a subtle excitement and fervor to every syllable. “Sure, the boiler’s warm, but nothing beats an open fire on the snow…”
Neither man spoke for quite a while; they were both immersed in their separate memories of the great continent, both eager for a return to familiar areas.
The deck was empty aside from themselves, as the rest of the crew had sought the relative heat of the cabins below-deck. These were cold waters.
Finally, Bental spoke: “Is this really the last expedition you will lead?”
“I should think so,” replied Shackleton. “Even if I wanted to do some more, I wouldn’t have the money. This boat cost an arm and a leg, and it’s not exactly big.”
“It seems a shame that’ll I’ll never come back here.”
Shackleton turned to look at Bental, but as he did, he heard the piercing familiar crack shot of an invisible rifle.
Before he could even register the shock and confusion, Bental uttered a weak cry then toppled forwards, over the railings, and overboard.
“What the-?” muttered Shackleton numbly. He spun on the spot, looking for the assailant who was surely nearby, but also aware that he needed to sound some sort of alarm. He knew Bental was dead; if he wasn’t, he would have made more noise, but the shooter, the murderer, whoever he was, could strike many more times.
Suddenly aware of this fact, Shackleton dropped down to his stomach, face against the old wood of the deck, trying to look around. He couldn’t see anyone. Not even a sound could be heard, aside from the constant hailing of western wind. Who shot the bullet?
Shackleton lifted his head a little more, tentatively to look around. Straight ahead was the building leading below-deck, and anyone could be hiding below or behind, waiting for the perfect moment to make a second strike…
Behind him, somebody grabbed roughly hold of his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Leaving nothing to chance, Shackleton swung his fist and body around and launched into the person. He made contact with the cheek of another man, who fell backwards.
Shackleton quickly gathered his wits and attempted to stand over the enemy. Unfortunately, the man was fast, and already on his feet, fists clenched.
“Stop!” he shouted.
Shackleton was taken aback. This enemy, who was so obviously the shooter of Bental, did not want to fight? What did he want?
Shackleton bluntly asked the question, anger firing up within him; then he added, “Why did you kill my friend?!”
This man was a stranger. He wore furs and warm clothing similar to the rest of the crew, and his face was visible. If Shackleton had to put it to a place, he would say it was Germanic or Scandinavian. The man looked strong and muscled, though that could have been the effect of the thick clothing; and in his hand was a long rifle, the last ebbs of smoke rising meekly.
“I killed him because he was in the way, and in no rush to leave you alone up here.” Upon seeing Shackleton’s stunned face, the stranger briefly added, “Don’t worry, he isn’t important.”
Shackleton wanted to hit him again, and he wanted a weapon; a gun. Without realising he had done it, Shackleton jumped forwards and kicked the rifle in the other’s hand (it was being used loosely in the way of a walking stick). The gun flew outwards, and over the railing, after Bental.
Shackleton quickly moved the remaining step or so to the railing and completely ignoring the stranger, looked wildly over and into the dark blue wavy ocean. He could see nothing.
Immediately, the pressure of a revolver’s nozzle was pressed against the hood over his head.
“Don’t follow your friend.” The other mans voice had an odd northern English accent, that simply didn’t seem to fit the person. “Now,” the man continued, “you are Ernest Henry Shackleton, of the ship, The Quest?”
Shackleton blinked, but before he could stop himself, he replied. “Yes?”
“Of course you are. Just making sure you were being at least mildly cooperative.”
“Oh,” said Shackleton. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“My name is Walter Peterson. I want you.”
“What?”
“I love you, Ernest.”
Shackleton blinked again, in surprise.
“What… What do you mean?” he asked.
“I love you Ernest and you have now reached perfection.”
“But… you’re a man… what do you mean?”
“So? What does it matter, what I am? Nevertheless, I’m not exactly a man, though I am male.”
“Then what are you?” asked Shackleton, his sharp mind catching the drift immediately.
“Well, I am an angel,” replied the strange figure with the pistol against Shackleton’s head. “I am here to remove you from your world, to live with me, to love me, as I love you. You will be beyond humanity, and you will know and see everything that happens upon the Earth, as if no time passes at all. You will be able to alter, to control, to watch and to live with me, because I love you; just you.”
Shackleton stood stock still. What did this man mean? He can’t be an angel. He looked like a normal man… he was even wearing normal clothes… and there were no wings; at least, he couldn’t see any wings.
“But… you just look like a man.”
“Did you misunderstand? The angels live beyond this dimension; we were all originally human, but elevated to angelic status by other angels. As you will be. When an angel re-enters this world, the rules of Earth apply to him – gravity, and such like. We need to take a form that can cope best, or our temporary bodies would die. Thus we need clothes, and weapons, so we have them.”
Shackleton still hadn’t got over the shock of the events.
“But why did you just kill my friend?”
Walter Peterson the angel smiled. “You are perfect; you have reached your prime. I love you, and I want you, and I need you now. You must come with me, through this dimension, and live with me. You must transcend beyond your Earth, and even beyond time itself.” The voice still sounded as if from the north of England, but it had softness to it. Shackleton could not help but believe. He was awfully conscious of the metal revolver still pressed against his head.
“I don’t want to go with you,” said Shackleton, somewhat firmly. “I have a wife, I love her. I have this ship, and I have my expedition.”
“All rather irrelevant, to be honest. Beyond this dimension, you will see that. Beyond the few dimensions that govern your everything. I must take you; I cannot allow you to die, which you are so closer to doing than you know. Upon death, humans are no more. If you come with me, you will live as an angel… beyond time, and age.”
The gun was lowered, and it disappeared among Walter Peterson’s thick furs. Shackleton immediately stepped backwards, eager to reduce the closeness to this stranger who claimed to be an angel from the heavens. Walter Peterson, however, moved quickly and with ease. Before Shackleton could turn, his shoulders were once again in the grip of the man behind him. He then realised what he had missed earlier: Walter Peterson did indeed have wings; they were just folded tightly and hidden behind his back. Now, they opened. Impossibly wide, and feathered in a grey that perfectly matched the infrequent passing clouds, the angel flapped furiously upon the wooden deck, Ernest Henry Shackleton tightly within his strong hands.
Eventually, he began to rise, and Shackleton did too. It hurt, the pressure on his shoulders, and he struggled against the firm grip. He did not fear a drop; he had learnt long ago to master his fears, but at this moment, his arms would not respond, they would not thrash. He was useless.
They flew higher and higher, Walter Peterson struggling against the strain of the large explorer, but gaining all the time. Soon, he knew, he would be beyond the clouds and able to pass outside the dimension with his love, but his love was struggling against him… Ernest would soon see…
Below him, and sea stretched out beautifully in every direction. Shackleton took it all in with awe, and even under the pain and bitter coldness of this flight, he felt inspired by the beauty. The island of South Georgia was fully visible, it’s shape perfect and formed over millions of years. There was Grytviken, only just visible, undoubtedly with the pleasant Mr. Jacobsen standing over the docks and watching the fishing boats return or leave.
Other islands became visible, smaller ones, until the angel carrying him entered a grey cloud and nothing else was visible.
The temperature in the cloud was unusually cold, and Shackleton could feel the frost biting at every inch of his body, covered or not. He stopped struggling, and concentrated on somehow keeping warm.
Before long, they were above the cloud, and it was the only feature Shackleton could see below them. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. Walter Peterson still had not spoken; it was proving a heavy load to carry in these strong winds. He wondered whether the wings were good enough. The flight, intended to be purely vertical, was erratic, with drops and flusters.
Suddenly, Shackleton had left his own dimension, and all at once he could feel everything upon the Earth and everything in his new dimension at once. His senses opened up and he could sense a million other things, including his empty body landing back on The Quest, for the crew to find later that day. He could feel Walter Peterson, in his natural angelic state, and it was all encompassing. He could feel no other, though he knew others existed. He had the exact same shape and essence as Walter Peterson, and understood.
He sensed Walter Peterson the angel smile, though he did not know how. He was beyond everything, it was indescribable. Beyond time, so that he could see all that was, that will be, and that is, though not in his current world - This worked differently… it was beyond rules of time.
“You’re finally here,” Walter Peterson said ecstatically in a voice that was everywhere at once, and Shackleton began to feel the strange powerful radiating love the other angel felt for him.
Everything on Earth seemed insignificant, unimportant. He felt all ties and feelings for any human fade into nothing, and briefly wondered how Walter Peterson could have fallen in love with him.
Perhaps he could also begin to love Walter…
---
Fin.
I'm looking for some useful constructive criticism to this story. Sure, give praise as well if you really, really want, but criticism and ideas for improvement would be adored.
Things I'm not happy with include: The explanation of everything by the angel. Should I leave it mysterious? Should I make the angel more intent on getting Shackleton rather than standing around talking? (This would fit more with his earlier shooting, which shows the impatience he feels.)
Other stuff?
|
