Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

They crested the rise. The snow flurries swept aside, giving McFarlane a glimpse into the valley beyond. They were on the edge of a saddle overlooking the snowfield. It looked much larger from up here: a great blue-white mass, almost glacial in its irresistibility. It ran down the center of the valley, surrounded by low hills. Beyond, the twin volcanic peaks thrust up like fangs. McFarlane could see another snowsquall boiling up toward them from the valley: an unrelieved wall of white that swallowed the landscape as it approached.

"Grand view up here, eh?" said Puppup.

Lloyd nodded. The fringe of his parka was dusted with snow, and his goatee was flecked with ice. "I've been wondering about that large central snowfield. Does it have a name?"

"Oh, yes," said Puppup, bobbing his head several times, his wispy mustache swaying in time. "They call it the Vomit of Hanuxa."

"How picturesque. And those two peaks?"

"The Jaws of Hanuxa."

"Makes sense," said Lloyd. "Who is Hanuxa?"

"A Yaghan Indian legend," Puppup replied. He did not offer more.

McFarlane looked sharply at Puppup. He remembered the mention of the Yaghan legends in Masangkay's journal. He wondered if this was the legend that had led Masangkay down there.

"I'm always interested in old legends," he said casually. "Will you tell us about it?"

Puppup shrugged, nodding his head again cheerfully. "I don't believe any of those old superstitions," he said. "I'm a Christian."

Once again, he turned suddenly and began walking, setting a rapid pace down the hillside toward the snowfield. McFarlane almost had to jog to keep up. He could hear Lloyd laboring behind him.

The snowfield lay in a deep fold of the land, mounds of broken boulders and debris lining its edges. As they came up to it, the fresh squall fell about them. McFarlane bowed under the wind.

"Come on, you lot!" cried Puppup out of the storm. They walked parallel to the snowfield, which rose steeply above them like the flank of a huge beast. Now and then, Puppup stopped to examine it more closely. "Here," he said at last, kicking at the vertical wall to make a toehold, pulling himself up, and kicking again. Cautiously, McFarlane crawled up behind him, using Puppup's toeholds, keeping his face turned away from the wind.

The steep sides of the snowfield gradually leveled out, but the wind swirled around them ever more violently. "Tell Puppup to slow down!" Lloyd shouted from behind. But if anything, Puppup walked faster.

"Hanuxa," he suddenly began in his strange, singsong accent, "was the son of Yekaijiz, god of the night sky. Yekaijiz had two children: Hanuxa and his twin brother, Haraxa. Haraxa was always the favorite of the father. The apple of his eye, like. As time went on, Hanuxa grew more and more jealous of his brother. And he wanted his brother's power for himself."

"Aha, the old story of Cain and Abel," Lloyd said.

The snow in the center of the field had been scoured away, leaving blue ice. It seemed impossibly strange somehow, McFarlane thought, to be trudging through the center of this nothingness, this child's snow globe of white, toward a huge mysterious rock and the grave of his former partner — while listening to this old man relate the legend of Isla Desolación.

"The Yaghans believe that blood is the source of life and power," Puppup continued. "So one day, Hanuxa killed his brother. Slit Haraxa's throat and drank his blood, he did. And his own skin turned the color of blood, and he got the power. But Yekaijiz, the father, found out. He imprisoned Hanuxa inside the island, entombing him below the surface. And sometimes, if people approach too close to the island after dark, on windy nights when the surf is up, they can see flashes of light, and hear howls of rage, when Hanuxa tries to escape."

"Will he ever escape?" Lloyd asked.

"Dunno, guv. Bad news if he does."

The snowfield began to slope downward, ending at last in a six-foot cornice. One at a time, they lowered themselves over the edge, sliding down onto harder ground. The wind was gradually abating and the snow falling more softly now, big fat flakes that spun and fluttered to earth like ash. Even so, the wind kept the barren plain scoured almost clean. A few hundred yards ahead, McFarlane could see a large boulder. He watched as Puppup began to jog toward it.

Lloyd strode over, McFarlane following more slowly. A wrinkled piece of hide lay in the lee of the boulder. Nearby was a scattering of animal bones and two skulls, a rotting halter still wrapped around one of them. A frayed halter rope was tied around the boulder. There were some scattered tin cans, a large piece of canvas, a sodden bedroll, and two broken packsaddles. Something was underneath the canvas. McFarlane felt a sudden chill.

"My God," said Lloyd. "These must be your old partner's mules. They starved to death right here, tied to this rock." He began to reach forward, but McFarlane raised a gloved hand and stayed him. Then, he slowly approached the boulder himself. He leaned over and gently grasped the edge of the frozen piece of canvas. He gave it a shake to clear it of snow, then tossed it aside. But it did not uncover Masangkay's body, only a welter of decaying belongings. He could see old packs of ramen noodles and tin cans of sardines. The tins had burst, spewing pieces of fish across the frozen surface. Nestor always did favor sardines, he thought with a pang.

Suddenly, an old memory came back. It was five years earlier, and several thousand miles to the north. He and Nestor had been crouched in a deep culvert next to a dirt road, their packs stuffed to bursting with the Atacama tektites. Armored trucks passed by just a few feet away, showering the culvert with pebbles. And yet they were giddy with success, slapping each other and chortling. They were ravenous, but did not dare light a fire for fear of being discovered. Masangkay had reached into his pack and, pulling out a tin of sardines, offered it to McFarlane. "Are you kidding?" McFarlane had whispered. "That stuff tastes even worse than it smells."

"That's why I like it," Masangkay whispered back. "Amoy ek-ek yung kamay mo!"

McFarlane had given him a blank look. But instead of explaining, Masangkay began to laugh: softly at first, and then more and more violently. Somehow, in the supercharged atmosphere of danger and tension, his laughter was irresistibly infectious. And without knowing why, McFarlane, too, dissolved into silent convulsions of laughter, clutching the precious bags, as the very trucks that hunted them crossed and recrossed overhead.

Then McFarlane was back in the present, crouching in the snow, the frozen tins of food and rags of clothing scattered around his feet. A queer sensation had come over him. It seemed like such a pathetic collection of trash. This was a horrible place to die, all alone. He felt a tickling at the corners of his eyes.

"So where's the meteorite?" he heard Lloyd ask.

"The what?" said Puppup.

"The hole, man, where's the hole Masangkay dug?"

Puppup pointed vaguely into the swirling snow.

"Damn it, take me there!"

McFarlane looked first toward Lloyd, then at Puppup, who was already trotting ahead. He rose and followed them through the falling snow.

Half a mile, and Puppup stopped, pointing. McFarlane took a few steps forward, staring at the scooped-out depression. Its sides were slumped in, and a drift of snow lay at its bottom. Somehow, he had thought the hole would be bigger. He felt Lloyd grip his arm, squeezing it so tightly it was painful even through the layers of wool and down.

"Think of it, Sam," Lloyd whispered. "It's right here. Right beneath our feet." He tore his eyes away from the hole and looked at McFarlane. "I wish to hell we could see it."

McFarlane realized that he should be feeling something other than a profound sadness and a creeping, eerie silence. Lloyd slipped off his pack, unfastened the top, and pulled out a thermos and three plastic cups. "Hot chocolate?"