‘Hold him tight, Mrs Wegger,’ Atle said. ‘He’s slippery!’
Mathilde put her arms out and then staggered as he deposited the penguin into them. They swam as if they were streamlined, but away from the water, the creature in her arms was rotund and surprisingly heavy.
‘Got him?’
Mathilde nodded, and then the penguin squirmed and freed himself from her grip, landing hard on the rocks at her feet. He bounced up and shook himself, unperturbed, then waddled away.
‘What about a chick?’ Mathilde asked.
Atle shook his head. ‘They’ll try to peck you for food. The adults are more docile.’
He approached another one. It stared up at him, seemingly unafraid. Atle crouched, let the penguin approach, then pounced and grabbed it. The penguin wriggled once or twice and then gave in.
‘Here, Mr Bogen, you hold it so Mathilde can stroke it,’ Atle said.
Hans, who Lars had finally convinced to make the leap ashore, took hold of the bird and grunted under its weight. Mathilde pulled off her glove and let her bare fingers run over the penguin’s feathers. It felt nothing like a bird and more like she imagined a seal might feel.
‘Bring me that box!’ Atle called down to one of the boys, who scrambled for a crate sitting near the ledge and carried it up to them.
‘What are you doing with it?’ Mathilde asked.
Atle took the penguin from Hans and bundled it into the crate. ‘The Consul wants to take a few home. He thinks he could establish a colony in Spitsbergen. It wouldn’t hurt tourism up there.’
‘Goodness.’ Mathilde stared down at the bird as it paddled its flippers. How would it survive the long trip back?
‘How many are you taking?’ Hans asked.
Atle shrugged. ‘We’ll probably take a dozen Adelies and hope we’ve picked enough females. The Consul would love to find a pair of emperors, but they don’t nest around here so it’s unlikely.’
‘But what if you take one that has a chick?’ Mathilde asked.
‘The other parent can feed it, this late in the season. And if not,’ he gestured at the bodies littering the ground, ‘another handful dead won’t make a difference.’ He looked up. ‘Here they come. Good.’ He called out to the men hacking at the cliff face with ice picks. ‘Let’s get on with it. We don’t want to linger here.’
Lars, Ingrid and Lillemor clambered down towards them. They reached the pile of rocks that had been assembled for the cairn and halted next to Mathilde.
Hans brushed his hands on his trousers and gestured for Mathilde to go first. They squeezed onto the ledge where the flagpole had been jammed in a small pile of rocks. It was a tight fit.
‘Are you going to read the proclamation?’ Hans asked Lars.
Lars looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m just going to say some thank yous and raise the flag. Mrs Rachlew has come across something rather disappointing, I’m afraid.’
His voice and his expression were grim, Mathilde thought. Lillemor, on the other hand, had a slight smile on her lips.
‘What do you mean?’ Hans asked.
‘There’s a cairn and a depot up there laid down by Sir Douglas Mawson,’ Lillemor said. ‘Dated February 13th, 1931. He’s named it Scullin Monolith, after his prime minister. We’re standing on Mac. Robertson Land, according to the proclamation he’s left there. The Australians have claimed this entire coastline.’
There was silence. ‘But weren’t your men here before that?’ Hans asked Lars. ‘This is already named.’
Lars nodded. ‘Several ships in my fleet explored here in January and February 1931, including the one Klarius was on. This area was named Lars Christensen Land in January, weeks before Mawson saw it.’
Hans shook his head. ‘There’ll have to be some investigations. They can’t keep claiming lands we’ve discovered!’
‘Consul,’ Atle said. ‘I’m sorry, but we need to be getting back. The weather is unpredictable today.’
Lars coughed. ‘You’re right.’ He stepped forward and waved at the two men who’d been holding the flag ready. ‘We’ll still raise the flag, of course.’
As the men began pulling on the rope to raise the Norwegian flag, everyone took off their hats. Lars cleared his throat again and stood up straighter. His gaze fell on Ingrid.
‘I’d like to thank all of you for coming,’ he said. ‘And most of all I’d like to thank my wife, who’s patiently waited twenty years for me to bring her here.’
Ingrid smiled and stepped forward to take the hand he was holding out.
‘My dear Ingrid,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry it took me so long to keep my promise.’
Lars nodded to another of the crewmen who started pouring out coffee from a Thermos into tiny cups and handing it around. It steamed and started to cool at once. Mathilde put it to her lips, glad of the warmth. The cold was starting to feel oppressive.
‘I also formally put on the record that this place has been christened Klarius Mikkelsen Mountain, recognising that Captain Mikkelsen was the first to discover this area and name it Lars Christensen Land,’ Lars said. ‘He has done much for Norway’s scientific research in Antarctica.’
Lars bent down and closed the wooden trunk. Two men picked it up and put it next to the flagpole. Everyone moved forward to heap the rocks around it.
‘Mrs Rachlew,’ Lars said, ‘could you take some photographs?’
Ingrid and Lars posed together in front of the flagpole. Lillemor fiddled with the camera for a long time, holding it in front of her and looking down into the viewfinder. Lars and Ingrid began to look awkward.
‘I think it’s damaged,’ Lillemor said. ‘I’ll try, but the picture doesn’t look right. Stand still, the two of you.’
She took a couple of shots, and the lever jammed after the third one. ‘That’s it, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, Lillemor,’ Mathilde said. ‘There isn’t one of you!’
Lillemor shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to remember.’
‘Back into the boat, please,’ Atle called.
They clambered down towards the rock ledge. The tide had shifted while they were there and the water level was creeping up the ledge.
‘Quickly!’ Atle stationed himself near the ledge and two of the younger crewmen nimbly jumped across. Atle started a chain, swinging a person or a piece of cargo across with every receding wave until Mathilde thought they looked like a stream of penguins flinging themselves into the water.
Everyone was focused on the crossing and Mathilde hung back. When she was sure no one was looking, she crouched down on the ground and slid her glove off. She must have gained weight on the boat, for her wedding ring was tight on her finger again and she had to twist hard to remove it. She held it in the centre of her palm for a moment, feeling its cold against her skin, then lifted a small rock, laid her ring on the ground underneath it, and put the rock back over the top.
‘Mrs Wegger, next please.’
Mathilde stood up, shoving her glove back on. Before she could blink, Atle had helped her down to the ledge and she was leaping across the water to the boat.
She was glad of it. Antarctica was too big. Too many sights, too many sounds, too overwhelming. It was no place for humans, she thought, but big enough to leave feelings there. She was ready to go.