After we collect our flasks, packed lunch and Annabel’s weighty book about the Inuit stories, we head to the stern, where the Zodiac is tied up. To our dismay, Rob and Terry are already there. They are dressed in military camouflage gear and carry backpacks much larger than our daypacks.
“Thought we’d come with you and collect samples,” Terry says.
Annabel shrugs like, What can we do?
The Zodiac is crowded as we bump our way over to the island. We’re hauling the kayaks onshore when a large red helicopter thumps above us. It banks and does a circuit of the island. I see a pale, plump, smiling face wearing round sunglasses in one of the windows. I only get a brief glimpse, but I have a feeling of familiarity. “Do you think that’s part of the expedition diving on Erebus?” I ask.
“Could be that they check out anyone coming near the dive site,” Annabel says, sounding distracted. The machine circles the Arctic Spray and then heads off to the north.
The crewman driving the Zodiac puts the motor in reverse. “I’ll pick you up in time for dinner,” he shouts as he turns and zooms back toward the ship.
Terry lifts his backpack and heads inland. Rob follows him. “What are you collecting today?” Annabel asks.
Rob doesn’t stop, but he turns his head. “Plants,” he says.
“Talkative, aren’t they?” I say. Annabel just grunts.
We spend the morning puttering on the beach and kayaking along the shore. The ground is made up of small, sharp rocks that are uncomfortable to walk on. They’re all weathered to the same dull gray color. The main vegetation is round, dark spots of lichen on the rocks and struggling patches of grass here and there. Small areas of startlingly green moss thrive in sheltered hollows and behind bigger rocks.
The wind has picked up by the time we reach the far side of the island. We settle behind a rock and break open the tea and sandwiches. Annabel has been oddly quiet all morning.
“Not a lot of plant life for Rob and Terry to collect,” I say, trying to make conversation. We’ve seen the pair in the distance, wandering along the low, rocky ridges inland or crouching down examining things.
“I’ve been thinking about the Crype Foundation,” Annabel says thoughtfully. “Did you notice that Crype is an anagram of Percy?”
“Humphrey Battleford’s dog?” My heart sinks as Annabel’s paranoia begins to cloud an otherwise great day. “That’s stretching it. Didn’t you say it also meant something in marketing and is a surname? Isn’t one of those more likely?”
“Maybe,” Annabel says, “but there’s something else. Do you remember the slogans Enigma Tours uses in their brochures?”
“Vaguely,” I say. “They didn’t make much sense. Isn’t one about traveling in a ship in the desert?”
“The first one,” Annabel says. “Travel on a ship of the desert. Camels are called ships of the desert.”
“That makes more sense,” I say, wondering where this conversation is going. “One was about seeing the dawn, which we’ve done most mornings.”
Annabel doesn’t crack a smile. “The first light of dawn. And there was one about the sites of ancient wars, but I can’t remember the last one.”
“Crossing unreal rivers,” I say.
“Yeah,” Annabel says. “Cross unimagined rivers. A ship of the desert’s a camel. The first light of dawn would be… a beam, a shaft, a ray? Sites of ancient conflicts could be castles, battlefields or wars. Cross a river might be wade or ford. Camel. Beam. Castle. Wade.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, wondering if my friend is suddenly losing her marbles. “This isn’t one of your cryptic crosswords to solve.”
“No,” Annabel agrees, “but I think it might be a game. What do you think of when you think of camels?”
“I don’t know. Humps,” I suggest.
“That’s it!” Annabel jumps to her feet, and I become convinced she’s crazy. She ticks off her fingers. “Hump. Ray. Battle. Ford.”
I stare at Annabel and remember the familiar face in the helicopter. “You’re right! It was Battleford in the helicopter! But it can’t be. Can it?”
“It explains a lot. He has the money to buy a travel company. The Arctic Spray might even be the yacht Battleford had off Warrnambool. We never got a good look at it. It also explains why Rob and Terry lied about their flight to Sachs Harbour and know nothing about krill. They’re Battleford’s men.”
“What about Billy and Martha?”
“I think they’re camouflage. It’s you and me he wants up here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but he went to a lot of effort to lure us here.” Annabel’s brow furrows the way it does when she’s thinking hard. She turns around slowly and gasps. I jump up, expecting there to be a polar bear charging toward us, but Annabel’s staring out to sea. “There it is,” she says, pointing.
I follow her arm and let out a gasp of my own. “The island in Jim’s story.”
“It has to be. A small island with sandy beaches, a ridge running along the center and three pillars of stone. It’s exactly as he described.”
“They’re not really pillars,” I point out. “More like large rocks.”
“True,” Annabel agrees, “but it might be a poor translation, or maybe they were bigger 170 years ago. What else can it be?”
“You’re right. What are we going to do? The Zodiac won’t be back until evening, and we’ll probably leave early tomorrow.”
“We’ve got the kayaks,” Annabel says.
“It’s a long way over,” I say, staring at the choppy, gray water between us and the island.
“It’s not that far,” Annabel says, “and the kayaks are stable. It wouldn’t take us long to paddle over there.”
“What if the wind picks up more?” I look to the north, where dark clouds are building. “We won’t be able to get back.”
“The Zodiac will come looking for us, and we won’t be far away. They’ll see us from here. This is our only chance, and you’re right about the wind. We should hurry.” Annabel strides down to the kayaks. Wondering how my worry about getting stranded has turned into a reason to go over there as quickly as possible, I follow.
At first the paddling is easy, because we’re sheltered by the island. I look back to see Terry and Rob running down to the shore, waving their arms frantically. They’re shouting something, but I can’t make out the words. “Looks like they wanted to come with us,” I shout over to Annabel.
“At least they’ll know where we are if we get stuck,” she shouts back.
Halfway over, the water gets choppier, and the kayaks are tossed about. I struggle to keep my kayak heading into the waves. The water is bitterly cold when it splashes up on my hands and face. Fortunately, my jacket is waterproof.
After about an hour of paddling, we reach the island. My arms ache, and it feels good to get out and stretch.
Once the kayaks are safely above the tide line, I reach down and grab a handful of sand. It’s coarse and dry and runs freely through my fingers. “We could be on a beach in Hawaii,” I say.
“Not enough palm trees,” Annabel responds, looking around at the moss, lichen and patchy grass.
I look back at the island we’ve left. It looks closer than it seemed when I was paddling. There’s no sign of Rob or Terry.
From the corner of my eye I catch a movement, and I look north to the open water past the island. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m seeing. It’s a sleek, expensive three-masted motor yacht, and it’s cruising away from us. “The Arctic Spray’s abandoning us,” I manage to choke out.