Christmas comes and goes, celebrated with little more than a box of cigars that Bjaaland has hidden in his sleeping bag for months. There’s a certain indulgence in allowing thoughts of home and loved ones to invade their tent, but sentimentality does not last long when there are worn-out dogs to sacrifice to the greater good. All three were excellent dogs; all three are consumed in a trice.
The remaining dogs have put on weight. In an unrelenting game of cat and mouse, Bjaaland employs all his skill as a cross-country skier to outrun Helmer’s leading sledge. The dogs nip the heels of the champion. Helmer hoots with approval. Oscar has rigged up a sail on his sledge to support the boisterous efforts of his team, which includes powerful pullers Camilla and Madeiro, but he has no hope of taking the lead.
‘The dogs are going so well, we could do much more than 15 kilometres a day!’ complains Bjaaland after a day of sunshine and flat surface. ‘We could double our distances.’
Amundsen won’t concede. He’s adamant that sixteen hours’ rest at this altitude will preserve their energy for the ordeal that lies at the ghastly frayed edge of the Antarctic plateau. Negotiating the Devil’s Glacier, this time from the opposite direction, is a distressing prospect.
‘My tooth is killing me,’ says Oscar, rubbing his swollen cheek.
There’ll be no sympathy from the chief. His neck and shoulders ache under an enormous phantom pressure. The Transantarctic Mountains loom on the horizon and nothing about their surroundings looks familiar.
‘My tooth is killing me,’ complains Oscar again.
Nobody engages.
‘Where’s the mountain with the crown?’ asks Helmer.
Nobody can make it out. Is it possible that the giant has disappeared? Illusory light, a change in perspective, an unfamiliar angle all add to the confusion. But where are they? All trace of their old tracks has disappeared and not since 88 degrees have they set eyes on a cairn.
‘Are we lost?’ asks Sverre, in a low voice that only the chief will hear.
Amundsen snaps, ‘Of course we’re not lost. We’re heading north, aren’t we? That’s all we need to know.’
Sverre’s reply is less discreet than his original question. ‘But we’ll overshoot our depot. We need those supplies.’
It’s a reasonable observation, one worthy of discussion. But instead Amundsen heaves himself forward, his poles digging into the snow forcefully. He wants rid of Sverre and his troublesome comments.
Referring to his notebook in the tent later on, he’s surprised the bearings he took are in such a muddle – probably noted down in haste, under stress – they were facing a crisis on the way up, after all. They may face another on the way down.
‘My tooth,’ says Oscar, staring into his little handheld mirror. ‘I can’t go on like this. It’s too painful.’
‘You’re the one who did the dental training, Oscar.’
‘You expect me to yank my own rotten tooth out?’
‘It can’t be very painful then, or you’d just do it,’ Helmer goads.
Amundsen looks up from his notebook. ‘Where are the forceps?’
There’s no mucking about as the chief heats his instrument in the Primus flame. Oscar, kneeling in his sleeping bag, tips his head back. ‘Make sure it’s the right one,’ he quips in last-minute warning.
They’re not so much forceps as pliers, capable of exerting huge force on whatever object is grasped in their vice-like jaws. Amundsen considers his task. If he cannot pull the rotten tooth, he will crush it to pieces. Oscar can pick the shards from his gum at leisure.
Oscar groans as the pliers lock around the throbbing tooth. Amundsen’s lips form a point as he exerts greater and greater pressure. Oscar does his best to mask the blinding pain but everyone hears the high-pitched creak as soft flesh and bone yield to the pliers’ extreme force. Amundsen snarls with determination as his knuckles turn white and both hands quiver with exertion, frustration and rage. ‘Got you!’ he shouts. The tooth is a yellow nub set in pink and grey pulp.
Oscar cradles his jaw. ‘You enjoyed that,’ he says in an accusatory tone.
‘Any other customers?’ Amundsen asks, holding up his hard-won prize.
The others turn away, disgusted.
‘At least your bad breath will improve,’ says Bjaaland, disappearing into his sleeping bag.