RobertM
New Member
The merchant ship cruised slowly into the bay, slicing through cold water as smooth as glass. Sharp peaks of black stone towered above the harbor like the walls of a prison. Tiny icebergs floated silently across the water, reflecting their rainbow colors in every spectrum.
A row of hills covered in thick grass was the sole buffer between snow-covered mountains and an old whaling station at the water’s edge. The abandoned station stood forlornly, a falling-down collection of rusty tin roofs and giant docks thrust into the bay like flat wooden fingers. Empty steel drums and discarded wooden beams were scattered everywhere.
The station was an interloper now. Nature would eventually reclaim it. The crumbling buildings stood quietly, an empty monument to a time of whaling ships and the harpoon gun. A large fishing vessel was beached between two of the docks with its stern thrust onto the shore. It sat majestically with a slight list to port. The hull was rusted surprisingly little considering its age and looking at it, one could imagine giving it a push to send it back out to sea for another run. A few heavy lines hung limply down its side, nearly touching the ground.
Paul Morgan stood at the bow railing of the ship as it entered the bay. He framed each shot carefully as he snapped his pictures, ignoring the biting cold nipping his cheeks and nose. Morgan was an imposing man with a thick, black beard. He wore a heavy red parka and a wool hat. Moving the camera from side-to-side, Morgan tried to get a panorama of the entire scene. He finally lowered the camera.
It does look different from the last time.
The old merchant ship gradually slowed to a stop in the empty harbor. Morgan startled as the anchor chain crashed loudly into the water.
The First Officer waited impatiently a few feet away, shivering in the bitter cold. “Dr. Morgan!”
“Yes?”
“It's time. The Captain is having the launch lowered for you, sir.”
Morgan snatched his rucksack and followed the officer to the boat deck.
A few minutes later, Morgan and two of the ship’s crewmen were powering toward the beach at a steady clip in the boat. Morgan sat alone in the bow, saying nothing. The water looked cold and deep.
“Ever been to South Georgia Island before, sir?” shouted out one of the sailors above the roar of the engine.
“Yes.”
“You a scientist or something?”
“I can’t talk about it,” Morgan stared at the approaching shoreline. “Sorry.”
“You work for the British government, then?”
“That’s classified. I can’t discuss it.”
“Sorry, sir.” The boat hissed softly as it ran aground on the sand. “We’ll be back in one hour.”
Morgan shouldered his rucksack and jumped from the boat. He was careful not to get his feet wet in the freezing water. Waving a polite farewell to the sailors, he started walking up the beach toward the old whaling station. He noticed some algae muck just above the tide line and went over to examine it. It was brown and dead, with an acrid smell. He pulled off a glove and scooped up a bit of the smelly mush. It was the texture of thick pea soup. Bad sign, he thought. He shook the residue from his hand, wiped the rest onto his pants and then slipped on his glove. He snapped a close-up picture of the algae and headed up the beach.
As he approached the station, he spotted a sign nailed to a post on one of the whaling docks. It was a royal crest of a reindeer standing above a penguin and a walrus, with a lion posed proudly in the center. It was the official symbol of South Georgia Island, issued by the Crown.
There was a phrase in Latin on the sign.
LEO TERRAM PROPRIAM PROTEGAT
Morgan tried to remember what the Fisheries officer at King Edward Point had told him about the sign and its meaning.
King Edward Point, and the government station there, were empty now anyway.
He studied the sign again and finally remembered the translation:
Let The Lion Protect Its Own Land.
Morgan snapped a picture of the sign for his records and kept moving. He climbed a set of concrete stairs leading from the beach and into the village. As he passed the crumbling docks and warehouses, he saw a church with a magnificent spire standing tall above the other buildings. A small house next door had a sign hanging in a front window with the words, ‘South Georgia Museum.’ Both the church and the house were long abandoned now.
A hundred years ago, the Antarctic explorer Shackleton had finally found rescue at Grytviken whaling station.
Now it was filled with ghosts.
A cold shiver passed through him. Nothing here but death, he thought.
A biting wind gusted through the village. In the cold hills above the station, he saw the heavy grass wave in response. All of the grass was brown and quite dead, yet it stubbornly remained in place. He snapped a picture or two.
Morgan checked his watch. Twenty minutes gone already. Better get up the hill and over to the rookery. He stepped over discarded buckets and old beams and made his way to a trailhead at the edge of the village. The path was worn and steep. There were no switchbacks. The old whalers had been a tough lot, preferring a more direct way of reaching their destination. The trail led over the hills and down to a small beach. Morgan’s legs began to burn as he struggled toward the top.
Stopping for a few moments, he plucked a handful of the dead grass. He studied it carefully before tucking the sample into a plastic bag.
He reached the summit and started down to the beach. Halfway there, he noticed the odor of rotting flesh. It grew stronger with each step. Like thousands of silent black-and-white headstones, he saw penguins lying in neat rows along the barren shore. An icy hand snatched his heart and shoved it into his throat. He stopped again to capture some images of the overall scene. Tears flooded his eyes and he brushed them away angrily.
He switched the memory chip in the camera before continuing.
Most of the penguins had died with their eyes closed. Some were huddled in family groups. Others had washed up on shore after a futile attempt to escape death. Rats scurried away at his approach, but he noticed some of the rats were dead as well. Their tiny bodies were scattered randomly among the penguin dead.
His camera clicked and dutifully recorded everything.
He selected one of the penguins at random and removed a small leather case from his pocket. Opening it with an expert flip, he took out a small scalpel. He sliced into the penguin’s flank and gently removed a piece of flesh from the dead animal. He dropped the sample into a plastic bag. Another hard wave crashed into the rocks and drenched him in freezing salt water. He brushed the water from his parka and snapped a few more quick photographs. He checked his watch again.
Forty minutes. Time to leave.
He hiked back up the trail leading over the hill to the harbor. Along the way, he snapped a few last pictures, seeing only dead animals, brown grass, and an angry surf pounding against an inhospitable shore. Morgan slipped a cap over the lens.
For the first time in ten years’ of research, he realized he had nothing more to do. This was the end of his work. Twenty-five minutes later, he met the boat. The two sailors stared at him curiously, but said nothing. Morgan snapped a few more shots of the old whaling station as they headed out to sea, but these were only for his personal scrapbook.
The launch eased alongside the merchant ship and stopped. The deck crew tossed down the lines. The boat rose steadily from the water while the old davits creaked and groaned.
Dr Morgan scrambled out the moment they reached the railing. The crew secured the boat quickly, almost in a controlled panic. Morgan saw fear in their eyes. All of them disappeared below decks without a word as soon as they finished.
The captain must have warned them, he thought.
Morgan ducked into the nearest passageway and pounded his fist repeatedly against the steel bulkhead until the pain made him stop.
He already knew what he must say in his report to the Admiralty. The numbers were irrefutable.
It was going to reach Chile in less than two years. In five years, it would spread completely around the world.
There was no longer any doubt. As the hole in the ozone layer had grown larger, its edges had expanded at an exponential rate. Simple numbers, really. It was impossible to stop now. South Georgia Island represented both the past - and the future.
THE END