Contra Mundum

‘I’m interested in what you said about the ice, sir,’ said Geissel.  ‘I believe you were applying metaphor?’

‘You can call me Dr. Juhl.  Or just Walter.  I’m not used to being called Sir.’

‘Very well. Walter. Thank you.’ 

‘And thank you very much for your question, Father – ?’

‘Geissel.  But you can call me Theodore.  Or Teddy for short.’

‘Ah, Theodore.  A prominent name in the history of Christian saints.’ 

‘Yes, my parents, God rest them, had very high hopes.’  Geissel giggled to himself.  ‘Walter is a grand name too.’

‘Thank you, Theodore.  You know, I shall refer to you as Father Geissel.  In honour of your spiritual status.’

‘Eternally grateful I am, Walter.  Or Dr. Juhl, should I say.’

‘Oh, get the fuck on with it, you pair a blowhards!’ roared Masterson, brain-wearily.  His back was still turned to them, arms folded and head down, but his habit of lurking was known now to all present so the interjection came as no surprise.

Geissel shook his head, then turned back to Walter and in reference to Masterson said:  ‘Contra mundum.  You must know of this species, yes, Dr. Juhl?  An absolute contra mundum.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Walter.  ‘Anyway, what were you asking me?’

‘About the ice?  Were you speaking metaphorically just then?  I found it all quite intriguing.’

‘I fear not, my friend.  Though some would call it illusion, I suppose.  I have been practising astral projection for some years now and the ice to which I referred I believe is positively real.  For I have seen it – and heard it – on my travels.’

‘Astral projection?  How very curious.’

‘Oh, give it a rest, for the love of something!’ agonised Masterson again.

‘Why don’t you just go outside and puff on your piles, you diametrical get!’ shouted Geissel, uncharacteristically fierce.  ‘We’re all heading north but you south, it would appear.’

Captain Littlewood groaned; he’d had enough.  So he got up and said: ‘Right, I have to go.  I have to meet Grimur as he’s to fix us up for fuel and supplies.  We’re out of here first thing tomorrow.’ 

Katrine’s eyes stayed with the captain’s as he got to his feet; and for the first time in what seemed like an age Fergal Littlewood caught his reflection in the eyes of a woman.  He’d forgotten how he looked in their eyes.  Though Katrine’s eyes were very different from Orla’s (blue not green), he got lost in them in much the same way for a split-second.  Clear pacific lagoons.  Distant but he knew he could get there.  Or at least he could make the bid.  Eyes that made him eager to oblige forever.  All the suspicion gone.  All the rage done.  Katrine’s eyes, though less known to him than Orla’s, were tugging at something within him.  As though she knew all his sins but forgave them categorically.  He could barely remember that devotion in Orla; but there were times, yes, when it shone bright.  The good days.  But what was knowledge without vision?  A face you knew but couldn’t place.  Memories, bloody memories.  Why did certain ones fade and others, much less kind, stick to you like the black of a scorched pan?

He knew what Katrine wanted.   

But didn’t know how to reply. 

‘So how about it, Captain?’ asked Stinson.  ‘Are we helping them out?’

‘I don’t know, leave it with me,’ he replied.  ‘I need to think.  I need to refuel.  I need to go meet Grimur.’