Sheltered Under Ice

It’s been a terribly hot summer: some days have been as hot as 50 degrees positive. Last night only got down to 40. It feels nice on the skin, but it’s a terrible problem when you live in an igloo.

“Ouch!” I land hard on my rump. Second time this week. The floor is just so wet and slick. I roll over and slowly raise myself to my knees, hands and feet wanting to slide out in every direction. I rest in that position for a bit. I’m not a young man anymore.

I brush away an icy puddle with my hand. I’ll have to lay out more seal skins or—What’s that?

Through the thinning ice, I see something. It’s dark and straight and much too rectangular to be natural. I stare at it for a long while. I’m trying to convince myself not to take an ice pick to my floor, but I’ve always been a curious man, and, well, there aren’t many things to be curious about when you’re surrounded by snow as far as the eye can see.

CRACK! My pick’s dull, weathered point takes a chip out of the ice. CRACK! Tiny shards fly up, spraying me in the face. DING! Metal strikes metal. The dark rectangle appears to be some sort of handle.

I chip away for about an hour. That earns me a small hole down to the metal plate that the handle is attached to. Unearthing the whole thing would take a whole day’s work. Not to mention, it would destroy my igloo.

Well, it was worth instigating. I tell myself that anyway as I rub my sore back. I could throw some water in the hole, and it would freeze like new on the next cold night. There won’t be a night for another month, though. The sun just keeps shining.

I’m tired, so I roll myself up in seal skins and sleep.

 

My first thought is that I’m getting attacked by a polar bear. Worse! The massive ice blocks that make up my home are sliding and dropping around me. I flip on my side, cover my head, and wait for the bombardment to end. I suffer a heavy blow to my thigh and shoulder, but that’s not bad, all things considered.

Once I’ve wriggled out of the rubble, I survey the pile of ice that had been my home for more than a year. There isn’t much to salvage. I’m better off starting from scratch. I’ll have to stay with Petuwaq for a bit. Thank goodness I’m not the only one who lives in this desert. If I pushed myself, I could make it to his settlement without having to make camp on the way.

As I start to collect my things, though, I keep thinking about the metal handle. What if it’s a door? What if there’s been a lost ship or airplane under my igloo this whole time? I could make a fire and melt away the ice, but then I would be stuck out here.

I’ve always been a curious man. Besides, it’s warm out, relatively; I’ll be fine.

It takes a while to get the fire going—my bow drill is damp—but it’s going now. I have plenty of seal oil, so I focus on pushing the water away from the metal plate as the ice melts.

Hinges appear. It’s a door! It’s a really big door and a really heavy door. Even with the ice off, it won’t budge.

Clouds sweep across the sky. This is a bad time for a blizzard. I put the point of my shovel into the seam between the door and the—well, I guess it’s a casing of some kind. I lean all my weight on it and hear a creak, but then the tip of the shovel snaps. I try my pick, but it’s not big enough. I need more leverage. I crudely tie together a polar bear femur and humerus, sandwiching a chisel between them, and then ram the chisel into the seam.

I push down on the lever as icy wind buffets my body. Another creak. I brush off the icicles forming on my running nose and push again. Then I jump on the cobbled-together mess of rope and bone. As soon as I get a little space between the door and casing, I jab the lever in further.

I pry the door—no, the hatch—halfway up, and then the wind throws it squealing open. Underneath, a metal ladder descends into pitch-blackness. It looks like pure salvation to me, shelter from the imminent blizzard.